#nobody's required to read or respond to this

[everythingacotarbxm1012]

They're Mates - with Y/N Pt 1

Summary - Feyre meets Rhys's Inner Circle and witnesses the strength of the mating bond.

Warnings - abusive family mentioned.

Other Notes - 1k words; Please note that most of these lines/plot points are inspired or directly quoted from ACOMAF; I originally posted this where Reader was given the name 'Vee' but am putting this one out for anyone who might prefer y/n.

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || They’re Mates Universe Masterlist

✨💫

Feyre looked up to see the same two males from earlier standing in the doorway, grinning, and a new presence. A beautiful female with wings like the others. She wore a deep blue gown that reached the floor––her hair resting over both her shoulders. The two males wore black leather with a sword strapped against their backs. Feyre noted the power each of them seemed to hold.

The male who was a bit large than the other, spoke up with a light chuckle. “We don’t bite. Unless you ask us to Feyre.”

The female shot him a pointed look. “Last time I checked, nobody wanted to take you up on that offer, Cassian.” The male who stood between the female and Cassian let out a light, short, laugh before whispering something into the female’s ear making her eyes twinkle subtly. Feyre watched as Cassian gave his own pointed look.

“No secrets in front of our guest, Az,” Cassian said with a grin.

The light danced across their faces allowing Feyre to observe their physical features for a moment. Similar to Rhysand, all three were dark-haired. Both males had tanned skin and hazel eyes. Feyre couldn’t quite tell the eye color of the female standing next to Az, but she gave off an air of beauty and power.

Cassian grinned again, looking Rhys and Feyre up and down. “You made poor Feyre dress up, brother,” he said before winking in her direction. His features were rough like someone had molded him, from the earth.

The second male was more classically beautiful, though hard to read. He was certainly the one who would be a surprise in the dark, the hidden knife. Feyre noticed the light sparkle in his eyes anytime he looked at the female to his left. It piqued a curiosity in Feyre.

Rhys said, “Azriel––my spymaster,” indicating the one in the middle. He then indicated the female. “Y/N. An emissary for the Night Court.” A name, Feyre later learned, Az had adopted for the emissary after she declared she did not want the name her abusive family had given her.

She immediately offered her hand with a warm smile. “Welcome, Feyre.” She gently squeezed Feyre’s hand before she quickly let go and Feyre does her best to not seem eager as she stepped back to stand next to the High Lord of the night Court, again.

“You’re brothers?” Feyre asked. The two males before her looked similar. The kind of similar where people who come from the same place do, not familial similar.

“All bastards are brothers in some sense,” Rhys responded, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Before Feyre could ask Cassian said, “And I command Rhys’s armies.”

Feyre nodded, shifting on her feet slightly before her eyes glanced to see Azriel taking another glance in the emissary’s direction. She looked right back with a smile that showed a clear fondness for the spymaster. The moment went as quickly as it came when Az turned his gaze to Feyre. “Cassian also excels at pissing everyone off. Especially amongst our friends. So, as a friend of Rhysand, good luck.”

Feyre was giving more attention to not being recognized as the girl Under the Mountain. She wondered, for just a moment if they knew––maybe they didn’t. That was quickly  answered when Cassian nudged past the Night Court’s spymaster requiring Az to flare his wings to keep himself balanced. Feyre watched Y/N’s hand fall to Azriel’s lower back to assist. Feyre noticed the fleeting moment of eye contact between the spymaster and the emissary, but it quickly became a second thought as Cassian asked his question about how Feyre had made the bone ladder in the Middengard Wyrm’s lair, when as he put it, “you looked like your own bones could snap at any moment.”

Y/N shot Cassian another pointed gaze, but it turned into a grin after Feyre made a sarcastic comment of her own. The general laughed and Azriel’s eyebrow lifted with approval as the shadows swirled around him, tighter. Feyre’s need to understand the gift only furthered when the shadows swirled up and around Y/N’s wrist playfully, before weaving around the ends of her hair.

Her curiosity once again was pushed to the side when Feyre heard, thankfully, a familiar voice…Mor. “I hope Cassian’s howling means Feyre told him to shut his fat mouth.”

Y/N quickly whispered something into Az’s ear, his shadows lightened slightly from around him. Feyre’s curiosity about the nature of their relationship increasing.

“I don’t know why I forget you two are related,” Cassian told Mor, while glancing over at Rhys for just a moment. “You two and your clothing.” The High Lord rolled his eyes, but Feyre had her own focus on the emissary and the spymaster who were both standing in silence, stealing glances at each other.

“I wanted to impress Feyre. You could have tried to make an effort to comb your hair,” Mor responded.

Cassian braced his feet a little farther apart on the floor in a fighting stance Feyre recognized, perhaps too well. “Unlike some people, I have better things to do with my time than sit in front of the mirror for hours,” the general bit back.

“Yes,” Mor the said, tossing her hair over her shoulder, “since swaggering around––”

“We have company,” Azriel said in a soft warning, spreading his wings as he tried to herd everyone.

“Relax, Az,” Mor said as she dodged the spymaster’s outstretched wing. “We won’t fight. We promised Rhys.”

Feyre barely noticed Az stop in his tracks, letting out the smallest of huff and his shadows seem to become thicker. She then watched as Y/N took one of Az’s hands in her own, gently pressing her lips to the back of it. His shadows lightened around him. Apparently the question about their relationship reached Feyre’s face because Rhys leaned down slightly to say, “They’re mates. Azriel and Y/N. They’ve known each other a little over 500 years and been mates just under 500.”

Feyre considered that fact, thinking there was something delicately beautiful about nearly 500 years of commitment between the two. Now she just had a few thousand more questions about the court’s spymaster and emissary. Question she decided were for another time as Mor indicated the empty seat beside her. Feyre knew the image of Az whispering into his mate’s ear and the twinkle in her eye would be etched into the back of her mind forever.

[coquettepascal]

cranberry christmas

part iii of my series "texas sweet!" texas sweet masterlist and my masterlist

summary: it's your first christmas with the miller family, which brings all sorts of new feelings out of you and joel. he relieves your anxiety in a few giving ways (tis the season!)

tags: 18+, smut, anxious!reader, dilf!joel, joel is kind of a flop (but in a cute way), gentle!joel, found family (a little), the miller family being cute, reader has an anxiety attack, mentions of troubled family life, dorky christmas cheesiness, reader celebrates christmas, heavy on the f!reader for this one, reader has boobs, reader has hair, reader wears lingerie, dryhumping, almost powerbottom!joel (?), begging, nippleplay, hickeys, coming untouched, praise kink a little, realistic people in unrealistic situations, establishing of relationship

part i -> part ii -> part iii

a/n: this honestly got way out of hand, but i LOVE IT!! i hope you all have a lovely holiday season <3

(5.1k, not beta read)

“How long have you been a dad again?” 

You’re staring at the pile of gifts that Joel has “wrapped” so far. The striped paper is wrinkled on a few of them like he balled up the paper before wrapping the gift, other ones have glaring bald spots that reveal what they are without having to unwrap them. 

Joel huffs, grumbling to himself as he’s hunched on the floor, cutting out another square of paper to wrap a book. 

“Long enough to know that if I stay down here too long my back’ll hurt tomorrow,” he responds. 

The Christmas tree in his living room has been thoroughly decorated, leaving the lights to reflect from glass ornaments onto his face. Joel looks stressed tonight, but he’s just been stressed all the time lately. The colder months have brought shittier weather, which has him worried about snowfall on sites that couldn’t take it at the moment. Anytime you’ve seen him recently, his skin has still been cold from the outside, his nose slightly red. 

He looks at your pile of gifts, which have been neatly wrapped and finished with stick-on bows, and then scrunches his face, quietly mocking your words. You laugh, feigning offense as you tilt your head.

“Oh I’m sorry, I just assumed you would have been better with your hands, Joel,” you retort in return. Instantly his head is back up so he can look at you, a shocked expression on his face. 

“You sayin’ I’m no good with my hands?” He asks, a bit incredulous.

Your eyes are rolling before you can help it, smiling as you shake your head.

“No–” you start.

“I can prove that I got perfectly fine hands. Fingers too for that matter,” he dares.

Joel shoves the wrapping paper out of his way as he scoots his way over to you, his knees scrubbing the hardwood floor. He’s smiling stupidly, clearly excited to get out of wrapping gifts.

“Joel!!” You huff, trying to squirm away from him as he gets closer to you. You’ve learned he has a serious personal space problem.

“What, angel? S’not like anybody else is home,” he grins, nosing at your cheek.

And God. Yeah, finally, nobody is fucking home.

You and Joel have been something for the past however many months. Time has flown quickly, with life and love brushing past your skin in a wind of smiles. Work takes over Joel’s life before he realizes it, and it happens a lot. Maybe that would be a problem for most people, but you live right next door. It’s not like there’s space between you, especially since you can knock on his door whenever you want to.

But you’re both adults, and spontaneity requires energy that you both lack. 

The current schedule you’ve fallen into is seeing him on Friday evenings, whenever he gets home from work, a small date on Saturday if you have the energy, and family dinner on Sunday. Yes, you’ve now worked up the courage to look his daughters and brother in the eye. After you started showing up more often they began to bond with you more, especially his girls. Ellie and Sarah are both young, both smart, and as different as they are, it just makes for a firecracker-y relationship that’s hard not to interact with.

You’ve fallen into place as Joel’s something, as someone to his family.

The only problem you and Joel have is actually getting alone time. Since you both work so much, and he’s so family oriented, it’s been hell actually trying to get alone time with him. Not even just time to… do stuff. Just having a private moment is tough. Someone is always in his house, and as much as you have your own house, his feels more like home. 

You didn’t even set up your tree this year. The living room is bare of holiday cheer, save for the growing pile of presents that you’ve built in the corner near the couch. Finding home in Joel has not helped you find your place in Austin still, the lack of familial familiarity has sucked the love from your walls. The whole house just feels like dead skin that’s ready to flake away anytime you’re there. You want to brush it from its plot of land and go back to the place next door, where warm light and voices hold the roof down and raise it all the same. 

So yeah, your house isn’t really where you want to be, ever. Sacrificing sex with Joel isn’t the best, but you want to be around him more than anything. As long as he’s there, you don’t care so much if he’s getting you there. At least not usually. 

“Yeah, no one’s home,” you repeat back to him.

The incandescent bulbs that are strung onto the tree are casting light through his hair. Tiny flecks of grey are all you can get a view of right now as he pushes his nose beneath your jaw, pressing kisses to the tender skin that tingles under his lips. 

“Mhm,” he grunts, biting at your skin then kissing over it when you wince slightly. “N’they won’t be home for at least an hour.” His hands are skimming over the waistband of your pajama pants, warm fingers dipping to touch the band of your undies. 

“Yeah,” you say again. You’re losing words. It always feels like you lose your words, breath, and brain around him, but maybe it’s because you don’t need it. Joel keeps kissing at your neck as he reaches around, tapping your bum so you lift up for him. 

The lights in the room flash into pink as your eyes slide shut and your pants are tugged down more. It’s been too long, you need this, he needs this. 

Joel doesn’t hesitate. As soon as your pants are down enough, his hand is in your undies, skimming the hair there and then pressing against you. A surprised huff puffs into your neck as he feels how wet you’ve gotten, how quick. 

And then keys. And then the front door is swinging open. And then your pants are shoved up and everyone’s home and you aren’t in your mind, but it’s fine. It’s fine. 

You’ll find time before Christmas. 

—

Today is Shitmas.

“Shitmas. Y’know, like the day in Christmas week where you do a bunch of Christmas-y shit,” Tommy had informed you about a week ago, after you had slowly turned to look at him in the living room.

The Miller family does Shitmas on the 23rd of December, and supposedly it includes, but is not limited to, family pictures in the living room, cookie baking and decorating (lead by Sarah), and sock snowman making. 

They do this every year, and you can tell because as soon as you show up on Shitmas, you’re greeted by little sock snowmen. They line the stairs, each one with a year labelled on the belly. The first few are singular snowmen, but somewhere along the way it turns into two, marking when Ellie joined their family. Over the years they’ve obviously improved, but there’s something special about the first few on the stairs. Mismatched eyes, splattered glitter glue, and Joel’s printing on their bellies, instead of Sarah’s, all grace the earliest dated snowmen.

Ellie was the one to let you into the house today, since apparently Joel is helping Sarah bake and his hands are “nasty,” in Ellie’s words. 

“Kinda ugly, huh?” Ellie teases as you crouch to look at them on the stairs. Sarah calls out somewhere in the house, over the noise of the electric mixer, and it makes you huff a laugh.

“I think they’re endearing. It’s nice that Joel keeps these,” you reply. She somewhat agrees, an “I guess,” begrudgingly leaving her lips before Joel finally walks up and she skips off back to the kitchen. 

Joel’s drying his hands with a dishtowel still as he embraces you, sighing deeply. 

“Hey angel, sorry. Fuckin… Raw egg all over my hands,” he mutters as he squeezes you tight. The two of you pull apart for a moment, but not before Joel’s going back in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. As your palms settle against his chest, you can’t help but notice how warm he is, the skin beneath his shirt, hot and giving plushly under your fingers. 

“I like the girls’ snowmen,�� you tell him fondly, peeking over your shoulder at them. When you look back at him, he’s looking at them, a softness in his eyes.

“Ellie hates doing those, she only does it because Sarah likes to.” 

—

Shitmas has been stupidly fun so far. Watching Tommy and Joel try their best to decorate cookies while Sarah makes Great British Bake Off worthy ones, all while Ellie smears smiley faces onto each one in an effort to make her sister proud has raised your spirits infinitely. You decorated a few cookies, but mostly watched in awe as Sarah expertly pressed sprinkles into each of the cookies and piped patterns onto them. It kind of felt like wasting cookies to not let her decorate them, even though she bakes them each year so everyone can participate. 

Now, you’re sitting on the couch. The cookies are all sitting on the kitchen counter, abandoned as each family member bustles around the house getting ready for the picture they’ll take in front of the tree. 

Surprisingly, Tommy is done getting ready first. Honestly you figured it would have been Joel, but maybe he’s putting some extra effort in today, rather than just running a comb through his hair. Tommy’s appearance at first is only surprising because of how meticulous he can be with his hair. Joel has told you about the times they’ve been late because his hair was “fighting” him some mornings. 

“Hair cooperated with me,” he says as he takes a seat next to you on the couch. Sometimes it feels like Tommy can either read your mind, or just says shit to take up space. You respond with a nod and a mild expression of acknowledgement, a little off in your own world. 

“You forget your flannel or somethin?” Tommy asks next. You almost nod again, on auto-pilot, but then stop.

“What?” You ask, head turning in his direction. He laughs in disbelief, and for a moment you feel embarrassment start burning at the base of your neck in fear he’s laughing at you. Were you told to bring something and didn’t?

“Hold on,” Tommy says, grunting as he curls up and off the couch a second later.

He leaves you alone in the living room, left to listen to the crackling fireplace channel on TV and the sound of Ellie protesting over Sarah wanting to put hairspray on her. 

Tommy’s heavy footsteps clomp around upstairs, leading into Joel’s bedroom. Not dissimilar to the girls downstairs, the rumble of Joel’s voice hits the floor and you roll your eyes, holding a laugh. There aren’t words you can make out, but you’re sure that Joel is mightily unhappy at the random intrusion of his brother.

The more you learn about this family, the more you feel like you’re falling into place, and the more you experience being in it, the farther away your own family feels.

You sit on the couch, still as can be, as you listen to the sound of Tommy rummaging around his older brother’s room, the sound of the hairspray being spritzed while Ellie groans. The sounds are feeling increasingly farther away, even though the girls are downstairs and the boys are only upstairs. Your eyes move to the cookies sitting on the counter, the messy dishes in the sink, and suddenly the stickiness from the icing beneath your nails is too much. 

What are you doing here? What is this Hallmark movie family you’ve found yourself in? 

The thump of your heart ramps up, pumping blood to your ears and making it rssshhhh in the back of your mind just as you begin to chase your breath. It’s all too nice, and maybe you aren’t entirely undeserving, but this is all so unfamiliar. Your own family isn’t terrible, but in comparison to this, it feels so dull. Christmas was just lights and presents before, not tradition and excitement the way that fucking Shitmas has been so far. You’re one activity into the day and it’s already so much better than what you can remember from back home. 

Maybe this is what influenced your decision to stay in Texas for the holidays. Maybe somewhere in you, you knew that this would be better. You’re sitting here, in another family’s home, taking your own family for granted, and for what? Some cookies and some pictures? For the sake of a relationship that isn’t even labelled yet? You deserve this, you deserve to chase your breath and wipe your tears. Selfish girl, if you didn’t feel right in your own family, what right do you have to find a place in theirs?

Nobody in this house asked you to be here but Joel, and really, you just showed up on his doorstep. 

Your eyes are shut as you catch your breath, squinched together so tightly that you see sparks of colour behind your eyelids. Tears keep slipping out and you wipe under your eyes politely, trying not to choke on any noises. The bathrooms are occupied, don’t make a fool of yourself in the living room. 

Tommy and Joel’s voices increase in volume until they’re in front of you, and you open your eyes to see the pair staring at you. Tommy avoids your eyes as soon as you’re looking back at him, while Joel just seems a little shocked.

“Hey,” Joel says, a festive red flannel in his grip. “Why don’t we head upstairs for a second?”

—

You cry for a long while before you actually manage to tell Joel what’s upset you. 

Sat on the edge of his bed, you cry into your palms until your cheeks are red and blotchy, and snot covers the inside of your palms and the bridge of your nose. It’s ugly, nasty, and not what you want to be doing at all. Your family is fine, just boring and emotionally detached, and you’re crying about it to the hardest working single father you know, who has essentially built his life on his own with the help of his brother. 

“I just feel so stupid and– and totally out of place. What have I done to earn my place here?” You ask him, eyes puffy and sad as you stare up at him.

Joel looks hurt. He has looked hurt for a long while, but you couldn’t see it when you were buried in your palms. His brows are pinched, his eyes wrinkled at the outer corners as he looks at you, almost seeming to pity you. For a moment his eyes flash away, not to anything in particular, but just to gather himself.

“Earn your place? Baby, what?” He questions. You stay quiet, feeling just as confused as he sounds. 

His hands clench where they rest on his thighs, then relax as he sighs, head tilting to the side so he can look at you again. 

“You don’t… earn your place in our family, darlin, you’re invited.”

How could you be so fucking dense?

Anyone that’s in Joel’s life, apart from Sarah, is somebody he actively invited in. His allowance of Tommy to be a near second father figure to Sarah and Ellie, his adoption of Ellie on its own,  the majority of his family has been let in. It could have been just him and Sarah, but he wanted more so he allowed more, and he allows more because he loves what the more in his life is. 

Joel takes a deep breath, again, and seems to steel his nerves. 

“You are so much more than invited into our family, angel, you’re welcomed wholly. But, if that’s too much right now and it’s bringing you worry, it’s fine for you to just be my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

That is not the topic right now, that is so not the topic right now, but he said the word. 

Joel loves the more in his life, and now he’s added you to that “more” officially. A label, a name, a little add-on to your identity. You’re putting “Joel’s Girlfriend” on your imaginary nametag in a million different fonts in your head before you realize he’s still talking. 

“You fit right in with us, baby. The girls love you, Tommy loves you, I love you, but you know that one,” he laughs. “It’s up to you if you wanna think of yourself as a part of our family, but know that we already do.” 

A smarter response should come out of your mouth here. Joel has just said a lot of touching things that have sunk into the meat of your body, warming you, but a smart response isn’t something you can manage.

“I’m your girlfriend?”  You ask.

Joel’s brows furrow. “Yeah?”

He says it the way an eighth grader would say “Duh.”

Your look of “When did this happen?” meets Joel’s look of “Where have you been?” at the same time, and only then does he realize. 

—

His apology for completely forgetting to ask you to be his official girlfriend for the last however many months is by cleaning you up really nicely for the photo.

Joel starts by fixing your hair, letting you sit between his knees as he gently pulls it away from your face. His hands run through it so carefully, a tenderness that only an experienced girl-dad like him could provide. When he’s finished, he leans down and presses a kiss to the top of your head, adding a mumbled “sorry” in, just to really save his ass. 

With anyone else you’d be upset at them for forgetting something so pivotal in a relationship, but with Joel you lend as much patience as he gives you. He’s busy, stupidly so, and with how close and intense the two of you are with one another, it’s not absurd for it to have slipped his mind. In some ways it’s flattering, and you’d like to ask how long he’s been thinking of you as his girlfriend. 

You’re just about to when he holds up the flannel in front of you, the one that he and the rest of his family are apparently wearing for the photo.

“You don’t have to. Seriously. We just talked about family and stuff and if you aren’t ready for that, then that’s–” He’s talking fast, but not as fast as you move to grab the flannel from him.

“I’m your girlfriend, of course I have to be in the picture.”

—

The rest of Shitmas was less, well, shit. 

Ellie and Sarah did their yearly sock snowmen after the photo was taken and they turned out lovely, or at least Sarah’s did. Ellie purposefully overstuffed hers with rice just to see how big she could make the snowman before he exploded, which resulted in him exploding later that evening when his rotund body toppled down the stairs.

Now it’s Christmas Eve, and you’re prepping for tomorrow morning. Your house still isn’t decorated in the slightest, the only festive thing about it being a laundry basket full of gifts that you’ll tote over to Joel’s tomorrow morning. 

Your lower back is absolutely killing you from wrapping the last of Joel’s gifts, something he had warned you of, but you had foolishly ignored. You figured it was an old man thing, not a consequence of too many presents. It feels like heaven when your back finally rests against the couch, your head leaning back as you sigh.

Since talking with Joel yesterday about the family stress and what the two of you are, you feel a hell of a lot better. Your lungs almost feel like they’re more open than before.

Just as you’re relaxing, eyes sliding shut in stressless bliss, someones at the door. 

You grunt as you peel yourself off the couch, trudging to the door and opening it. It’s strange that anyone is at your door, especially since Joel is out with Tommy and the girls going Christmas light spotting.

Or at least he’s supposed to be.

Joel stands at your door in a loose shirt and grey sweatpants, looking sheepish. 

“Do you want to come over for a bit?”

—

Alone. Finally, alone. 

You’re sat halfway on Joel’s lap, sucking a mark into his neck as he leans back, cursing softly. 

“Fuuuckin’ god, you know I missed you,” he groans. You nod into his skin, teething at the skin softly before pulling back to lick at the reddened spot. 

Your hands grip up his sides, feeling the solid width of his body, the plushness of his tummy when your hands sink into the right spot, and you want to whimper. He’s so stupidly big, and you’re so grateful he took his shirt off almost as soon as you both started making out.

Under the lights of the tree, he already looks fucked out. Joel is almost completely limp against the back of the couch, head leaned back to expose his thick throat, bitten down and bruised with marks he might regret in a few hours. His eyes are halfway shut, but dark as ever even in the warm glow of the room which also illuminates the contours that form along his tanned skin. 

He feels your eyes on him, his own opening in an attempt to meet yours, but it only brings attention to his face. Pink lips sit pretty on his face, slightly parted and puffy from kissing you dizzy earlier. Again, his eyes squeeze shut as you drag your nails up across his chest, only to fly open.

“Wait– Wait I have something,” Joel sputters. He slides you off his lap, scrambling to the Christmas tree with boyish urgency.

Joel returns with a red present, one that he actually wrapped fairly neatly.

It’d be sweet if you weren’t literally two seconds from tearing his grey sweats off his body and riding him into next year before he had shoved you off. 

“It’s not Christmas,” you point out, but he shakes his head and shoves the gift into your hands.

Begrudgingly, you unwrap the gift and lift the lid off the box beneath the paper. Laying flat in the bottom of the thin box, cushioned by white tissue paper, is a red, babydoll, nightie. A blush lashes across your cheeks as you lift it out of the box, discovering that the top of it has no bra cups, or really anything to support your tits at all. Red ribbon frames the bust of the nightie limply in a triangular shape, a fluttery mesh making up for the remainder of the piece. It looks and feels expensive, and on top of that it’s totally sexy, even more so since Joel is the one that bought it for you.

Joel had gone out and picked this just for you, he had probably thought about you wearing this every night for the past week. The idea of it is making you increasingly more aroused, your eyes flicking to his, then down to the bulge in his pants. 

“If it’s too much then I’ll return it but,” Joel’s chest is heaving with excitement, biting his lip as he looks at the nightie, “but I kind of want to fuck my beautiful girlfriend before Christmas.”

The two of you are upstairs quickly, with Joel settling in bed and you changing in the bathroom. 

You look at yourself in the reflection of the mirror once you’ve put the ensemble on, if you can call it that. The underwear that came with the nightie are barely a scrap of fabric. Normally you’d feel really uncomfortable in something like this, hyperfocusing on small things, like how the pouch of your belly looks, or how your tits don’t look nearly as full as you want them to, but not right now. 

Joel Miller just gave you, his official girlfriend, lingerie for Christmas. Because he wants to fuck you in it. 

Shamelessly, you open the door into Joel’s bedroom, basically bouncing onto the bed. 

“It’s so nice,” you tell him right away, wanting to show your gratitude. He’s down to his boxers as he lays beside you, eyes scanning up and down your body as you sit in his bed, almost as sexy as you are naked. 

Joel is still like that for almost a minute, making your brain run haywire. Tonight, he’s left the bedside light on. It’s probably so he can see you, but it’s always special when he lets you see him while you both get intimate. He doesn’t touch you at all, just scoots up the bed so he’s sitting upright and unblinking, until finally:

“I want you to use me,” Joel blurts out. 

It’s more surprising than the gift. Your voice is a tiny whine in the back of your throat, your mouth forming the word “what,” but before you can finish, his hands are on your hips, lifting you onto his thigh. 

“There, I want you to use me there,” he near-demands. 

You’re speechless. Joel is vocal in bed for sure, always talking a lot and never really quiet, but he hasn’t been so… commanding before. He’ll ask for things occasionally, a certain position or act, but not like this. Your hips are still as he pushes you down onto his thigh, the hair on it smushing into the softness of your skin. 

“C’mon, angel, I can feel you. Fuck my thigh, use me, I want it.” He encourages.

Joel’s hands grab onto you tighter now, starting to make you move your hips until you do it on your own. It feels like you’re making a dumb face, eyes wide and brows pinched together, but you can’t help but feel surprised.

This is Joel, your Joel, who was hesitant to have sex with the lights on, or even let you look at his dick in general, and now he’s making you hump his thigh? It’s completely new to you, but you aren’t mad.

Once you’ve picked up your own pace, and stabilized yourself with your hands on his shoulders, he reaches up. Joel keeps his eyes trained on your face as he takes advantage of how your tits are on full display in the nightie, plucking and rolling your nipples in his fingers all while talking you through what’s going on. 

“I know, I know you needed this,” he nods at you, “I needed it too, baby. Missed you like this.” 

It feels awfully good grinding against his thigh, and something about this newfound side of Joel with the added fact that you guys haven’t had a moment alone in probably a month, is making this so much more explosive. You roll your hips just right and gasp as one side of the undies slips into the slit of your cunt, the less soft edge of the elastic brushing your clit. A pathetic noise is ripped from you as your hips stutter, body shocked from the sudden direct stimulation.

“No,” Joel says right away. His hand reaches around and cups the bottom of your ass, letting his fingers sink into the crease between your butt and thigh as he drags you forward again. 

“Want your messy pussy all over me, please angel I need it so bad,” he says, guiding your movements as you start to go limp, head falling back. You barely register the feeling of his hand on your waist, trying to balance you as he fucks your wet cunt onto his leg. 

You let out a tiny noise as the elastic of the undies bites into your clit again and for whatever reason it makes Joel groan too. 

“S’exactly what I wanted, angel. Wanted my pretty girlfriend to come all over me an’ have her tits in my face.”

Whatever the hell has gotten into him you hope it gets into him again. He keeps rubbing you into his leg until you’re begging for more stimulation, your limp arms reaching to grab at his hand and push it up to your breasts again. 

“M-my nipples,” you beg softly, tears pricking at your eyes from the overstimulation on your clit. He doesn’t hesitate, half smiling as he starts playing with your nipples again.

“Like this? Is this gonna make my pretty baby come?” He teases as he rolls your nipples repeatedly between his fingers.

All of it is too much, but it’s exactly what you wanted at the same time. Your orgasm completely fucks you out as you keep your eyes on his, mouth hanging open dumbly as he keeps one hand playing with your nipple and the other reaching down to cup your ass and grind your cunt harder on his thigh. 

“Good girl, fuckin’ God,” Joel says, staring down as your ruined undies mash into his skin. You can’t tell if you’re coming down or if this orgasm is just super long for no reason, but if it was ending, it’s extended the moment Joel’s thigh clenches up.

You look down as you whimper, wondering why he’s chosen midway through your orgasm to fuck you up again, but then realize that he didn’t choose. 

A fat, pearly, translucent bead, sprouts from where the head of his cock lays beneath his black briefs. You can see it grow bigger in the light, listening as Joel groans and curses, his lower half thrashing beneath you. His chest is heaving and the hand on your ass is digging deep. 

“Jesus– God, baby, what you do to me,” he grits through his teeth as his back finally hits the headboard again. 

Frankly, you’re speechless. You didn’t realize that would happen, or really that it could happen. You weren’t even touching him and he came, he was only watching you. It isn’t like he shot a huge load of come, but still, something came out. 

Joel seems to be coming to the same conclusion as he breathily laughs, looking down at the mess before tugging you down onto him anyway, burying his nose in your hair. 

“Good gift,” he mumbles, maybe to you, maybe to himself. “Definitely buyin’ you another one next year.” [ <3 ]

----

please leave comments, rbs/tags, or drop into my askbox ! i love to chat and listen <3 tags (people who i think will like this?? maybe??) @bambisweethearts , @pascalssbabyy , @ajps-posts , @starcaviar , @hisvision , @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal , @joeloverture , @mochamadeleines , @taeslarityy , @theweedisasterxoxo , @pawnshopb1ues , @hellishjoel , @slutty-express , @kyloispunk , @rainbowcosmicchaos , @stefanibear003 , @pedrostories [i plan on making an updates blog or something soon, apologies!]

[hardlyinteresting]

Nobody's son. Nobody's daughter.

Jake Seresin x Reader

Returning home to Texas for any time has always meant visiting his aunt and uncle. As a kid, their large estate outside of Houston had been an exciting opportunity to sample the finer side of life. Rubbing elbows with businessmen and their rich wives. Still, he feels he's little more than a toy soldier at these events. Perhaps he's found someone who knows exactly how it feels to masquerade.

Chemtrails Over the Country Club by Lana Del Rey Wondering Why by The Red Clay Strays Cowboy Like Me by Taylor Swift Moodboard for this fic

Warnings: If you know me in real life do not read this, The reader is referred to as she/her, with no physical description, fake dating-ish, rich people, smut (oral m+f receiving), (please let me know if you'd like me to tag anything please) Word Count: 6.5K Masterlist | talk to me about Jake and Tyler

Champagne bubbles sparkle as another perfunctory conversation fizzles into more ostensible laughter. Jake stands idle, nodding and responding with an easygoing politeness when required, while scanning the room for his uncle. He's always had little patience for people feigning interest in the lives of others, or masquerading in curated caricatures of intriguing lives. His eyes have never cared to be distracted by the glitter of diamonds, or the flash of gold wristwatches. Taking another sip of his drink he finds himself rather bored in this room of pretenders. 

Returning home to Texas for any time has always meant visiting his aunt and uncle. As a kid, their large estate outside of Houston had been an exciting opportunity to sample the finer side of life. Horses were kept for hobby riding rather than ranching; lush green land without a cow in sight; and a backyard swimming pool. As he got older his presence was requested at their swanky cocktail parties. He was rubbing elbows with businessmen and their rich wives. His military career has become a talking point for his relatives and he feels the eyes of the room on him wherever he floats through the grand house. “Your uncle is proud of you,” his mother always insists her brother means the best, “your grandfather was a pilot too, you know. It's in your blood”.  Still, he feels he's little more than a toy soldier at these events. 

Setting his empty glass down on a tray Jake is determined to find his uncle and make an excuse to leave early. As somewhat expected his uncle Robert is chatting with his business partner, Mr Bell. From what Jake can remember from previous encounters, he's a nice enough man, but he can only hope he's not dragged into more small talk before he manages to escape. It’s the Bells who are hosting tonight’s cocktail party, and Jake accepts that an early excusal might not be possible.

 Beside the two older gentlemen stands a young woman. She's gorgeous standing by the glow of the fireplace. He finds his feet moving him in their direction before he has a moment to consider what he might say when he gets there. Immediately, she reminds him of some kind of goddess. It's silly, childish even. But still, he can't help it. Curves highlighted and hidden in the same artful drapes of deep cherry silk of her dress. Her eyes shimmer like focused jewels as she follows the conversation happening next to her. Her shoulders relaxed in an easy elegant posture. He entertains the idea of a world where a man like him might paint her likeness on his aircraft. Comforted by her calm demeanour, and perpetual in awe of her stunning features. 

“Jake,” his uncle waves him over, “you remember my friend George Bell”. 

“Mister Bell,” Jake greets with a handshake, “it's nice to see you again. Thank you for inviting me tonight, sir”.His posture is perfect as the older man nods and claps him on the shoulder. “I believe you were just about twelve the last time you were here. You’ll have to join me in the library later for a drink”. He has no interest in staying any longer than he has to, but a glass of whiskey from a bottle worth a month of his salary, and a round of pool may serve to soften the obligation of his presence. “Yes, sir,” he accepts, and then his attention shifts entirely to her. 

He’s seen this young woman in photographs and painted portraits throughout the house, though he’s certain now the images do her no justice. He’s bold to assume her identity, and it will surely bite him in the ass if he’s wrong, but he feels certain she must be Mr. Bell’s daughter, and he greets her accordingly, “Miss Bell”.

“Lieutenant Seresin,” she smiles, “it's a pleasure to meet you”. He shouldn't be so pleased that she knows who he is, but he finds himself pushing out his chest with pride. “The pleasure is all mine,” he assures her. Her smile grows, a fantastically playful glint in her eyes that tells him she's excited to be speaking to someone she considers to be a peer. “Then it's an honour,” she insists, “if half the stories I've been told are true, you're very accomplished, Lieutenant”. 

In most scenarios like this, Jake has gotten good at walking the line between exaggeration and faux modesty, any attempt to shift the conversation away from himself, yet today she allows her to tease him. “Call me Jake, please”.

“Only if you insist”.

“I do,” he says, urging some level of familiarity to grow between them as they're both dragged into another round of bromidic small talk. 

He endures the conversation about the weather, and fields questions about what the temperatures are in California at this time of year. He gracefully sidesteps conversations about his job, and his politics, artfully avoiding escalating discussions as easily as he had mastered lag pursuit maneuvers in his first year of flight school. With each opportunity to make her laugh he manages to succeed, only fueling his desire to do it again. 

It's too soon that she's called away to speak with a group of women across the room. He kicks himself for not engaging her in more direct conversation, and wonders if the stolen glances, and the subtle wink he'd shot her way were enough to convey his interest. It's stupid, like a middle school crush, and he knows he couldn't have just asked her out in front of her father and his uncle. He’d hate to look untoward in their company. But, the missed opportunity burns nonetheless. 

An entirely unexpected fortuity is all but handed to him on a silver platter when he's asked to join Mr. Bell for a game of pool in the library. The older man pours him a generous glass of scotch before speaking. 

“I have a favour to ask you, Jake”. 

“I'm happy to help if can, sir,” Jake responds easily, though he can't help but find himself growing nervous by the prospect and any potential implications. He briefly envisions himself, ending up as muscle for hire, taking out an unsavoury business associate, his dreams of becoming an admiral slashed as he ends up on the wrong side of the wrong people. 

His anxieties are quickly replaced by absolute surprise at the words Mr. Bell speaks next, 

“I'd like for you to escort my daughter to the theatre this weekend,” there's an unexpected vulnerability as he continues, “My wife and I will be out of town, and since her engagement was called off she worries that people will talk-- you know how it is”.

In all honesty, Jake cannot say he does know how it is, but he can imagine. His aunt had been talking about some young woman of some kind of societal importance who had been jilted weeks before her wedding. He hadn't been paying attention at the time, far more interested in the apple pie he was eating and the football game on TV. From what he can recall rumours were running wild, but no one had the full story. He understands now that Bell's daughter must be the woman his aunt was talking about. Without knowing her, he had felt sorry for her. But pity is now replaced by deference. He finds himself more in awe of how she managed to walk the rooms this evening with her head held high, knowing what people must be whispering about her behind her back. He understands that a pastime and patronage she clearly enjoys has been jeopardized by the possibility of having to attend alone, but he worries that his presence, and lack of regard for certain expectations and niceties may hinder more than it helps. 

“I've never been to the theatre before, sir. I'm not sure I would be the best escort”. 

“Nonsense,” Mr. Bell stops him, “you're a good man. Dress well. Pick her up. Watch the play. Drive her home”. There's no room for argument or debate, and the truth is that despite the odd, and somewhat unfortunate circumstances Jake finds a selfish little part of himself chuffed by the opportunity to take the dreamy girl out for a night. 

“Come around six o’clock you can park your truck here, and ask Steven in the Garage for the keys to the Benz. I'm going to assume you can drive manual”. Jake easily accepts the new instructions, raising his glass in the sign of a toast before the two of them begin their billiards game as if no conversation had passed between them. 

Saturday comes around in what feels like the blink of an eye. Jake makes sure his slacks, blazer, and button-up are pressed and his shoes are polished ready for the night out. After some debate on what to wear, his choice is ultimately decided by the lack of options hanging in the closet of the guest bedroom at his aunt and uncle's house. He'd learned years ago not to visit without at least two sets of slacks and jackets, but had never considered that he might have an occasion to truly worry over the outfit he's putting on. He's eager to make a good impression, but worries he'll look like he's trying too hard; keenly aware that this evening he's not just representing himself. He will also be purporting to assume responsibility for the social reputation of a woman who has already been unfairly judged and derided.

He showers and combs his hair before slipping into charcoal grey pants and jacket. He fastens the cuffs of his white shirt with onyx cufflinks borrowed from his uncle. He's conservative with the application of his aftershave, conscious of the fact he's attending a society function, not a nightclub happy hour. He's certain either way that her opinion of him could not be swayed by a whiff of Tom Ford cologne. 

At the Bell residence, Jake retrieves the keys to the Mercedes. A stunning mid-century model painted in oxblood red, so perfectly polished he can see his reflection staring back at him. Keys in hand he rings the doorbell and waits patiently. Through the door, the faintest tip tap of high heels echoes in the grand foyer. The sound is followed shortly after by a  small clatter and a hardly muffled “shit!” Jake grins ear to ear, barely containing a laugh when the door swings open. 

“Lieutenant,” she greets.

“Jake,” he insists.

“Jake,” she corrects herself. 

“Shall we?”

She nods, shutting the door behind her, a small clutch purse in one hand. He offers his arm to her. If she notices him flexing she doesn't say anything, but his cheeks flush as he reminds himself he's not flirting with some tag chaser at The Hard Deck. Cheap come-ons are worth anything here. She won't end the night in his bed. This isn't even a date, it's a favour to her father. 

She ignores the gentlemanly offer of his arm, and all but skips down the stone steps towards the driveway leaving him to stare dumbfounded. 

“Let's go!” She calls to him, walking backwards to the waiting car.

She's dressed in a dress made of black velvet today. It flares out at her waist and ends at a conservative length. But her back is exposed and he tries to stop his eyes from tracing the plunging neckline. With stockings and her towering heels, she manages to make bourgeois sexy. 

“You look lovely. That's a nice dress” he tells her when he catches up. 

“Thank you,” she smiles, “it has pockets!” Her free hand immediately finds the hidden pouch to demonstrate. His smile graces his face, and his earlier anxieties about expectations and decorum quiet themselves as he watches her open the car door for herself quickly making herself comfortable. 

There's a casual air to her demeanour he hadn't expected. Their communication at the cocktail party earlier in the week had led him to believe that she was not as prim as the circumstances expected her to be. Her teasing tone and her eyes searching the room for more stimulating conversation told him she had been holding back, and putting up appearances. He had no reason to believe that tonight would be any different. 

A few minutes down the road she leans forward to turn on the radio, the local country station playing at a low volume. 

“Your dad must like me,” he attempts to joke. 

“I like you,” she says, her eyes looking out the passenger side window. 

“Well sure, what's not to like,” he smirks, “but your dad leant me a nineteen fifties Benz” 

“I leant you a nineteen sixties Benz,” her correction leaves him with his brows furrowed. 

“This is your car?” 

She doesn't turn her attention to him but responds, “Birthday gift”. 

He feels it, the achy routine gratitude. The compunction that comes from being forced to save face and feign grace; saying thank you for something you never asked for. There's a hollowness that accompanies the realization that this chunk of your life is not your own, and worse, wondering if you could do any better even if it were. Incidentally, he's familiar with a similar gut-churning shame. The weight of undeserved praise and misplaced guilt have often pulled at his ribs. He loses sleep each time they pin a medal on his chest; when the ends don't seem to justify the means, and he can't tip the scales enough in his favour to win a restful sleep at night. It's never enough. 

“It's a fantastic car,” he tells her honestly, “you have excellent taste”. 

“Thank you”. 

He hears his fears and scruples in her quiet sigh before the words escape her.  He knows the echo of apology in a simple thank you as well as he knows his name. Silence settles between them again. 

At the theatre, she stays seated in the car until he comes around and opens the door to offer his hand. With fluid, graceful movements she steps out of the vehicle and he passes the keys to a waiting valet. Jake matches her walking pace noting the way she slows as she makes her way closer to the entrance of the theatre. Her back straightens and she makes a concentrated effort to paint a smile. Gone is the easygoing woman he picked up; replaced by an edited version. He has no choice but to respect the way she's managed the transition with such poise. Her hand rests in the crook of his arm their footsteps falling in time. “What are we seeing this evening?” He asks her with genuine interest. 

“Much Ado About Nothing,” she tells him in a measured tone though he notices the sparkle in her eye, “it's a comedy”. 

“One of my favourite Shakespeare plays”. 

She smiles broadly, “And here I was thinking you were just an accomplished pilot”. 

He shrugs, “I accidentally joined the drama club in high school”. He's blessed with a surprisingly unrestrained burst of laughter. He laughs too. 

Massive wooden doors with ornate stained glass panels open into a grand foyer of floor-to-ceiling marble. Columns carved with care and precision line the walk to the grand staircase. Overhead a mural is painted on the smooth plaster. Pastel depictions of cherubs and florals surround the massive crystal chandeliers that light the hall. He feels out of place, the shoulders of his jacket suddenly feel too tight, and he wonders if anyone can tell he should have had it tailored. He breathes deeply determined to stop any ounce of his discomfort from showing as her hold on his bicep grows tighter the further into the crowd they move. 

As a pilot, he has to be good at evaluating scenarios and making decisions. He doesn't overthink it, he just does what feels right. He straightens his arm dropping her hand from the crook of his elbow and intertwines their fingers. If she's shocked by the adjustment she doesn't let it show. “Trust me?” He whispers. She nods her breath leaving her in laboured puffs, each one easier than the last as they glide through the room and towards the private box the Bells have reserved for generations. 

“Are you alright?” He dares to ask when they're on their own in the quiet of the balcony. 

She nods, releasing his hand in favour of taking her seat. “Yes, I apologize,” she tells him, “I saw my fiancés family-- it startled me more than I anticipated”.

He shrugs, “Nothing to apologize for. The only thing worse than running into your ex is running into your Ex’s mom”. 

A sliver of joy peaks through, the slightest spark of good humour returning to her eyes. No tears gather, but he can see the genuine sorrow fighting to make its way to the surface. He's happy to help her combat it. “What did he do anyway?” 

She scoffs, “As if you haven't heard to rumours”. 

“I've heard the rumours but I'd rather know the truth”. 

He watches as she studies him, seemingly determined to root out any dishonesty. He lets her weigh his worthiness and steels himself to the reality that while he may be far more well-intentioned than most people she knows, he's not a very good man. He's sure she knows that. He knows her eyes see straight through him. 

Her eyes avoid his as she speaks misplaced shame wraps around her like a shroud, “I found out from members of my mother's church group that he had called off the engagement. I was apparently one of the last people to know”. The statement lands heavy but she continues anyway, “I never truly got any explanation besides a list of my faults”. 

“He's an idiot,” Jake is quick to interject. He's certain she has her flaws, who doesn't? But the idea that a clever, witty, honest, thoughtful, and beautiful woman such as herself could fail to measure up to some arbitrary, antiquated or otherwise acceptable standards baffles him.

“Worst of all, I don't think I'm lacking in any capacity. I think, maybe, I was just too much for him. Too excitable. Too interested in the politics of business to keep my mouth shut--too outspoken to be his wife in any case”. 

What hurts more he wonders; going through hell to pull yourself up to snuff, or cutting away pieces of yourself to fit a mold. “Then maybe he wasn't meant to be your husband,” the advice comes easy and he prays he sounds like he's offering comfort. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly, her hand reaching for his with a shaken reach. He's more than happy to provide the support. 

The room shifts when the lights dim. The crowd goes silent, and for a moment before the stage curtain raises Jake can swear he hears his heartbeat. There's an intimacy that demands to be felt, and it grows between them. Her hand resting just above his knee, his arm stretched across the back of her chair. It's casual and as comfortable as possible despite the layers of clothing he's afraid he's sweating through. He watches her more than he watches the play, turning away with a flinch each time she looks his way. Her laughter is infectious, and he leans in closer to hear it over the guffawing of the audience below. 

As the show continues, any cohesive thought running through his mind is halted as she begins to draw soft circles on his thigh with her thumb. The pattern is uneven and irregular enough that he manages to write the action off as mindless fidgeting. He doesn't dare to allow himself to believe that it could be an unceremoniously daring attempt at flirtation. In the short time he's known her, he has learned to consider her to be a person of deliberate and careful action. He doesn’t think she would trifle or toy with any kind of advance; insouciant or serious. 

The lights come up again, soft music filling the theatre as intermission begins. She's no longer touching him. Their private bubble seems to burst as the chatter of other patrons fills the space. The affinity they had built in the dark hangs suspended, waiting just beyond their reaches. Neither of them mentions it. 

“Should we go get a drink?” He extends the invitation half hoping it doesn't sound like he's making a pass at her, half praying that it does. He hedges his bets on her answer; prepared to sit in silence for the 30-minute break if that's what she wants. He's shocked when she says, “I thought you'd never ask”. 

Jewelry sparkles beneath the light of equally bejeweled chandeliers, and gilded sconces. The toes of polished shoes make Jake think he's never shined a show in his life. Years of keeping his uniforms in pristine condition don't compare to the easygoing luxury of brand-new Italian patent leather. An order of two scotches on ice (the lady’s choice) runs him the same as a round of drinks at The Hard Deck would. The scotch doesn't taste any better here than it does when Penny pours it back in San Diego, but he holds his tongue for the sake of appearances. It's odd, he'll admit, standing in a crowd not identified by his rank or achievements, and yet being judged for nothing more than a projected image of inherited class. Like an ant beneath a microscope; so small, and insignificant, but under such scrutiny from the giants around him. His confidence waivers and for the second time this evening he believes he was correct when he told Mr. Bell that he may not be up to the task of escort. 

She smells like vanilla, honey, and now whiskey as she leans into his side. Her hand slipping into his own again calls him to attention as her countenance shifts; cool and calculated. He lifts his chin, and scans the room, his empty glass abandoned at the bar. 

“Miss Bell!” An older woman calls as she approaches, her hands outstretched in an overly saccharine greeting. 

“Hello, Mrs Calhoun,” she manages through partially gritted teeth accepting the uncomfortable hug the woman forces upon her. 

“I wasn't expecting you tonight,” Mrs Calhoun says, no attention spared for Jake, her focus clearly set on weeding out some kind of scandalous revelations, or calaminious scuttle to pass along to her waiting group of equally interested gossips. Growing up in Texas, Jake was well aware of how quickly news moved traveled down the clothesline-- dirty laundry aired for the whole community to chatter about. But the idle talk his mama and the neighbours shared feels so innocent compared to the chronicles passed amongst the Houston elites at cocktail parties, and theatre intermissions it seems. 

“you've been so antisocial since the wedding was called off, i do hope you've been taking care of yourself”. 

“I've been busy,” she responds quickly to Mrs Calhoun’s jab, hesitating before adding, “your son seemed quite embarrassed by the whole affair, I thought it best to allow him some time to process”. 

Jake is clever enough to see the battle fought beneath the niceties, and silently cheers her unwillingness to allow Mrs Calhoun to embarrass or belittle her. “What a sweet girl, such a shame the two of you couldn't make things work. You probably still could, you're both young enough. If he saw you in a dress like this I'm sure he'd change his mind,” Mrs Calhoun coos, “such a flattering silhouette; very slimmin--”.

“Mrs Calhoun, have you met Lieutenant Seresin, my escort for this evening?” Jake steps easily into his role of soldier and defender, a curt yet polite nod conveys his ‘hello’. “Pleasure,” he lies. 

“A lieutenant? How interesting!” The woman says, her expression souring as she suddenly makes excuses to leave. 

She's across the room in a flash joining a flock of tittering ladies who are not subtle at all as they cast their gaze towards him and a lovely girl who is now hiding her face against his chest. Her giggles are muffled but he's glad to hear she hasn't been too shaken by the encounter.

 “They're all looking at us,” Jake thinks it's best to tell her. There's nothing worse than being blindsided. He expects her to take at least a half step away from him; to straighten herself back into the straight backed paper doll their audience came to see. Instead she moves closer looking up at him with wide eyes and long lashes, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. 

“Maybe we should give them something to look at…” she suggests, and his stomach drops, certain he's not hearing her correctly. 

“What do you have in mind, honey?” 

She answers with a kiss, and he’s happy to be the one to kiss her, but he’ll be damned if he doesn't a proper job of it. How ungentlemanly would he be to not be thorough in his work? What a disservice it would be to her if he did not take the opportunity to deepen the embrace, his find purchase on her hip, and in the back of her hair. By the starry-eyed look on her face when he pulls away he’s convinced he’s met the mark of the task; the shocked expressions from the Calhouns confirm his suspicions of her ex lacking any kind of rectitude or skill. 

The kiss wasn't long enough or anywhere near steamy enough to be considered anything close to vulgar. He knows the two of them will be the subject of several buzz lines in the community tomorrow, but he hopes it won't be anything implying promiscuity or untoward behaviour. Her cheek is warm beneath the pad of his tomb, and he's sure his cheeks are flushed. He tries not to become too giddy at the prospect of being promoted from escort to boyfriend for the evening. He's not naive enough to think this is anything more than one of those fake dating scenarios from the made-for-TV Christmas films his Mama has always enjoyed. It's a calculated and clever choice, and he's happy to oblige; to be a pawn in something bigger than any of his own wants or desires. He's used to it. He's made a career out of it. Lieutenant Seresin reporting for duty. 

A three-bell tone notifies everyone that it’s time to return to their seats. As the lights slowly dim once more her hand returns to the place it had taken on his thigh earlier in the night, any remaining tension in her shoulders released as she busies herself with tracing invisible shapes once again. In the darkness of the room, Jake’s face blushes as he tries not to shift too suddenly in his seat, her hand moving an inch or two higher up his leg. Long-manicured fingers move at a teasing pace until they find his belt buckle. He has no choice but to stop her, even though he’d prefer not to. His lips brush the shell of her ear as he captures her wrist in his hand, “Behave,” he whispers, managing to keep his warning somewhere between stern and playful. A soft gasp escapes her, her eyes glinting in the low light with a mischievous glee. Good God, he’d be hard-pressed to deny her anything looking at him like that. He releases her wrist, and she resumes her mission. 

He feels guilty; as if he’s corrupted her somehow, and he knows that feeling alone is a disservice to her. In the extraordinarily short time he’s known her he’s learned that she is headstrong and determined in the most brilliant ways. While she’s spent her life slipping in and out of different roles to ease the minds of those she’s been forced to associate with, she has done it all by choice. As exhausted as she must be, it’s a game she’s learned to play, and she’ll never allow herself to lose. He urges himself to consider that his role in her life may just be that of a buffer, a simple stand-in to offset the weight of the outside world. His penchant for cocksure, self-assured, over conference aside, he’s not dumb enough to truly think that he could be her freedom, but he’ll allow himself to sleep tonight with the belief that he could be happy being a conduit for it. 

She’s indescribably pretty looking up at him. Her skirt billows around her where she kneels between his thighs, her hair slightly tousled, and her lips glossy. He’s met his fair share of beautiful women. He’s lost count of the partners he brought home for a night. Most of their names he’s now forgotten, and he feels dreadfully sorry to them all because he knows this image before him now will be burned into his mind for a lifetime. He won’t forget Miss Bell, nor her elegance. He won’t ever fail to recall her smile, or he erudite quips. His breath stutters, and he thanks the Lord for the players on the stage making the audience laugh as he struggles to hold back a softened moan. 

The rest of the evening’s performance passes in a blur and they’re outside waiting for the valet to bring the car around before he knows it. She reapplies her lipstick with the help of a small compact mirror, and he swears his knees go weak at the sight. He tips the valet well for the speed with which he returns, and she gives a kind “thank you. Have a good night,” to the man as she ducks to slip into the passenger seat. 

“You should come inside,” she says as they pull through the gate outside her home. “I should?” 

“Mhm,” she hums. “And why is that?” he asks hoping he’s not pressing his luck. “Because I like you, Jake,” she says simply. He doesn’t need more convincing. 

Her bedroom is as warm, plush, and luxurious as he could have anticipated. Their clothes strewn across the floor leave a conspicuous trail from the door to her bed. The dress he'd been admiring her in all night must've cost a pretty penny but it's tossed aside with his pants and shirt that she'd made quick work of. 

He lets her have her fun perched, straddling his lap as hands and lips explore exposed bodies. He's careful about leaving his mark knowing his presence in this house tonight must be that of a ghost. Neither of them say it, but they both know this is a secret they'll keep forever. Jake pinches her hip when she nips particularly hard at his collarbone.

“Careful. That's property of the United States Navy, honey”.

 His warning doesn't dissuade her and she's convinced to leave another bite in the same place. He rolls them over, settling his weight between thighs. He leaves kiss stain bruises along her torso, taking his time to lap, suck, and soothe with the goal of hearing her sighs. 

He lowers himself to his belly kissing from her ankle to her knee as he pushes one of her legs then the other over his shoulders. “You don't have to--”.

“I want to,” he insists with a playful nip at her hip, but she still looks hesitant. “I won't if you don't want me to,” he assures her, beginning to pull away. 

“ I do!” She says quickly, “it's just my ex never--”

“He's an idiot,” he replies easily before diving in for a taste. He means it too. He has abandoned reason and found heaven. He's collapsed like a man starved before her. Only an absolute fool would balk at the opportunity to please a woman, especially one who looks so pretty with her head tilted back, her fingers tangled in his hair; a plea for more. How could he deny her? 

It's a year later when he's invited back to the theatre. His girlfriend’s had held proudly in his own as they both sidestep the conversations they do not wish to be a part of. “Miss Bell,” people still call out to her, and she obliges them with polite small talk, correcting them as they ask about her Lieutenant, she's proud of him and his recent promotion, ensuring that they are all aware of the correct honorific, but insisting they just call him Jake. It's who he'd prefer to be in her company; a truer version of himself. The Calhouns make themselves scarce, avoiding himself and Miss Bell like the plague, and neither of them has any complaints about that. 

Mindless catching up, and society-bound exchanges are far less painful with a companion. They take turns filling people in on their lives out in California, slipping inside jokes between the lines unbeknownst to the people around them. Little secrets just to keep the other entertained, the reward of a smile enough to pull them through the crowds. Neither of them relaxes completely until they've made it to the Bell’s private box. His hand moves to rest on her thigh by instinct at this point, he palm warm on her exposed skin. He loves her in this dress, emerald green, with an elegant slit up the skirt. She leans over to kiss him and he’s more than happy to indulge her. 

[kaciebello]

Wrong address

Masterlist Delivery Express ✿ Summary: The reader sees an opportunity to run an untapped market in Hogwarts.  She just wishes people would put the proper address on it. Warnings: mention cigarettes, no use of y/n Authors note: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes beforehand. I want to spread this into a one-shot series. Proofread by me and me only (Ｔ▽Ｔ) • Previously: Left on delivered • Next part: Too many voicemails word count: 1.1k

notes to deliver: 365

It wasn't hard to find the Slytherin boys, usually you could hear them from miles away. That is why sometimes when they want to keep their business private, they sneak into the room of requirements. Not only was it soundproof, but no one just stumbled upon it. Most importantly nobody knows they hang out there. Or so the thought.

The giant door slides open revealing a makeshift sunroom. Nobody should have been able to find them there, yet they are not surprised when they see a certain Hufflepuff girl with a yellow bow in her hair. She was fondling a note in her hand looking at it confused. She steps into the room as a door closes behind her, making her way to the number of sofas in the room. The room senses her presence, makes sure there is room for her, and even goes as far as giving her a cup of tea.

“ What you got there mail girl?” asks Draco before closing his eyes and soaking up the artificial sun. Maybe he won't get sunburned from this one. 

“ Note for one of you…” all attention was on her now. Curiosity reeks from the boys. They are not strangers to being delivered notes or letters from the girl. If anything, it became like a norm at this point. Not that they ever respond to any.

“Well dont keep us on the edge of our seats. For who?” Says Mattheo eager to open it and read it.

“That's the point. I don't know.” She says and sighs. Promptly burying her head in her hands. Eager glances are swapped for confused ones.

Various versions of ‘Why do you mean you don't know.’ leave the boys. She just looks at the note before speaking.

“ I usually have people write to who on the folded note. and you know, that system works! Sure, some people mix Fred and George but who wouldn't.” She pauses, thumbs of agreement. She fips the note. “ This one is addressed to ‘ the cute guy from Slytherin’.”

“Oh sunshine, isn't it obvious? Give me the note.” Theodor says reaching for it. Blasie stops him with a disgusted look. She knew this would happen.

“Like hell it's you, if anyone here is cute it’s me!” says Draco no longer behaving like a cat in a sun but one that is about to pull out its claws. One by one the boys got increasingly offended if they were not suggested by the others. The girl places the note in her lap and reaches for her tea. It was amusing to see her fight for the title of the cute boy in Slytherin. And some people say they are dangerous.  Tooning them out, she looks around the room to admire it. 

“Sunshine.” Says Lorenzo making her turn back to them and pay attention. 

“ Give us the note.” He says, his eyes were a tad bit crazy. She shakes her head and places the cup on a table. Sometimes her friends scared her, not for the reason many people thought. Looking closely at all of them. They all had the same look in their eyes. 

She gets up and swiftly moves to stand behind a sofa, making sure there is some barrier between her and them.

“Sunshine, give us the note,” he repeats extending his hand to her. She just takes a B-line to the door. A crashing sound behind her made her clutch to the note in her hand. A few steps before the door Mattheo appears and blocks her way. She knew better than to start backing up so she turned and made her way to the glass door that seemed to be leading outside. She however could never outrun 5 boys in their prime, no.

A decision was made right then and there. When she can feel Draco catching up to her, she ducks—Draco completely misses her and runs into the glass door. She however was already running to the fireplace. She was a few steps from it when Lorenzo jumped out of nowhere and tackled her on the floor. Making sure to turn them around so he sounded her fall. The note slips from her grip. The two groan on impact.

“Bro that was unnecessary.” She whines and rolls at her friend. Sitting her to him while he lies on the floor with a smile.

“Yeah, but I got the note…” He says and looks in the direction the note has fallen. His smile drops when he sees it. The note has landed in the fire just as the girl intended to. The sides curled and ashy, there was no saving it. A victorious cheer leaves the girl, while others groan in frustration.

Looking around the scene, some pillows were thrown on the ground. One chair was flipped over and was lying on its side. Draco was holding his nose as Blasie helped him up. Something told the girl his father won't be hearing about this one. Overall it looked like someone casted Bombarda in the middle of the room.

Turning to the friend next to her, making sure he's okay. He just waves his arm at her and jumps up. Before helping her up. In the meanwhile, the rest have sat down in their previous spots. Mattheo flicked his wand to clean the room up a bit. 

Silence sat among the friends. A new batch of tea was made, and they all tried to figure out what just happened. The only sound in the room was the fire cracking, the remains of the note still visible. It's Blaise who breaks the silence.

“Um, that was…” He swallows the rest of his thought, opting to just nod his head.

“Man, we should have read it together, just aloud.” Says Theodor, pulling out his cigarette and offering it to anyone willing to take one. Nods and hums of agreement were heard from the boys.

“You know, the girl that gave it to me was very cryptic.” She says sipping on her tea and swapping the smoke away occasionally. Their ears perked up but they were still licking their wounds to pay proper attention.

“ She said, and I quote. ‘ You know who’ and winked before running away.” She pauses to take a sip before continuing. “ I think she wanted me to give it to the one I thought was the cutest” Lost in her thoughts, her gaze remained on ashes. She did not even notice that the chatter stopped.

Silence from the boys. Until.

“Well, who do think it's the cutest?” She just sighs at the question. Here we go again.

notes to deliver: 364

Tag list: @daisiesformylove, @klimovatereza-blog , @lafrone , @enfppixie , @rafegfs , @frogtape , @lovelyygirl8

[quizzicalwriter]

omg your smuts w squ!rt!ng in them are just too good. can you please do one of them but with johnny cade x reader and with praise? thank you!

Interrupted Television

Pairing: Johnny Cade x Fem!Reader

Summary: Dallas talks, a lot. Johnny listens. One particular conversation peaked his interest and now your game show is interrupted.

Warnings: SMUT. MDNI. Fingering, oral, squirting - all that stuff.

A/N: Thank you for the requests! I’m glad you guys like my writing for Johnny!

Word Count: 1.7k

“Orcas.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you threaded your fingers through his hair, his head resting on your lap had kept you planted on your couch for the last hour and a half watching some rerun of a game show neither of you knew the name of. Yet somehow he was getting every damn question right, you’d known that he’d been reading ever since he left his parent's house, but with the information he knew you’d venture to say he’d been reading encyclopedias in his spare time.

And damn if he wasn’t right again, you gave him a celebratory pat on the back as the contestants all looked between each other in mysticism that they hadn’t been able to answer the question. He looked back to you, a triumphant grin on his face as you cradled his cheek, thumb brushing against his tanned cheekbone.

“Smart guy.” You whispered, earning you a throaty chuckle as he extended his hand up to brush your hair behind your ear, letting his touch linger against your cheek before dropping it back by his side. “I ain’t smart, I just read.”

You playfully rolled your eyes through a sigh, gently pushing his face back to the television. “That’s what bein’ smart is, Johnny.”

He only responded with a hum, seemingly sucked back into the show as they moved onto another category. In truth you hadn’t been paying attention for the last half hour, finding yourself enamored by the sight of him laying against your lap, his lips pursed in thought as he racked his mind for answers to questions he’d never be asked outside of a trivia show.

It wasn’t often you were both able to relax, if it wasn’t your odd work schedule then it was his - or someone requiring your attention, just like his friends required his. Whenever he could scrounge up the time, he’d be at your place for the weekend, stuck to you like glue until he had to leave for work. You’d made the venture to his place, but he wasn’t too fond of you staying there for too long, mainly because Dallas had walked in on you two enough to warrant him speaking to his long-time friend about privacy.

He’d pulled you out of your thoughts with a gentle tap to your knee, deep brown eyes staring up at you curiously. You’d still been half dazed, hand resuming its movements in his hair - only his hair wasn’t there anymore and you’d damn near blinded the poor guy by poking him right in the eye. You swore loudly, jerking your hand back at the same pace he took to sit up, laughing through a groan as he cupped his eye. You couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled from you as you scooted toward him on the couch, gently pulling his hand away to make sure he wasn’t hurt.

“Now that you’ve partially blinded me-“ He started, still laughing somewhat as he blinked rapidly, trying to negate the pain. “Can we try that?”

“Try what?” You asked, still stifling laughter of your own as you dropped your hands to your lap.

He looked up at you then, sighing for a moment at the realization that you’d been daydreaming the entire time he’d been talking, but you looked cute enough for him to not care.

“Well, Dally mentioned somethin’ he did with a girl. I know most of his stories seem like bullshit, but I wanted to try it with you.”

Dallas had an odd way of announcing every tirade he’d done with a woman to their group of friends, even when nobody asked for it - but they were guys, so they were all intrigued as soon as he started speaking. You chewed at your inner cheek, eyes narrowing for a moment as you thought over what Dallas could’ve possibly mentioned to Johnny for him to be intrigued enough to want to test it out on you.

“Sure, why not.” You mused with a shrug, giving him a small smile as you moved closer to him, knees bumping together. He returned the smile, hands moving to your hips where he quickly helped you into his lap. There was something about the act of being in his lap that instinctively had you aching around nothing, maybe it was the way his hips would rock up into you, or the way he’d grab at your hips hard enough to leave bruises - whatever it was you could already feel your heartbeat hammering in your chest.

“Just gonna-“ He murmured, words nearly inaudible as he unbuttoned your jeans, the heat of his hands causing you to shiver against his touch. You could hear him stifle a laugh as he brushed his fingers against your cunt through your underwear, rubbing delicate circles over your folds through the semi-wet fabric. Your eyes fluttered shut as you gave yourself over to the feeling, he took the moment to lean forward, connecting your lips in a needy kiss as he continued working you up.

“Johnny-“ You whined, not bothering to pull away from the kiss. “I- fuck, touch me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, moving his hand to slip underneath your underwear as he trailed kisses along your jaw and onto your throat before moving back to your lips.

His fingers smoothed against your cunt, slowly moving back and forth along your folds before pushing in. You whined against his lips, hips stuttering as he curled his fingers within you, pressing against a spot within you that had you clamping down around his fingers. You could feel him smile into the kiss as he pumped his fingers, his thumb brushing against your clit with each movement.

“You can move, baby.” He whispered, eyes flickering up to meet yours. You nodded, wetting your lips as you rocked your hips against his palm, the feeling of his fingers pressed against your g-spot making you nearly forget how to breathe. You could hear him softly laugh, hand moving from your hip to your back where he pressed you into his chest, allowing you to rest your head against his shoulder as he pumped his fingers in and out, ensuring they curled against that same spot with each movement.

You could feel that familiar sensation of your orgasm building in your lower stomach, cunt squeezing around his digits as you practically rode his fingers. He looked up to you then, smiling at the sight of your flushed-out expression, how your brows furrowed together, your parted lips. He knew he had you just where he wanted you, and within a second he had you flipped over onto your back against the couch. You’d hardly had a moment to process the sudden change in position before he had your pants and underwear removed, tossing them near the television before sinking between your legs.

“Johnny?” You asked through a laugh, all thoughts cut off the moment he placed an open-mouthed kiss on your cunt. Your thighs jerked, to which he quickly wrapped his arms around them, hands pressed against your lower stomach as he kissed and sucked along your cunt. You could feel him moan against your folds, the vibration from the noise causing your back to arch off the fabric of the couch.

He moved one of his arms, pulling away for a moment before pushing the same two fingers back into your cunt, pace relentless as he circled your clit with his tongue. You all but cried at the feeling, unable to formulate any words as sheer ecstasy raced through your veins. Your hips rocked against his face, and throughout it all his eyes stayed locked on your face, watching as your expression contorted into one of absolute pleasure.

“I’m gonna-“ You mewled, hands grasping desperately at his hair as you ground against his face. He hummed, seemingly proud of himself as he jerked his fingers up into you, repeatedly hitting your g-spot as he flicked your clit with his tongue, intermittently sucking it as your thighs tensed under his hold.

With a broken cry of his name, you came undone, cunt spasming around his fingers. He refused to let up, hands moving to hold you steady as he continued swirling his tongue around your clit. A whine tore itself from your chest as you grabbed at the cushions of the couch, breath catching in your chest at the feeling of your cunt twitching from overstimulation.

He shifted against the couch, moving to push two fingers into you once more, continuing the near-brutal pace that’d made you cum in the first place. You would’ve screamed at the feeling if you’d been able to take in any sort of air, instead, you were left writhing underneath him as every breath came in as a short gasp. His free hand pushed down against your lower stomach, the newfound pressure causing another orgasm to build rapidly.

“Fu-uck!” You sobbed out, waterline pricking with tears from the relentless sensation of his tongue and fingers working against you. The near pitiful noises only spurred him on, a moan of his own leaving him, the vibration directly against your clit sending you over the edge. You felt yourself gush, juices coating the couch along with your inner thighs - and consequently, Johnny’s lower face.

You’d half expected him to be upset, but all he wore was an extremely proud grin as he looked up at you from between your legs, taking a moment to press kisses to your inner thighs before moving up to kiss you. You could taste yourself on his tongue as his hands smoothed up your sides, thumbs affectionately circling your ribs as he pressed kisses along your jaw.

“So good-“ He murmured against your dampened skin. “So proud.”

It took a moment for you to regain the ability to properly breathe, but once you had you smiled up at him, in a fair bit of shock yourself at both the fact that he’d wanted to do that and the fact that you’d done it at all.

“Was that what you wanted to try?” You asked through a breathless laugh, taking a moment to wipe your shirt against his mouth and jaw. He chuckled into the fabric, pushing it away gently.

“Figured Dally was bullshittin’, he wasn’t.”

A/N: Another Johnny work!! I hope you guys enjoyed this, I’m still tryin’ to get the hang of Johnny’s character and writing him - but I enjoy it nonetheless. As always, you can find all my works over on my AO3 account, “Unscriptural.” Thank you all for the magnitude of support you’ve shown my work, I appreciate it dearly!

[thelittleliars]

Surprise

Natasha Romanoff x fem!Reader

Warnings: fighting, being drunk, mention of homophobia, mention of deceased parents, angst with a happy end

Words: 3.5k

Summary: You wanted to surprise your girlfriend but instead you were the one that got surprised.

A/N: Here it is: the Angst with a happy ending one shot as the majority of you voted for! Btw I did not proof read it so be aware.

Flying wasn't your thing; sitting for hours in a thing that is high in the air with nothing to do but to sleep, eat, watch or read something. And airplane was a capsule of boredom to you, that was why you'd never fly unless you had to. Unfortunately you had to fly for your job since it required you to fly overseas from time to time. This time you had a 15 hour flight back home, itching to not only to see your girlfriend Natasha but also to surprise her, your supposed flight was scheduled for only three days later and when you were given the go to fly back earlier you took the chance and told her nothing about it. You hadn't seen her in weeks so you were extra excited to see her again.

The uber stopped in front of your apartment complex, as you got your things out of the trunk you thanked them for the pleasant ride and wished them a good day. You were quick to arrive at your door, the apartment was one on the top floors, before unlocking it with the your key. The smile on your face vanished when you saw Natasha standing there with three people you had never met before. Your mood became a little sour as you didn't like that your surprise didn't go as you had planned. "Who are you?" You asked confused as nobody including your girlfriend made a move to introduce each other.

They stared at you with critical eyes, sizing you up and down as if you were a criminal or some other threat. The younger woman with blonde hair spoke up first. "Her family." Your heart stilled for a second thinking of meeting her family like this wasn't great but you dismissed everything quickly because you remembered that her family was dead. "No, that can't be. Her family died when she was young." You looked confused at Nat, then back at those strangers again. When nobody responded you got a bit anxious, Natasha wouldn't have lied about that right?

The man spoke up next, bringing you out of your head of spiraling thoughts. "Who are you?" But before you could answer that question happily, the other woman gave her thoughts to the situation. "She's most likely the roommate Natasha always talked about." Roommate. You whirled your head towards your red headed lover, looking baffled at her already guilty expression, pain appeared in your heart and you swore that nothing cut you as deep as the statement along with her silence and facial expression. You pursed your lips to hide how much she hurt you, it would be too embarrassing to throw a fit in front of her family. Natasha opened her mouth but before she got to speak you jumped in. "I just had a 15 hour flight and all I wanna do is take a shower and maybe a nap afterwards. I guess I see y'all later." You said to all of them before you fetched your suitcase and disappeared into the actual guest room that the two of you had for emergencies.

In the shower you sat down and let the water fall onto you. You overthought everything you thought you knew. It was obvious that it was her family, she lied about her parent dying. Why would she do that? And if she lied about that what else did she lie about? Evidently about your relationship. The roommate Natasha constantly talked about.. That statement hurt immensely. You couldn't understand why were a roommate, not even a very good friend no, just a fucking roommate. It made you angry, especially because you loved that woman deeply and it made you wonder if she actually loved you. You also deliberate about if you could ever forgive her about this betrayal.

After the long shower, your phone started ringing the second your t-shirt hit you body. It was strange for someone to call you at this hour but when you saw it was your friend Wanda you answered without a question. You couldn't get a hello out because she was talking fast. "Open your door, there's a surprise for you!" The excitement in her voice was refreshing after all the work talk you had done overseas for days. "Wands, I don't like surprises."

"I know and I'm sorry to do this to you but this one's really worth it. Please believe me and don't hang up!" You tried to put all the faith you had left in her and walked out of the guest room as held your phone against your ear. "I won't hang up don't worry." While you passed by the open kitchen-living room to get to the door, you felt the red head's and her family's intense eyes on you. You ignore them as you opened the door and there she stood, the great Wanda Maximoff with some tickets in her hands. She practically shoved them into your hands. Only then did you hang up the phone and looked at what the tickets were. Your eyes widen in shock before you threw yourself at Wanda, hugging her happily. Natasha jealously was seething so she decided to speak. "What is your ex doing here?"

You turned around smiling at her but not as bright as you had been a second before, you still waved the tickets with joy telling her what the tickets were for. "She got me tickets for a sold out Hayley Kiyoko show!!" Natasha knew how much that meant for you since you had never seen her live even though you had tickets for three concerts at one point. You hated it so much that your job always came in between the dates, making you sell your concert tickets of the singer that was your first crush and gay awakening. This whole situation gave Natasha another pang of jealousy, she should have been the one giving you the tickets, not your damn ex.

"The lesbian Jesus?" The blonde woman whose name you still don't know asked. You nodded and saw her face breaking into a proud expression. "Since when do you know that?" Natasha asked her sister in almost an insulting tone. "Kate Bishop, where else?" After Nat narrowed her eyes the blonde explained further with a shrug. "She told me that I need to widen my horizon in pop culture." At that you turned your attention back to Wanda, minding your own business while picking up your conversation again. "I- I'm.. thank you for the tickets Wands. I truly don't know how to thank you." She smiled at your overwhelmed but giddy state. "You could take me with you?" She joked as she also pointed to the tickets. You agreed to her idea incredibly fast, maybe a bit too fast considering that you had a girlfriend you usually asked and took with you to concerts. But in that split of a moment you didn't give a shit about asking her to go with you, going with your ex sounded way better. "It - it's tomorrow already. Wait, hold on. How'd you even know that I'd be back by then?"

"Oh yeah about that.. I might have talked with Josh." She smiled sheepishly. Josh was a mutual friend but also your co-worker. But you'd never have thought that Josh would talk about your (early) return. Especially since you told him you wanted to surprise everyone. "Are you lovebirds actually coming in or stay in the doorway all night?" Alexei teased you both, you didn't how how to feel about that. You were still together with his daughter and him teasing or shipping you with your ex was beyond something you thought you'd experience. The frown on Natasha face was something you didn't miss and you actually had to bite your tongue before saying something you'd regret. To your luck, because you knew biting your tongue wouldn't help for long, your lover pipped in. "They are ex-girlfriends and not lovebirds." She stated hard. Her father continued to reason with his daughter. "Doesn't have to mean anything Tasha bear. How often did your mother and I break up and got back together hmm?"

You ignored their conversation once again, turning to the red head that stood still in the doorway you told her to wait for you. "Let me switch pants and then we go get a drink somewhere yeah? That way we can catch up and they can continue having family time uninterrupted." Natasha wanted to interject, deny you going out with Wanda when she desperately wanted to explain herself but she feared that stopping you would dig her grave with you only deeper so she let you go. When you were about to leave, Yelena and Alexei teased you both a last time. You felt a bit bad for Natasha but it all were also a part of consequences of her actions. "Don't come home too late." Was the only thing she told you. You still heard Yelena's such a mom and Alexei's don't be a cockblocker Natasha through the door.

-----------------------------

You were passed out in Wanda's arms as she carried you bridal style towards your apartment. It wasn't planned that you drank this much alcohol, but once you got a taste of it you just couldn't stop, it numbed your feelings and problems that you badly wanted to forget. Natasha was at the door quick, relieved when she saw you in Wanda's arms, she lead you both towards your bedroom watching how your ex put you on the bed gently.

"Thank you for bringing her home." She commented. The other woman only nodded before leaving fairly quickly, not wanting to be there in case you woke up which she knew was unlikely but didn't want it risk it anyways. Hungover you was something she did not want to witness ever again.

The next morning was rather midday by the time you woke up. You walked into the bathroom first, quickly peeing and splashing some water on your face before wandering to the kitchen, there you saw Natasha sitting at her kitchen counter with a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other hand. "Morning." You hummed grumpily, acknowledging her without actually talking to her. She huffed before she tried to talk to you again. "Y/N I-" Natasha started but you cut her off immediately. "I don't wanna talk."

"But I really-" Her next attempt to talk got quickly cut off by you again. "I SAID I DONT WANT TO TALK NATASHA!" You didn't yell, you simply rose your voice a bit to get your point across. She shut up afterwards. "Gosh just give me space before you ruin my day. I still have a concert to attend to." Your words and the situation cut her deep, it hurt to know this side of you - that she was the reason for bringing this out of you and inflicting (you) pain. She never wanted any of this.

-----------------------------

After the incredible amazing concert you dragged Wanda into a bar to get some well deserved fries and drinks. It didn't last long until you spilled your relationship problems and some evil thoughts you had in your head. The cruelest one was to text Nat asking her if she'd give you permission to kiss another girl during Hayley's performance of Girls Like Girls. You'd never cheat but the itch to get back at her in some way for betraying you was big.

"I know you want to hurt Natasha back a bit because of what she did but is it really worth it? Wouldn't that just truly ruin your relationship?" Wanda was concerned about your state of mind and what you might would do. She knew how rash you were in doing something when you got hurt by someone close to you. "It's hardly a relationship if it's build on lies." You stated without any emotion in your voice and expression. This only showed her that her worries were valid. "Maybe she had a good reason for it." The red head tried so hard to see the positive but of course with your mood, nothing was getting to you.

"I can't think of a single good reason of why she'd lie about her parents passing. I also came up short when I thought of a reason of her hiding our relationship. Like I'd have understood if it were the same situation as it was in our relationship, when you were a baby gay with parents who oftentimes said homophobic remarks and you being afraid to come out. But her father and sister teased us lovebirds and it seemed very genuine, they weren't homophobic." At the mention of Wanda's past, she felt the need to voice her thoughts. "I still feel like they stopped with the remarks after catching Pietro watching gay porn." You gave her a tiny sad smile. "Well either way, at least you had the decency to tell your family that we were not only very good but also very close friends. I'm just a roommate to them."

"I'm sorry." She said it genuine, without any pity or whatsoever. You nodded but also sighed at her apology. "Not your fault Wanda. Don't apologize for something that's out of reach." It was quiet between the two of you for a long moment, eating and drinking to make it less awkward before you asked her if you could crash at her place. "Of course, you're always welcome." Later, right before you went to sleep, you texted your girlfriend that you'd stay at Wanda's for the night.

-----------------------------------

When you got home the next day, Natasha was nowhere to be found, it gave you enough time to ponder if you should simply break up with her and get all your things with you, it would have been a coward move on your part and you were already cowardly enough by staging away from her the night before. You quickly changed into a new set of clothes the grabbing your headphones and went into the kitchen, getting out ingredients from the cabinets to bake something, you still needed to distract yourself before facing Natasha.

The second she entered the apartment and heard movements she knew were only yours, she stopped dead in her tracks as she wasn't expecting you to the apartment yet. She thought that you were staying at Wanda's for a while longer but since you weren't she took the chance to finally talk to you and explain herself. You were startled by the tap on your shoulder, you hadn't heard her come back with the headphones on yours ears blasting angry rock-metal music. Pausing the music and taking the headphones from your ears, you turned around to face Natasha, she had messy hair with dark circles and bags underneath her eyes. It told you that she had a sleepless night.

"I don't want to talk." You told her simply because it irritated you that she disrupted your baking time. She groaned in frustration. "But I need to talk. Y/N I want to fix my mistakes, I want to fix us." She was desperate, you heard it in her voice, but that still didn't change your mind. "Maybe the magnitude of your mistakes are too big to fix." The words you said left her stunned. With the little courage she had left she asked you the important question. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"Not yet." It came out weak, nearly matching the weak tone of the question Natasha asked second before. A bit of relieve flooded her system but she was still tense m, fearing your answer to her next question. "What's holding you back?" You weren't sure if you wanted to let her know your reasons but you ended up opening anyways. "My gut and my trust in you."

The silence that followed was nearly deafening, the redheaded woman simply was at loss of words because it felt wrong for you to still have trust in her. "I haven't shattered your trust yet?"

"Hard to believe right? Despite all your lies I still trust you.. even if it's on a thin thread." There was another couple of minutes of silence before she finally could apologize without you cutting her off. "Then let me apologize because I really have to apologize for how the other day went down. I'm sorry for lying about my parents and that I lied to them about our relationship. I didn't mean to hurt you but I did and now I have to own it up." She started before moving to sit down on a chair. "It's true that my parents died at a young age. Who you saw was my foster family, we didn't always get along which resulted in me distancing myself from them for a decade. It wasn't until we were a year deep into a relationship that we started to have contact again."

"But why lie to them about us? Your father and sister seemed pretty open about homosexuals." You asked, still confused about certain things that needed to be cleared up.

"My plan was to ease them in telling how I'm not only queer but more so a lesbian. Last time I really knew them they were homophobic so I was surprised by their remarks. I hadn't met them in person for so long, I guess they changed a lot during that time." You took your hands in hers. It was a small gesture of you supporting her in quietness. "I'm sorry detka. I should have told you a long time ago about my foster family. And also that I told them you were my roommate."

"I just don't get it. Why tell them we're roommates and not friends?" It was the question that plagued your mind. She bit her lips then shaking her head and looking everywhere but at you. "It wouldn't have been believable. I always ruined all my friendships." You squeezed her hands in hope she'd look at you again and she did even if it was only for a few seconds. "Is there anything else you lied about?"

Her eyes rose to yours, this time you could see her bare soul laying out for you. She removed her hands from yours before answered honest. "Uhh.. my job?" It was barely a second that passed by before you shrieked out her full name. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova!" She squeezed her eyes shut as her name fell from your lips like you called her satan, then she fumbled with her hands until they found yours again. With an honest look in her eyes she apologizes again. "Y/N I'm really sorry okay."

"Sorry doesn't make it better! Natasha you do realize how fucked up this is right? Especially because we talk about work at dinner every other day. Gosh." You felt sick to your stomach when you thought back at the countless of conversations you had. "If-if you're not a secretary then what exactly do you do?"

"I'm actually a SHIELD agent." She leaned closer to you when she noticed your lack of response. When you did reply it made Natasha even more nervous, anxious even, she feared that you decide to break up with her right then and there. "A SHIELD agent?" You repeated calmly, a bit too calm for your girlfriend's liking, a calm person is always one to fear during a fight, they most likely are already done with everything. "A SHIELD agent." Natasha confirmed.

"Were you going to tell me?"

"At some point." You nodded then removed your hands from hers all while you were telling her you needed to go back to baking, you turned around finished your cupcakes. Natasha stood there awkwardly, not knowing what else to tell you or where to go. When the first batch of cupcakes were done you held one in between your fingers, you walked straight up to the redhead with no expression on your face, her heart pounded so wildly that it felt like she was going to die. "As much as I hate you right now, I'm still completely and utterly in love with you." You offered her the cupcake that she gladly accepted with a small smile. "I might be an idiot for even attempting to forgive you but I can honestly see us having a great and long future together."

"I want that. The long and great future with you, I mean." She looked down and smiled shyly

"Good. But it can only happen if you won't lie to me anymore Nat. I'd rather be hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie."

"Okay."

"Okay?" She nodded. "Good. Now come here and give me a kiss."

"Can I eat my cupcake first?" She asked with a twinkle in her eyes. You shook your heard, told her 'no' before you grabbed her head and kissed her like there was no tomorrow.

[saintsenara]

How do you reconcile reading fanfics that deal with problematic or even taboo themes and your real life moral values. I was trying to recommend a fic to a new friend but the fic was tagged underage and it involved some minor smut as the characters were 17 and it was a beautiful moving story about them exploring and wrestling with their sexuality. My friend freaked out and said that it's disgusting how adults read stories of underage characters that contain any sexual content between them.

i don't have any difficulty with reconciling my consumption of fictional media with my real life values, because the opinions of people who think i should don't bother me.

i have plenty of empathy for people who think that taboo fiction = reader is a bad person, and because of this i think it can be valuable [in circumstances where they're not attempting to cause you or anyone else any real-life harm, that is] to make a sincere effort to understand why they've come to think that way.

but this doesn't require the ceding of ground. i can empathise with people who have experienced real-world harm and are going about protecting others from it in an imperfect way, or who are afraid of being judged, or who struggle to understand themselves as complex or multifaceted people, or who have low self-esteem, or who aren't great at seeing things with nuance, or who are just conservative for the hell of it. but that doesn't mean i think they're correct. the reason i can do it is because i have made an active choice to be informed, imaginative, and interested, and because i actively practise my critical thinking skills.

an initial "i don't like this, this disgusts me, even though i know this isn't real" response might be instinctive and beyond our control. but indulging it - turning it into "i don't like this, this disgusts me, even though i know this isn't real, and therefore i will refuse to think about why other people might consider it interesting" - is a skill issue. curiosity can be learned.

storytelling is inherently and innately human. it comes bundled up with our capacity for language, our capabilities for abstract thinking, our ability to infer meaning from symbolic behaviour. we have always done it. and we have always done it precisely because it allows us to engage with experiences other than our own, including those of bad people doing unspeakable things, thereby allowing us to consider and explain and understand the world.

if nobody is attempting to cause you any real-world harm for your consumption of fictional media [which - obviously - you would deserve to take action to protect yourself from], then ask yourself... is there anything going on which is worth actually being aggrieved by? your friend responded unpleasantly to a fic rec. oh well. what can you do? sounds like a them problem.

you were interested in the story, and you have extracted something meaningful from it, like thousands upon thousands of your ancestors before you. what more can you ask for?

[marzipanandminutiae]

Since you recently reblogged that post about women's clothing, here's what the OP said in her tags in a post about defending corsets/skirts/parasols - needless to to say your tags about them hating people who enjoy those kinda things were spot-on

-------------------------

Good fucking god.

Yeah, I read the whole post in your other ask with the link (I'm not adding it because frankly I don't need more of this horseshit in my life). It was basically them taking someone commenting on the OVERWHELMING trend in historical fiction of making all women who have anything of value to say absolutely despise Gross Icky Skirts and Corsets And (in at least one case I've seen) Parasols

(while also making them baseline Modern Feminine AttractiveTM, and that's definitely a facet of the conversation worth having, too. oh, your heroine eschews corsets because she's Liberated? funny because her tits look perfectly supported. forming cleavage, even. almost like she's. wearing a bra. and her hair, that is loose and not pinned up because Hair Up = Repression is perfectly iron-curled and magically never in her way. hmmmmm.)

and this person responded to that sarcastically like "YEP YOU'RE RIGHT IT WAS ALL FINE AND DANDY FOR 100% OF WOMEN FOREVER!!! THAT'S TOTALLY WHAT YOU'RE SAYING!!! HEEHEE I PUT YOUR POST UNDERWATER BECAUSE IT'S DUMB!!!"

which like. for the love of. just stop; that is so clearly not what was being said

as for the tags, she probably thinks she's being even-handed by acknowledging that some poor backwards souls THOUGHT they liked these things, as they were misguidedly "fighting against progress," but of course they had no other options so they didn't REALLY like any of it. which is just so infantilizing to me

look, the fight for women to be allowed to wear trousers was huge and important. because some women wanted to wear trousers! and do manual labor jobs that require wearing trousers, from which women had historically been excluded! and women who want to wear trousers should be allowed to do that; gendering Lower Half Fabric Tubes is stupid, we're all going to die, and you should adorn your meat-suit in a way that makes you feel comfortable (mentally and physically) and happy and confident!

but. it was a fight for options. it was a fight for choice. it wasn't happening because one garment was good and the other was, to quote The History of the World I Guess, an Evil Virus of Satan. did some dress reformers frame it that way? yes! because humans are human and some humans deal in absolutes! but they didn't represent All Women, any more than the ones who thought wearing trousers was scandalous did

and moreover, this is still coming at things from a baseline assumption that corsets and long skirts- and again, weirdly parasols? women weren't like required to carry parasols at all times back then; do people know that? light skin as a beauty standard is a big conversation to have, but there was no Parasol Law or anything -are universally impractical and uncomfortable. and that any woman who doesn't feel that way must be either brainwashed or intentionally impeding progress

the fact that, in a time when not only are western women are fully allowed to wear trousers but skirts and dresses are seen as inherently formal for some reason, some women STILL feel their happiest and most comfortable in them (and some people of other genders, too!) is proof that you don't have to be a mindless slave of the patriarchy to like these things. if someone came to me and said "you have to give up your skirts and burn your corset; Progress is here!" I would punch them in the face. and I'm a left-wing, feminist lesbian

nobody forced me to dress like this- in fact, society would probably rather I didn't, because it's not making fast fashion companies any money and it's not #ontrend. I grew up primarily in jeans and t-shirts like most kids, teens, and young women nowadays. I chose this completely absent any societal pressures to do so, and indeed, in the face of pressures to NOT present the way I do

and if someone can choose it without that kind of pressure...don't you think there just might have been women who would have kept wearing what they wore even with broader options available? without being Horrible Deluded Serena Joys or whatever?

also I'm sorry but claiming that modern clothes- and implicitly by the rest of the text, modern trousers in specific -have the same breathability as a natural-fiber skirt over a hoop is just hilarious. they may work better for ~your specific lifestyle~ as OP condescendingly phrases it, but wrapping your legs in plastic (or even tight-fitting cotton twill!) is just not going to have the Breeze Capabilities of putting a lampshade around your waist

...not sure why I even wrote this, since in the comments on the original post OP freely admitted that they weren't reading any rebuttals anyone wrote because "women were jailed for wearing pants [which they were sometimes! but that's not the beginning and end of the conversation!] so I don't need your paragraphs." this attitude always comes back to having set ideas about history that you're not willing to have challenged. anyway.

[jazzyoranges]

Afternoons - drabble

Jenna Ortega x gn!reader

Summary: you miss Jenna terribly

Words: 0.5k

A/n: technically part two of Mornings, but can be read as it’s own drabble. there’ll be a third part soon :)

Mornings | Afternoons | Nights

You miss hanging out with Jenna everyday.

Your weeks were always filled with cute little dates and fun little kisses. Ever since she’s had to move to the big apple for work, you’ve missed her touch for a solid 6 months.

Afternoons were the especially boring. Nobody to hang out with due to their work, so you’re stuck at home contemplating the meaning of life on the rug of your living room. You felt like the kid from Home Alone.

Everything felt dull without her. Any other day you’d kill for a resting day just watching movies with Jenna, but the weeks just felt empty without her.

Sure, you were busy with your own career as a musician, but Jenna’s absence has caused quite the halt in your song-writing abilities. There were a few ideas floating around in your head here and there, but nothing’s felt right about them.

Lyrics that lacked meaning, and songs that lacked lyrics. It was a cycle. Write, crumble it up, cry over missing your super cool and cute girlfriend (required), and repeat the process until you realize it’s maybe better to draft on a laptop than killing an entire forest of trees.

Groaning with disappointment, you just wanted to hear Jenna’s voice again. Luckily your phone only rings for a few seconds before being picked up on the other end. You’d be deprived of your girlfriend no longer!

Jenna picks up, and she’s doing her nighttime skincare routine before giving you a virtual kiss over the phone

“I missed you so much, Jennnn~” You pout, and your girlfriend can only laugh

“We called like, yesterday, babe”

“I’m failing to see your point”

“I missed you a bunch, today. More than usual”

“You mean I’m not on your mind 24/7, Ortega?” Feigning anger, Jenna rolls her eyes

“I gotta have room for other things, love. Don’t worry, you take up all the extra space”

“Like cytoplasm!”

“What.”

“Cytoplasm. Holds all the organelles together” You say like it’s the most obvious thing ever

“Sure if it makes you feel better, you’re the cytoplasm that holds all my thoughts together” Jenna doesn’t miss how your eyes sparkle. She liked indulging in your interests

“Wow, that was poetic.” You sit in your chair, a little giddy at her compliment. Your girlfriend always knew how to do that

“Maybe you should start writing all my songs”

“Like that one guy from Coco? Absolutely not.”

“Awh, why not? We’d be so good!”

“I’ve seen the movie, babe. You kill me for my amazing songs and take all the credit”

“Please, that doesn’t sound like something I’d do”

“Mhm, if it helps you sleep better at night” Jenna rolls her eyes again, and you can’t help but laugh

“Anyways, I gotta sleep now. Night-night, love.” Jenna kisses you virtually again, and you swear there’s phantom kisses on your forehead

“Goodnight, babe. Love you”

“Love you more” Your girlfriend quickly responds before hanging up

Unbeknownst to her, you’d have the last laugh soon enough

[graciereadshannigram]

hey fam, welcome to the October round up of all my favorite fics i read this month!!

as a reminder: the ingredients for a five star rating typically (but not always!!) include some combination of a.) believable characterizations of both Hannibal and Will, b.) compelling plot and/or character arcs, and c.) high quality smut.

that being said, my judgment of the aforementioned ingredients is powered almost exclusively by vibes and as such, is incredibly subjective.

you can find past recs below:

February March April May June July August September

and if you have any recs of your own for me, PLEASE SHARE.

without further ado, let's go!

Mine to Touch by piginapoketuesday

Word Count: 14193 Summary: "You respond so well to hand feeding," Hannibal said, watching Will's hips squirm. "I'm considering binding you for every meal."Will's neck flushed with fear. Never being allowed to feed himself again. Learning to associate food with a swollen, untouched cock. Swallowing prettily and on command. His body betrayed him, and he moaned around the fork in his mouth.~Lots of constant stimulation, feeding kink, and orgasm denial. Also lots of love and care.

So I might have a handfeeding kink. Possibly. Who's to say?

A Game for Two by sourweather

Word Count: 7710 Summary: One Long Game. That's what their relationship has always been. And the game never seems to end, which suits them just fine.Some unhinged murder husband content for the soul

Pretty much anything from this author ends up getting a five star rating, and this one was no exception.

Focus and Curiosity by hesterbyrde

Word Count: 7029 Summary: If someone had told Will two months ago that he would wind up regularly sleeping with his psychiatrist, he would have laughed in their face. Not just once, but twice. First for the absurdity of the idea in general. Just the thought of someone carrying on a sexual relationship with their therapist was ridiculous. Never mind that it would also be wildly unethical and illegal. But then he would also laugh at the sheer thought of having a psychiatrist in the first place. He'd avoided them like the plague all his adult life, and largely succeeded save the required eval after he'd been stabbed in the line of duty back when he was a cop. Needless to say that hadn't gone well.But this arrangement with Hannibal Lecter was going very well, strangely enough. Hannibal seemed content to let Will steer the course of his therapy. When Will didn't feel like talking, Hannibal would keep the conversation superficial. Or they would talk about whatever case Will was currently working on for Jack. And when Will did feel like talking, he had to admit some of Hannibal's insights into the quandary of his personality were actually enlightening. And it didn't hurt that the sex was amazing.

THIS BETTER NOT AWAKEN ANYTHING IN ME. Deadass, this inspired me to upgrade my own nipple clamps, so. Do with that information what you will.

Quiet Asphodel by FKAHerSweetness

Word Count: 174475 Summary: Once upon a time, there was a great and just king. This king, long ago, adopted a son and groomed the young prince to hunt monsters that roamed the kingdom. One day, the prince comes upon a monster of wild proportions, both fierce and courteous. The prince vows to the monster: 'I will capture you, as my father bids me.' The monster makes his own vow to the prince: 'I will wed you, as my heart bids me.'

Holy fucking shit. Once again, a deeply uncomfortable and awesome read. Again, nobody is good in this fic. But with my whole chest, FUCK Jack Crawford.

Much Ado About Knotting by l3moncoffee

Word Count: 3352 Summary: “We have a warrant to search the premises!”“Surely you could have knocked,” Hannibal Lecter said, wrapping a protective arm around his Omega.—————————————————— The FBI & Baltimore City Homicide have their sights on the Lecters, a bonded Alpha-Omega pair suspected of torturing and cannibalizing their victims.A strike team is assembled to catch them red-handed, but they run into some unexpected knots along the way.

I need more of this. STAT.

Heart's Desire by Celinesits

Word Count: 34514 Summary: COMPLETEWhat if Hannibal Lecter was given a Love Potion that led him straight to Will Graham? Spending two weeks with your Heart’s Desire is a dream come true.Meanwhile, Will Graham is fulfilling his public duty by staying with Hannibal, but being smothered in affection forces Will to confront his increasingly confused feelings for Doctor Lecter. Thank you if you have supported this story- kudos and comments/bookmarks are so kind x ❤️Based on the characters created by Thomas Harris, and Hannibal TV show creator Bryan Fuller.

I loved how well this was executed, enough that I can forgive the very brief overlap with HP/FBWTFT. Also, very in character Hannibal.

double by YouAreMyDesign

Word Count: 3961 Summary: It took a long time before Will grew from actively fighting these gifts, to resigned acceptance, to eager anticipation. It's just one of those things that comes with dating Hannibal Lecter; gifts are a given. And Hannibal, he soon realized, loves seeing Will in things he's bought.

We see dom Will Graham and we black out.

Patience and Precision by hesterbyrde

Word Count: 6253 Summary: Will drove himself straight from the crime scene to Hannibal's house. He wasn't even halfway up the porch steps when the door cracked open to reveal Hannibal's chiseled face, his features all the sharper with lines of confusion and concern."Will, I wasn't expecting you. Is everything alright?" he asked, pulling the door open to allow Will inside.Will took in the sight for a moment, making a slow fuss of taking off his coat and brushing his shoes on the mat. Hannibal was not in a suit. Not even in casual wear. Rather he was wearing a pair of soft grey lounge pants and a cable knit red sweater. Will had the sudden urge to press his face into the fabric and see if the crimson yarn was as soft as it looked.

Nipple clamps are my kryptonite.

pick up your phone by abbymyg

Word Count: 1404 Summary: Alana calls Will at an inopportune time.

A reread!! I love this one so much.

Recognition by StratsWrote

Word Count: 3910 Summary: The video was simple, a man sat in a high-back chair with his legs spread and his hand between them. He had a magnificent cock, uncut, red, thick. Will loved that cock. He worshipped it in his mind. And watching it now, Will groaned in pleasure, sinking deeper into the bed with his own hand stroking himself.  Will has a certain porn actor he's a fan of. He's never seen his face, but he knows every breath and groan and whimper he makes. When he meets Dr. Lecter, a consultant on the Shrike case, Will doesn't find him particularly interesting until in the midst of saving a life, he hears the same sighs and hums he's pleasured himself to coming from the doctor next to him.

Oh ideal. This was so hot.

Housekeeping by FKAHerSweetness

Word Count: 96562 Summary: Marriage is a creature living separate from its components. Yet it requires attention, tolerance and care. Have you seen it? Could you recognize its deep wounds - and which one of you inflicted them? And are they ready to heal? What do you really know about this illusory animal?

Holy shit. When I say this fic got under my skin in the best way possible, I truly mean that. Will is terrible. Honestly, so is Chilton. Hannibal is also not great. This is a story about not great people, but like a car crash, I simply couldn't look away. I love erotic psychological horror and this was ticking all of the boxes for me.

The Accident by TigerPrawn

Word Count: 1369 Summary: Sharing a bed results in unexpected intimacy.

And there was only one bed!!! I love.

Moth to the Flame by hannibae

Word Count: 4324 Summary: Will breathes out a laugh, arching his back in surprise when Hannibal presses the dry pad of a finger over his hole. “Nah,” he lets out, shaky and unsure, “I’ve been high before, but I’ve never—God, everything you do is perfect, isn’t it? Are you bad at anything?” It all feels too nice, Hannibal’s body solid and perfect against his own, his hands squeezing and kneading his flesh, his hips working up against Will’s own. It’s exactly how it shouldn’t be with Hannibal.

stoned Hannigram is absolutely delightful, this was so fucking HOT.

The Strangest Thing by foggys_cupcake_girl

Word Count: 3562 Summary: Will Graham is used to coming home and seeing his husband doing odd things, but he's never come home to find him with his head in a bag of Cheetos, with his hand down the toilet, or lying bare-naked in the living room after a shower.Or, that one where Hannibal tries to do a nice thing and ends up in way, WAY over his head.

STONED HANNIGRAM IS ABSOLUTELY DELIGHTFUL.

Remember Me, I Ask by HigherMagic

Word Count: 10795 Summary: "Part of me was worried you were dead."It's not what he expected to hear, and Will's throat goes tight. The sheath of it is slicked with honey and afterburn, and his fingers flex on the arms of the chair. "You didn't used to let fear of consequences affect you," he replies."Until you."Settled into his life with Duncan, Will is ready to leave everything behind. Until Hannibal breaks out of prison. Will knows his time is limited.

This felt very in character, and was also hot as fuck.

Healthy Curiosity by orphan_account

Word Count: 1267 Summary: Restless, Abigail sneaks off to her fathers' bedroom in the middle of the night seeking comfort. She instead puts some of her curiosities to rest.

Fuck me, I do love voyeurism.

Teach Me a Lesson (Already Learned) by whenitstarted

Word Count: 3142 Summary: Will being married to Molly and cheating on her with Hannibal.

A reread that is still fabulous.

the leather runs smooth by drpeaceandlove

Word Count: 4960 Summary: "Are you... encouraging me to sleep with Molly?" Will kept his intent gaze trained upon Hannibal's face, finding that - even through his abilities to empathise with others - he could not discern anything wrong about Hannibal's current demeanour.A feline grin unfurled upon Hannibal's lips and he let out a faint exhalation of amusement, capturing Will's lips in yet another kiss."I am merely advising you, my dear." Hannibal insisted - something Will did not at all believe - and brought his hand back, much to Will's dismay. That disappointment was short-lived, however, when Hannibal began unbuckling the leather belt looped through Will's jeans. "Now, shall we begin our session?"----Or, Hannibal and Will are interrupted by a call during one of their therapy sessions.

Anything involving being railed while on a phone call is gonna make me INCREDIBLY happy.

All the Things that Make a Sound by sourweather

Word Count: 3330 Summary: Hannibal gets an unexpected call from Will while he's in prison. They don't speak, Will just wants Hannibal to listen.

Will calling Hannibal while Hanni's in prison to make him listen while Will fucks Molly? Amazing. Wish I could give this more than one star.

I Hope You'll Feed Me by DorianThey

Word Count: 3473 Summary: Trans!Will Graham hates getting his period, but Hannibal loves taking care of him while he’s bleeding. Especially when Will needs an endorphin boost…

This was hot. That's all.

Cuisine Euphonique by thecountessolivia

Word Count: 35321 Summary: Nightmares brought on by a gruesome case lead Will to some unorthodox therapy in the form of a YouTube cooking channel.[Completed]

So this was a reread and I'm still obsessed with it.

Instinct by solarteacup

Word Count: 5329 Summary: Hannibal took another sip of wine, then reached out with both hands to cup Will’s face. He moved slowly, intentionally. His fingers caressed from the point of Will’s chin through the coarse dark hair of his beard, fanning out to his cheeks. When his fingertips reached Will’s ears, he stopped, cradling Will’s jaw in his palms while his thumbs brushed against old scars. He smiled, eyes moving from Will’s reflective gaze down to his slightly parted lips. “Instinct is nothing more than lessons learned and skills acquired over millions of years of self-preservation. Genetic patterns built to keep us alive without thinking. Legs to run or kick, arms to climb or scratch…” “And mouths to bite?” Will spoke low, eyes darting across Hannibal’s, unsure where to settle his gaze. Hannibal hummed. “The mouth serves many, many purposes." ______________ aka Hannibal gives Will anatomy lessons on what he and his mouth were built for.

Oh dear. I fear this has awoken something in me.

it’s only a matter of time before we all burn by madeofbees

Word Count: 11963 Summary: help, please voice cracking 2:13am blinking the world on and off. The flashing he couldn’t trust the time a power outage a will outage he needed to check his phone couldn’t tolerate hannibal away from his ear  what do you need will heavy with sleep composed and solid propping will up keeping him from flying apart, shattering like a fragile teacupi need you to make it stop—will has a panic attack, hannibal fixes it

THIS WAS SO FUCKING GOOD AND SO FREAKIN' HOT.

you are the shower of light i devour by madeofbees

Word Count: 26255 Summary: Will has spent his life on suppressants, living as a beta, repressing as much of his sexuality as he can. It’s easier, raises fewer questions. But suppressants only work so well for so long, and chronic overuse only makes the eventual heat worse. Still, he rests easy knowing that he’s perceived as a beta, and therefore is safe.Until his psychiatrist casually mentions it’s been a while since his last heat, and does he require any assistance?Yes, actually. He does.—Almost exclusively smut, with a dash of trauma!angst, heavily seasoned with obliviously and incorrectly assumed one-sided feels.

I do adore a good chronic overuse of suppressants leads to an intense heat trope.

looked up at the sky and it was maroon by madeofbees

Word Count: 15852 Summary: Will accidentally sends Hannibal a dick pic and Hannibal loses his shit. That’s it that’s the story.eta: now with edits!

i LOVE Hannibal nearly setting his home on fire because of a dick pic from Will. absolutely amazing, 10/10.

Doctor Lecter’s Fabulously Buff Investigator by TheSilverQueen

Word Count: 5625 Summary: Online conferences due to the quarantine are how Doctor Lecter's colleagues learn that: 1) Doctor Lecter has a beautiful home; 2) Doctor Lecter is married; and 3) Doctor Lecter's husband is fabulously buff.

This was very silly and I loved it.

I Only Have Eyes For You by sourweather

Word Count: 3827 Summary: Will gets so, so bored at Hannibal's dinner parties. But they're dating, so he can't exactly say no. So one night, he decides to have some fun, and tries to make Hannibal jealous by flirting with one of the guests. It doesn't go how Will expected.

Another re-read, another one that's still incredible.

Caught in the Act by UndeadRobby

Word Count: 2829 Summary: A collection of oneshots where Hannibal and Will get caught in... compromising positions.

Amazing.

Will Graham's Unconventional Health Care Proxy by UndeadRobby

Word Count: 3383 Summary: "It appears our dear friend Will Graham was in an accident, and is currently unconscious at Johns Hopkins. They needed someone to consent to continued treatment on his behalf, now that they have completed the actively life-saving treatment.”Frederick blinks. “And… he listed you as his healthcare proxy? Not, oh, I don’t know, his wife? Jack Crawford? Alana Bloom? A dog?”

Hannibal being Will's healthcare proxy and rubbing it in everyone else's face is hysterical and I loved it.

Like a Room Without a Roof by halotolerant

Word Count: 52881 Summary: Will is an awkward, single Submissive who has to get a temporary partner so he can pass an Alignment Health Assessment for his job. Hannibal is a Dom agreeable to low-level ‘sessions’ in which no sex or feelings will get involved.None of that works out quite to plan.

This was such a fun take on a BDSM AU!!

Make the world go quiet - sensory deprivation by Incidentsofunknownorigins

Word Count: 6071 Summary: Back in America 4th of July weekend,Will is triggered by fireworks and past trauma, Hannibal finds a way to distract him.

Trauma response mitigated by sex? Say less. Also written by a friend!

Hummingbird by sourweather

Word Count: 5416 Summary: Will and Hannibal have been seeing each other for a few months. They're keeping things pretty casual, sneaking around behind closed doors. Until Will finds out he's pregnant with Hannibal's baby.

This was fluffy goodness.

Pupping Season. by TheDarkestMindWithin

Word Count: 2377 Summary: Will's ready for pups, Hannibal remains adamant he is not.

This is exactly what I want out of a non-con scenario, holy SHIT. This was also a reread.

Captive by sixtieshairdo

Word Count: 1436 Summary: “What would Franklyn do if he saw you like this?” He relishes the way he can feel Hannibal’s cock twitch inside him whenever he clenches around him just a little tighter. “What would Jack do if he saw you like this?” The thought that Jack would disapprove of his relationship with Hannibal only makes Will spread his thighs wider, fucking down onto Hannibal’s cock faster, mind-drunk on how he can hear the sounds of his ass cheeks clapping. He’s fully naked, the way Hannibal likes him to be, and Hannibal’s mostly dressed – except for his pants around his knees – the way Will likes him to be. He can’t imagine what his sweaty knees are doing to the leather under him, but he knows Hannibal wouldn’t hesitate to keep the desecrated furniture in his office as evidence of their sordid affairs.

Fake relationship? Featuring a jealous Franklyn?? Catnip.

Hanni's Boy by Ishxallxgood

Word Count: 4648 Summary: Franklyn Froideveaux falls in love at first sight with none other than our friendly neighborhood empath. The only problem is, the object of his affections already has a partner. What is a man to do? Stalk the shit out of and emulate said partner of course. And it doesn't hurt that the man's partner just so happens to be Franklyn's very own psychiatrist Doctor Hannibal Lecter.Pure crack inspired by Jessie's Girl

This was so perfect, everything I wanted.

Savor You by Murder_Cupcake

Word Count: 585 Summary: Hannibal wants to pleasure Will, who's pregnant, heavy and embarrassed.

This was so so so hot.

in the truly gruesome do we trust by sidnihoudini

Word Count: 9473 Summary: Hannibal and Will have murder husbands mind palace sex, and Alana watches obsessively. A slow, sneaky grin slides its way across Will’s face as he looks up at Hannibal and teases, “You enjoy being watched.” “Does a lion eat its prey while it is still alive?” Hannibal asks rhetorically, an amused quirk to his lips. He drags his elbows against the silk sheets, letting himself rest his weight on them so he can comfortably brush his fingers through Will’s curls. After a pause, he drops his head, and presses his open mouth to Will’s. He pulls back a fraction, and breathes, “Yes.” Fully smiling now, sharp and uncontrolled, Will arches up against Hannibal’s body, and asks, “Does that make me the lion, or the prey?” “You are simply part of the pride,” Hannibal murmurs.

This. Was. So. Hot.

aaaand that's a wrap for October!! have fun babes!!

[project-sonadow]

Fate?

Summary: Sonic never cared about soulmates, but in a world where everyone had a red string of fate wrapped around their finger, Sonic decided to wear gloves.

Read the rest below!

To put it bluntly, Sonic had never cared about soulmates.

He wasn’t exactly unique in this mindset. In this modern day and era, it was only slightly progressive to spend your entire life without ever meeting your other half, let alone devoting your life to them. Radical ideas, such as platonic soulmates, familial soulmates, or even soulmates being bad if you ended up paired with the wrong person were common talking points in the general public and media. That red string of fate which had governed entire lives in the past no longer seemed critical to most people.

Sonic didn’t care about any of that either. In fact, until he started hanging around populated human areas more often, he didn’t realize there was so much controversy about it. He always lived how he wanted, paying barely any attention to the subject. 

-

Sonic’s friends all had very different opinions about soulmates.

Tails was kind of like him, in that he didn’t care about the red string encircling his pinkie and leading to a far-off point in the distance- or, at least, he pretended not to. Amy had been heartbroken that she and Sonic weren’t soulmates, before deciding to prove to Sonic and the world that true love couldn’t be predetermined by fate (her words, not his). Knuckles didn’t want to leave his duty for long enough to find his soulmate, and had admitted to Sonic once that he felt bad for whoever his soulmate was. Cream was excited to find her soulmate when she got older, but wasn’t under any illusion that it was a requirement for happiness in life, considering that her own mother was forever trailed by her own cut string, dragging limply on the ground, and seemed just fine despite that. Blaze and Silver both viewed it as a luxury that they couldn’t indulge in (ironic, because their shared red string of fate was apparently strong enough to cross through time and dimensions). Vector didn’t care about it at all, considering that he had his eyes set on Vanilla. Espio thought it would get in the way of his “duties as a ninja”, whatever that meant. Charmy just didn’t like the idea of relationships in general. Rouge hated the concept in general, Shadow refused to talk about it, and Omega said he would refuse to accept his soulmate unless they were willing to help him destroy Eggman. Big had a gentle kind of apathy towards his string. Whisper didn’t talk much about the subject to begin with, and considering that she wore blocker gloves 24/7 people didn’t ask her about it. 

Tangle…

Well, it seemed like she was trying very hard to convince herself that she didn’t care about the idea of never finding her soulmate. 

“I just don’t get why everyone thinks it’s such a big deal, y’know. Like it’s great if you do find your soulmate, and in a tiny village like mine half the soulmates are paired up before they’re teenagers, but it’s not like you need to do it! My moms aren’t soulmates and they’re doing just fine!”

Tangle’s moms were currently divorced and trying to rekindle their relationship, but Sonic decided not to bring that up.

“And then we have to throw a huge stupid party everytime someone comes back from vacation with their soulmate in tow, and I just. Ugh. We all make such a big deal out of getting to choose how to live our own lives, but we’re all born with this stupid string around our pinkies and told to go off and find the other end. It’s so annoying.”

This probably wasn’t what was actually bothering her, Sonic thought. It was probably the fact that one day her string had stopped moving by itself, only responding to Tangle’s own body, and currently led to a forest in the middle of nowhere with nobody at the other end. It was probably the fact that her soulmate had apparently been the type of person to try on a pair of blocker gloves one day and then never take them off.

Sonic thought about Whisper. About the blocker gloves she never took off, the way she started fiddling with them whenever Tangle was around. The way she looked so anxious whenever Tangle grabbed her by the hand and started running, like she was scared Tangle would pull the glove clean off. The way Tangle and Whisper looked at each other, in general.

Like always, he wondered if he should tell Tangle what he thought.

Like always, he decided against it.

“If you want a huge stupid party, I can always just throw you one, soulmate or no soulmate,” he said instead. “Hell, if you really want, we could pretend that we’re soulmates just to rub it in your town’s face.”

Tangle fake-gagged, and Sonic took fake-offense to that.

“Like you’re one to talk, Mr. Celebrity,” she said, and Sonic drew himself back a little, spines involuntarily bristling. “Whenever people talk about soulmates you just roll your eyes and say some shit about ‘living free’ and ‘going with the flow’. Do you really not want to find your soulmate? It would be easy for you.”

Sonic rolled his eyes, and then instantly realized what he had done when Tangle started laughing at him. He hastily cleared his throat. “Don’t know if there’s anyone who would be able to keep up with me.”

“I know at least three people who can go about as fast as you can,” Tangle said, punching his shoulder lightly. “C’mon, if you really didn’t care that much you wouldn’t wear those stupid blocker gloves all the time.”

Oh, so she had noticed. “Eh, I mostly wear these because I tend to get mobbed by crazy  fangirls if I don’t. If I make it obvious I’m not really available then most people won’t attempt to tell me that they’re totally different from the hundreds of other people who have been convinced we’re meant to be over the years.”

Tangle narrowed her eyes at that. “Crazy fangirls? Like Amy?”

“Crazier.”

“Wow, scary,” Tangle said, and then moved on to talking about how her own friends had set up a Sonic fanclub once, and the conversation moved on from there, and Sonic was glad he didn’t have to talk about it anymore. 

-

So yeah, Sonic wore blocker gloves, and yeah, it was so he wouldn’t be harassed about the subject whenever he showed his face in public, or when journalists ambushed him on the streets, or people edited photos of him to make it seem like he had a thin red line coming down from his pinkie and leading to some stranger in the photo. It was convenient. It was easy.

It was even mostly the truth.

Sonic knew a couple other people who wore blocker gloves- Blaze studiously kept hers on to keep up a vaguely professional air, even when her cheeks flamed fire-red every single time Silver so much as existed in her general vicinity, Espio had his on so the string couldn’t get in the way of his “duties as a ninja” (seriously, what the hell did that mean), Vector occasionally wore them on the job and had made half-hearted attempts to get a pair for Charmy, which kept on being mysteriously lost. Rouge and Shadow both wore a pair, presumably because of their super-secret spy jobs that Sonic wasn’t supposed to know about (glowing red strings which could phase through any solid object would probably make hiding difficult, he figured), and Omega had found a way to simply turn his string off, somehow, which was more impressive and terrifying than anything else Sonic had seen him do. 

The only person Sonic knew who steadfastly refused to wear blocker gloves was Vanilla, despite the troubles she sometimes saw because of them. She was a single mother whose string had been cut by an untimely death, and she didn’t care who knew it. She lived each day of her life with a bright, happy, genuine smile on her face.

She was, so far, one of the only people who had ever seen Sonic with his gloves off. The only other person besides Tails, actually, who built his gloves in the first place. And the only person who hadn’t said a word to him about the subject, just cleaned the cut he had gotten on his palm and told him to keep himself safe.

He was grateful to her for that.

Rouge was Vanilla’s polar opposite, in regards to the string. She not only hid her string, she made a show of hiding it, commissioning custom blocker gloves and shoving the subject right back in the face of any poor soul who dared to question her about it. She had a million and one excuses for why she didn’t want to find her soulmate, all of them tiptoeing around the truth and never once touching on the actual reason why. She bragged about being able to date anyone she wanted even without showing her string off. She complained about not wanting to be tied down. She whined about how annoying societal expectations were. She crowed about the amount of people who desperately wanted to be her soulmate.

Sonic saw through all of this as the extravagant bullshit that it was, but he really had no idea what the actual reason was. Didn’t really care either. It wasn’t like she brought the subject up an annoying amount either, she was far more likely to yammer on for hours about her one and only actual love (jewels) than she was to start talking about literally any other subject (and if he could put up with the jewel talk, then he could put up with anything). 

It was just that sometimes when they hung out, people would get the wrong idea about them. Sonic and one of his friends (a woman at that), both with blocker gloves, spending time together, alone? It was apparently unthinkable to some that they could just be friends. So they both made a big joke out of it, Rouge flaunting how untouchable she was and Sonic pretending to be heartbroken. It made for some hilarious think pieces about how Sonic was a bad role model, at the very least.

Still, he didn’t want to deal with all of that every time they hung out, which was why Rouge had dragged Shadow along with them this time, mentioning that he owed her for something.

So here they were, sequestered away in a tiny café, Rouge and Sonic talking about everything and nothing, while Shadow was also there, sipping delicately at his tea while Sonic chugged his large chocolate milkshake and Rouge got whipped cream from her hot chocolate all over her face. 

Good times.

For once, the general populace seemed content to ignore them, at least for now, so the conversation went wherever it wanted to, Sonic and Rouge loud and energetic, Shadow quiet and solemn (despite the fact that there was nothing to be solemn about).

At least, nothing until Rouge spilled hot chocolate all over her glove. 

“Ohgoddamnitshit,” Rouge said, all in one breath, dabbing at the stain on her very expensive glove with a napkin, a small frown on her face, before it turned into an outright scowl. “Oh come on-”

She shifted her wrist, and Sonic saw what had bothered her so much. Some of the liquid must have gotten into some of the actual electronics in the glove and messed with it, because Sonic could now see Rouge’s string. Rouge’s cut string.

Rouge groaned, and then shoved her hand under the table, her head in her other hand. “Not. A. Word.”

She said it lightly, like Sonic and Shadow had just seen her do something embarrassing instead of accidentally revealing that her supposed other half was dead and buried, but Sonic could hear the threat in her tone, and he wasn’t going to tell anyone about it anyway. He mimed sealing his lips shut, Shadow just gave her a terse nod, and before either of them could do anything Rouge had thrown some cash onto the table and ran out the front door, presumably to go home, get a new pair of blocker gloves, and hide her face from them for at least a couple months.

Sonic put his chocolate shake down on the table. He had a feeling it wouldn’t taste anywhere near as good as it did a second ago.

“I know Rouge already said as much, but if you tell anyone else about that, you’ll regret it,” Shadow said, the threat in his far less concealed than Rouge’s had been.

“I won’t, jeez,” Sonic said. “I’m not an asshole. And I don’t care about soulmates either.”

Shadow just raised an eyebrow at him, and Sonic glared back half-heartedly. “Those gloves serve a purpose, Sonic.”

“I only wear these because I’m a celebrity for some reason, and people think that makes it okay to pry into every detail of my life.”

“‘For some reason’,” Shadow said, mostly to himself, sounding incredulous. “That can’t seriously be the only reason you wear them.”

Well, it wasn’t, but he wasn’t about to tell Shadow that. Especially when he had no idea what the other hedgehog thought about soulmates beyond just a general unwillingness to speak about the topic. He was born over 50 years ago and raised by a bunch of uptight scientists in literal outer space, so Sonic was curious if he had any different opinions from the general crowd he hung out with.

Shadow didn’t seem willing to share, so Sonic decided to push the issue. Just a bit. “Why do you wear blocker gloves?”

Shadow’s lips curled in a vaguely unpleasant way. “I don’t want to find my soulmate. That’s all.”

Well, that was an unsurprising and boring answer. “Okay, but what would you do if you met your soulmate and fell head-over-heels in love with them? Or if you’ve already met your soulmate, but didn’t know because of the gloves?”

“I wouldn’t fall in love with anyone. And I’m not even slightly concerned about the second possibility. There is nobody in my life who I would want to become my life partner.”

Sonic pouted at him, and something in his chest hurt, just a bit. “Nobody? Not even little old me?”

Shadow’s expression flickered, before it hardened again. “I hope, for your sake, that what you just said was a joke. I’m an immortal being, Sonic. My string will end up cut, at some point or another.”

“Hmm. Good point,” Sonic said. “Well, unless your soulmate is Omega, I guess.”

Shadow choked on his drink, and Sonic couldn’t help but grin like a maniac even as Shadow glared at him (it was less scary than normal, with tea dripping out of his mouth and into his chest fluff. He looked adorable. Sonic tried not to think about the fact that he thought Shadow was adorable). 

Sonic decided against talking about it anymore for his own health (Shadow had proved he was more than willing to suplex Sonic through a table if he annoyed him too much), so instead he just waited for Shadow to finish his tea before handing him some gold rings to pay for the half-drunken milkshake. Shadow glared at the rings like they offended him. “They don’t accept those as payment in human establishments.”

“My mistake,” Sonic said cheekily. “Guess I’m dining and dashing. The next date will be my treat.”

And then he dashed before Shadow could actually suplex him through the table.

-

Sonic didn’t leave the city when he left the café, instead opting to nap on the nearest rooftop before night fell. Whenever he visited the big cities he always made sure to stay off the streets themselves. With so many people all locked into one tiny area, the red strings, thin and frail as they were, became far too many, all at once, hundreds and thousands and millions of them all crisscrossing their way across every visible surface, choking his view and making it impossible to run unless he wanted to be half-blind. So he stuck to the rooftops, and waited for night so he could at least get a good view for his trouble.

At night, the streets of every city lit up, suffused with a red glow, invisible during the day but radiant when the sun went down. The strings varied in size, thickness, length, how strong they were, how much they were moving, but every single one of them, collectively, bound people together in the most literal way possible. If you had a soulmate, it was impossible to get rid of your string. It would remain there until the day you died, so most people still said it was better to try and use it, to find happiness with your other half.

Sonic didn’t put much stock in that idea. Or in the idea of other halves existing in the first place. Some of his friends called him an idealist for thinking so, but he had always believed that people were complete by themselves, and that finding someone else made them something more than just themselves. 

Shadow would probably call him an idealist for that, too. Even if he had a sneaking suspicion it was something close to what the other hedgehog thought.

Or maybe Shadow would just call him stupid. 

High on his chosen perch, Sonic surveyed the glove on his right hand. Tails had made it for him. It was mostly pure white, just like his old gloves, but with a thin ring of silver at the bottom which made its purpose obvious. It looked professionally made. To everyone except him and Tails, it even looked like it worked. 

When he removed it, his hands were bare, free from any string. He never had one in the past, and would probably never have one in the future. Sonic had learned a long time ago how people reacted when they realized he didn’t have a soulmate, and decided he hated it even back then. The gloves were a convenience, a way for him to avoid explaining himself, a preventative measure to stop everyone from looking at him like he was broken. 

Because Sonic wasn’t broken. He only needed himself, so even if fate said he was doomed to be alone he was perfectly fine with that.

Sonic thought back to Shadow, in the café. 

Well, there was a reason he had never put much stock in fate, either.

[everythingacotarbxm1012]

They're Mates

Summary - Feyre meets Rhys's Inner Circle and witnesses the strength of the mating bond.

Warnings - abusive family mentioned

Other Notes - 1k words; Please note that most of these lines/plot points are inspired or directly quoted from ACOMAF; I gave reader the name 'Vee' because I know y/n can be obnoxious and i also think it adds to the Az x Reader story.

Part Two

✨💫

Feyre looked up to see the same two males from earlier standing in the doorway, grinning, and a new presence. A beautiful female with wings like the others. She wore a deep blue gown that reached the floor––her hair resting over both her shoulders. The two males wore black leather with a sword strapped against their backs. Feyre noted the power each of them seemed to hold.

The male who was a bit large than the other, spoke up with a light chuckle. “We don’t bite. Unless you ask to us to Feyre.”

The female shot him a pointed look. “Last time I checked, nobody wanted to take you up on that offer, Cassian.” The male who stood between the female and Cassian let out a light, short, laugh before whispering something into the female’s ear making her eyes twinkle subtly. Feyre watched as Cassian gave his own pointed look.

“No secrets in front of our guest, Az,” Cassian said with a grin.

The light danced across their faces allowing Feyre to observe their physical features for a moment. Similar to Rhysand, all three were dark-haired. Both males had tanned skin and hazel eyes. Feyre couldn’t quite tell the eye color of the female standing next to Az, but she gave off an heir of beauty and power.

Cassian grinned again, looking Rhys and Feyre up and down. “You made poor Feyre dress up, brother,” he said before winking in her direction. His features were rough like someone had molded him, from the earth.

The second male was more classically beautiful, though hard to read. He was certainly the one who would be a surprise in the dark, the hidden knife. Feyre noticed the light sparkle in his anytime he looked at the female to his left. It piqued a curiosity in Feyre.

Rhys said, “Azriel––my spymaster,” indicating the one in the middle. He then indicated the female. “Vee. An emissary for the Night Court.” A name, Feyre later learned, Az had adopted for the emissary after she declared she did not want the name her abusive family had given her.

She immediately offered her hand with a warm smile. “Welcome, Feyre.” She gently squeezed Feyre’s before she quickly let go and Feyre does her best to not seem eager as she stepped back to stand next to the High Lord of the night Court, again.

“You’re brothers?” Feyre asked. The two males before her looked similar. The kind of similar where people who come from the same place do, not familial similar.

“All bastards are brothers in some sense,” Rhys responded, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Before Feyre could ask Cassian said, “And I command Rhys’s armies.”

Feyre nodded, shifting on her feet slightly before her eyes glanced to see Azriel taking another glance in the emissary’s direction. She looked right back with a smile that showed a clear fondness for the spymaster. The moment went as quickly as it came when Az turned his gaze to Feyre. “Cassian also excels at pissing everyone off. Especially amongst our friends. So, as a friend of Rhysand, good luck.”

Feyre was giving more attention to not being recognized as the girl Under the Mountain. She wondered, for just a moment if they knew––maybe they didn’t. That was quickly  answered when Cassian nudged past the Night Court’s spymaster requiring Az to flare his wings to keep himself balanced. Feyre watched Vee’s hand fall to Azriel’s lower back to assist. Feyre noticed the fleeting moment of eye contact between the spymaster and the emissary, but it quickly became a second thought as Cassian asked his question about how Feyre had made the bone ladder in the Middengard Wyrm’s lair, when as he put it, “you looked like your own bones could snap at any moment.”

Vee shot Cassian another pointed gaze, but it turned into a grin after Feyre made a sarcastic comment of her own. The general laughed and Azriel’s eyebrow lifted with approval as the shadows swirled around him, tighter. Feyre’s need to understand the gift only furthered when the shadows swirled up and around Vee’ wrist playfully, before weaving around the ends of her hair.

Her curiosity once again was pushed to the side when Feyre heard, thankfully, a familiar voice…Mor. “I hope Cassian’s howling means Feyre told him to shut his fat mouth.”

Vee quickly whispered something into Az’s ear, his shadows lightened slightly from around him. Feyre’s curiosity about the nature of their relationship increasing.

“I don’t know why I forget you two are related,” Cassian told Mor, while glancing over at Rhys for just a moment. “You two and your clothing.” The High Lord rolled his eyes, but Feyre had her own focus on the emissary and the spymaster who were both standing in silence, stealing glances at each other.

“I wanted to impress Feyre. You could have tried to make an effort to comb your hair,” Mor responded.

Cassian braced his feet a little farther apart on the floor in a fighting stance Feyre recognized, perhaps too well. “Unlike some people, I have better things to do with my time than sit in front of the mirror for hours,” the general bit back.

“Yes,” Mor said, tossing her hair over her shoulder, “since swaggering around––”

“We have company,” Azriel said in a soft warning, spreading his wings as he tried to herd everyone.

“Relax, Az,” Mor said as she dodged the spymaster’s outstretched wing. “We won’t fight. We promised Rhys.”

Feyre barely noticed Az stop in his tracks, letting out the smallest of huff and his shadows seem to become thicker. She then watched as Vee took one of Az’s hands in her own, gently pressing her lips to the back of it. His shadows lightened around him. Apparently the question about their relationship reached Feyre’s face because Rhys leaned down slightly to say, “They’re mates. Azriel and Vee. They’ve known each other a little over 500 years and been mates just under 500.”

Feyre considered that fact, thinking there was something delicately beautiful about nearly 500 years of commitment between the two. Now she just had a few thousand more questions about the court’s spymaster and emissary. Question she decided were for another time as Mor indicated the empty seat beside her. Feyre knew the image of Az whispering into his mate’s ear and the twinkle in her eye would be etched into the back of her mind forever.

[lynchs-finch]

Mixing Business With Pleasure

An N$FW Ross Lynch x gn!Reader Fic

Summary: Living together has done wonders for you and Ross's relationship, in large part thanks to having access to each other's bodies any time you want. Recently, though, Ross has been brushing you aside in favor of interviews and business meetings. Like any good partner, though, you choose not to get mad at him. Instead, you're getting even. Word Count: 4,086 Rating: Mature (Oral Sex, Fingering) A/N: If I had a nickel for every time a picture of Ross in his underwear inspired me to write an x Reader smut, I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot and it's weird that it's only happened twice.

✎✎✎

You were going to suck Ross’s dick in the middle of a business meeting and you were going to enjoy every second of it. He’d be embarrassed, sure, and you’d most likely cost him a brand deal, but Ross had it more than coming to him after the way he had been treating you the past few months.

For the majority of your time living together, you and Ross have been content to get down and dirty anywhere in your house that could fit the both of you. There just never seemed to be a reason to turn down Ross offering to let you explore his chiseled body, nor did he seem to find a reason to turn down pleasuring yours.

This more than okay arrangement between the two of you was recently disrupted when the wider world decided to bring Ross back into the public eye. Even though he was yours first, the unyielding capitalist machine required that his time be eaten up by interviews, promos, and talks about brand sponsorships before you knew it. So now the sexy, usually half naked man who only wants you even though everybody and their mother wants him doesn’t have fuck you ‘cause some stupid unpaid intern named Marcus or Karen or Reese was interviewing him for a newspaper nobody reads because it’s not the 1960s anymore.

Needless to say, Ross’s new schedule bugged you a bit.

You’d brought it up to him over and over again, but his response was the same each time. There was always “too much to do right then,” and he promised that he’d “make it up to you later.” You would then point out the fact he never did, and he wouldn’t say anything- just make those sad puppy eyes like not touching you was the hardest thing he’d ever been forced to do. So, with sadness in your heart and heat in your pants, you’d make a joke about giving him head in the middle of a zoom call to lighten the mood, the both of you under the impression that you’d never do something like that.

After that day’s iteration of the conversation, though, you had an epiphany- why shouldn’t you suck him off in front of a bunch of rich, stuck-up Disney executives? Maybe it’d finally draw his attention away from the people stuffing his pockets each day and back to the person who should be sucking what was underneath them every night. Plus, if time was the issue, there was really nothing for him to do but multi-task, right?

So, at 3:58 PM, you sat yourself down on a beanbag in Ross’s studio and waited for him to walk in. Sure enough, there he was a minute later in his delightfully odd business attire.

“Hey,” His stressed and vaguely dissociated pre-meeting face gave way to a smile and wave once he noticed you, “You hanging around for the meeting?”

Before responding, you made a show of shamelessly checking him out. His button-down shirt and blazer looked nice, and his tie was alright, but what you were really looking at were his pants–or lack thereof.  Ross’s philosophy of never wearing pants unless strictly necessary applied even to high-stakes meetings with Disney, which made your plan much easier.

“Yeah,” You laughed as he looked down at himself, faking shock at the fact he wasn’t wearing pantss, “I’ll stay quiet, don’t worry.”

Ross gave you a thumbs up as he walked over to his desk. There was no treat quite like watching him walk away, especially since he’d started buying his underwear two sizes too small. The pair he was wearing today, some red-and-black striped Hollister briefs, would’ve hugged his figure even if they were his size, but the added tightness meant you could see the outline of everything.

Ross hopped into his desk chair, logging into his laptop and joining the zoom meeting. He slipped on his rosegold over-ear headphones, humming the opening notes of Rumors as he plugged them in. Biding your time, you watched him open the meeting and plotted your route in.

He was sitting how he always did—leaned back in his chair with his legs spread wide—more than enough room for you to kneel between. His tall desk left you at little risk of bumping your head and the carpeted flooring combined with his noise-canceling headphones meant he wouldn’t be able to hear you coming. Really, all there was to it was pulling his underwear down and sucking him off fast enough that he got hard before he came to his senses and sent you away. In your time with him, you’d learned that it’d take a forklift to pull him out of you once he was into it, even if it meant Little Mister Disney and his subordinates seeing his orgasm face and bare lower half live in living color

After about ten minutes had passed, and Ross’s conversation had gone from boring introductory small talk to boring business discussion, you quietly slid off the beanbag and began crawling on all fours. Though you knew first hand that Ross’s headphones were powerful enough to block out any noise you may have made, there was still a certain kind of thrill in trying to sneak across the floor. Like you were an expert spy or thief, except the “package” you were after was far too thick and heavy to ever dream of stealing. Simply running your fingers (and younge) over it was all you could hope to achieve and all you could ever want.

In no time, you had gotten yourself into position without being noticed and now rested on your knees, eye-to-eye with Ross’s cock. It was covered by his underwear, but it’s prominent head, thick trunk, and balls were all clearly outlined. You looked away from it and up at him for a moment, almost laughing aloud to yourself at how completely unaware he was. Fully in business mode, equipped with a tight brow, slight frown, and absolutely zero awareness of what was about to happen next.

Keeping your eyes on his face, you gripped the waistband of his underwear with both of your hands at his hips and yanked them down as far as you could. You watched his eyes all but pop out of his head and heard the fabric of his underwear rip as his legs jumped up out of surprise.

“What the f-” Ross shouted, almost cursing at the top of his lungs. Undeterred by your boyfriends surprise, you dove your head in between his legs, pulling his (now torn) underwear the rest of the way off. You lapped his soft dick up into your mouth, feeling it begin to harden as your ran your tongue over the tip a few times.

“Mr. Lynch, is everything alright?” You heard somebody ask.

“Yeah, just…” Ross’s voice shook as you firmly ran your tongue up the underside of his shaft. You could tell he was suppressing a moan as he continued, “Just my cat.”

Your lips curled into a smile—or, as much of one as they could with a dick in your mouth. You didn’t have a cat, but you did have him right where you wanted him. There was no way he was gonna push you off of him now that he was hard, and he wouldn’t just ditch the negotiations, either.

Ross proved you right instantly, going right back into business talk as slowly bobbed your head back and forth on his cock. You went easy on him for the moment, moving slowly, keeping your tongue only slightly involved, and not having more than half of his 8-inches in your mouth at once. Him thinking this was a treat for him would only add to the pleasure of humiliating him.

A few minutes passed, and Ross was laughing and chatting as if you weren’t there. You took this opportunity to pick up the pace, occasionally stopping to run your tongue over the head of his dick, slurping up a little bit of precum and letting the saliva drooling out of your mouth take its place. Above you, his voice again began to take on a shaky quality, and he even let a moan slip out which he tried (and failed) to cover with a cough.

Just as Ross fixed his lips to apologize for his sudden “cough,” you took a deep breath, opened your throat, and dove mouth-first into Ross’s crotch, taking all of Ross’s cock into your mouth as quickly as you could. The experience was familiar to you—the coarse underside of his cock running against your tongue until the tip slammed into your with your soft palate. Then, you went down even harder, feeling its girth press against the walls of your throat until his balls were against your chin, your nose was deep in his bush, and all 8-inches of Ross were squeezed into your mouth.

The chair shook as Ross pounded an armrest with his fist, letting out a strangled groan—as if whatever curse he was about to shout had lodged itself in his throat the same way his cock was lodged in yours. He looked up to the sky, shakily exhaling as his thighs tensed against your cheeks.

With a unstable voice and exasperated affect, Ross apologized for his outburst and continued speaking. You contracted your throat around his dick periodically as he did, shivering each time his voice wavered thanks to you. 

Finally, you had to succumb to your human limitations and come up for air, though strands of saliva kept your mouth connected to him. The lush, earthy scent of Ross’s soap filled your nose for a moment as you inhaled, but there was no time to enjoy it. You were back on his cock in no time, with even more air in your lungs and vigor in your heart.

Feeling himself inside your throat again, Ross’s thighs brushed against your cheeks and ears as they began jittering feverishly, shaking his chair left and right as his legs shook seemingly against his will. You pushed your head further into his crotch and wrapped your arms around his thighs so he wouldn’t shake you off, but as your hands touched his lower inner thighs, an unexpected, shuddering moan leapt out of Ross.

“Mr. Lynch, are you certain you’re alright?” A different man on the Zoom asked, “Your face looks rather… flushed.”

You paused for a moment, curious about his reaction to being touched there. As you pulled back from his dick, you couldn’t help but wonder…

“Fi-fi-fine! I’m good, I’m good.” Ross stammered out, recomposing himself in your moment of stillness, “Let’s just keep talking business, yeah? What were you saying before about, uh, Search Engine—Oh my god!”

Ross shouted as you licked down his shaft, simultaneously rubbing and squeezing his thick thighs. His legs jolted up involuntarily, but your grip held him down as you circled both of his balls in a figure eight with your tongue before running your tongue wildly over the area between his balls and hole.

Fitting for his large size, you had to wrangle Ross like a bull as you went in on his underside. He gulped and grunted as you licked and lapped the area’s sweat and saliva. Even though Ross had just showered, down there had already begun to smell and taste like man in the delicious way only Ross’s body seemed to be. Becoming just the slightest bit greedy, you pressed your tongue into him hard, licking up to the skin between his balls.

This time, your grip wasn’t enough to hold Ross down. Almost instantly, his legs shot straight out, kicking the desk legs and propelling his rolling chair back. Several pens and pencils clattered against the floor, followed by the bang with which the keyboard fell and the clinking of various keys buncing away away.

Now, Ross was in the center of the room, rock hard with his entire lower half exposed. His knees had hiked up and he’d rolled back a bit, giving you (and every executive) a full view of his glistening cock, big balls, and tight hole. You expected him to immediately reach to cover himself, but after he remained dazed from your tongue’s magic for more than a moment, you advanced on him with your proverbial trump card in hand.

Your hands and knees thumping against the ground amid the cacophony of confused and objectioning shouts from the executives, you gathered up as much saliva as you could in your mouth. Once in range, you stuck your pointer and index fingers into your mouth, twisting them around until they were dripping wet, and yanked them out only to shove them into Ross’s hole before he could even register you were there.

Ross’s whole body shook, and he let out a long, drawn out moan as you slightly curved the tips of your fingers. With no mercy, you again stuffed his cock into your throat, causing him to cry out.

“God—Fuck!” All decorum had left Ross’s body once you entered it, leaving his pleasure-seeking lizard brain as the sole pilot of his actions. He reached one of his arms down between his shaking legs to grip your hair, forcing your head back and forth on his cock at leisure. Each time you adjusted your fingers, his grip briefly tightened and a low grunt radiated from his body.

Finally, though you were elated to be fucking Ross again, you had to remind him who was boss. You pulled your two fingers out of him, redistributing the little saliva on them onto your ring and pinky fingers. Indelicately and haphazardly, you shoved all four fingers back into Ross’s now-loosened hole.

With an piercing, high-pitched whine, Ross’s back instantly curled into an arch, his feet slamming into the ground shortly after. For a moment, you thought you had given him too much to handle—that he was about to come to his senses and chew you out for what you were doing. 

Thankfully, Ross was too much of a slut for that

Once his planted feet gave him the leverage, Ross thrusted off of your finger and into your throat with vigor. The head of Ross’s cock slamming into the back of your throat still caused to gag and recoil a bit, but you were no amateur. You continued to let him face-fuck you as you finger-fucked him with intensity.

At first you tried to get back into the grove you had under the desk, but Ross’s movements while being fingered were far too erratic. He kept thrusting back and forth mindlessly, so his dick was never where you expected it to be in your mouth. Eventually, you tried pulling back to lick the underside of his cock, but it just ended up slapping you on the cheek in a way that was surprisingly arousing, even if it stung a little.

Seeing as conventional dick-sucking tactics weren’t working, you loosely grabbed his dick in your freehand, looking up at him as he continued frantically jerking his cock up into your hand and ass back down onto your fingers. His eyes were shut with his mouth slightly agape, allowing grunts and whines to slip out along with the occasional expletive. It took all your mental strength not to stand up and start pulling at his hair and shirt, both ruffled in a way that was sexually agitating beyond belief. 

You dug your fingers deeper into Ross’s hole until your knuckles were against his ass cheeks. Ross shook and whimpered, forgoing thrusting into your hand entirely and pressing his ass down on your fingers with all his might. Gently, you curled your fingers and adjusted the position of your hands, listening to his grunts and waiting for-

“Holy—uff—shit!” Ross’s back arched and his forearms bulged as your fingers grazed his prostate. 

Spurred on by this reaction, you continued pleasuring Ross with the fingers one hand and jerking him off with the other. His big reaction to the initial contact simmered down into rubbing his ass back and forth on your fingers, groaning and letting out quivering pleads for you to keep going.

His dick was stiff and throbbing, threatening to blow as precum drizzled down the sides and onto your hand. You slowed down the pace in an attempt to delay the inevitable, taking a full second to pull your grip from the base of his cock to the tip, and another one pulling it back down.

Try as you might’ve, though, Ross was too close to the edge to put off his orgasm much longer. After only a few strokes, Ross’s shouts reverberated off of the walls of his studio.

“I’m– Fuck! I’m g-gonna– Fu-u-ck!”

Taking this as the cue to show your final tr, you simultaneously let go of Ross’s cock, lifted yourself up to position your mouth over it, and abruptly shoved your fingers into him so hard your knuckles wound up in his hole.

Just as you’d hoped, Ross’s hips sprung forward from the sudden pain and pleasure, driving his dick most of the way down your open and ready throat. Once his hips had extended as far forward as they could, you reached forward and gripped the seat of the chair. Then, with all your might, you pulled it toward you and pushed your head down, again deepthroating him and forcing him back into his seat.

After a moment, a cacophony of dull slapping sounds and frantic moans erupted above you. You looked up to find Ross flailing his body around, as if he were going to explode if he didn’t externalize the ecstasy of being deep in your throat that very second. His torso twisted and jerked, his legs bounced up and down independently of one another, and his fists clenched and unclenched as they alternate between punching and slapping the arms of the chair. Not to mention his hips, trying desperately to thrust even a millimeter deeper in your mouth.

Of course, his reaction only served encourage you, and you wondered what else you could do to make him squirm before he came. Just as you were getting ready to stick your thumb in him too, Ross’s chair creaked loudly. Before you could realize the sound came from a sudden shifting of weight, your head was suddenly squeezed tight from all sides, pulled in further onto Ross’s cock (if that was even possible.)  You threw your hands up to your head, trying and figure out what was happening as you tried to suppress your panic and growing urge breathe, and the meaty smack that accompanied the thick, trunk-like objects your palms collided with clued you in immediately.

In his pleasure-driven frenzy, Ross had tilted his entire lower body upwards and wrapped both his legs around your head in a desperate attempt to bury his cock even deeper in your throat. He squeezed his legs in several times, grunting in exasperation as he failed to will himself more dick to put inside you. The sound of fist-meeting-chair filled your ears again, followed by him using his arms to push himself off the chair and up into you.

The poor, poor chair squeaked and buckled as all 170-pounds of Ross landed back onto it. Still, in spite of its cries, a carnally unsatisfied Ross pushed himself again. And again. And again. Until Ross’s greed finally caught up with him. He’d pushed himself too far this time, and instead of his plump, saliva-drenched ass cheeks landing safely on the chair, they brushed against its edge and sent it careening backwards as all 170-pounds of Ross plus your head went plummeting toward the ground.

You weren’t quite certain if the chair slamming into the wall came before or after Ross’s tailbone thudded against the ground, but you were certain that the sound following both of them, that of the sustained wail Ross let out, eclipsed them both in volume and length. It rebounded off of the walls in his office, seeming only to amplify in volume over time. He was putting so much into his shout, you swore you could feel his vocal chords vibrating in his legs.

For a moment it seemed like Ross was seriously hurt, but as his cry tapered off into a gasp and his thighs tensed against your jaw and cheeks, you realized his noise wasn’t that of pain, but of an imminent orgasm. This further proved to be the case when Ross’s cock, still lodged in your throat began to twitch, threating a milky explosion any second.

Ross’s voice filled the room again. A high, breathy whisper of your name that rapidly deepened into a guttural grunt. The firm, immobilizing grip of his thighs devolved into a trembling, pleading suggestion of where to keep your head. His stiff, trembling cock expanding into a force threatening to open your throat from the inside out. All as he toppled over the edge into his orgasm.

The first rope of cum hit the back of your throat like a bullet. What felt like a whole pint of semen dripped down your esophagus as Ross gasped and trembled above you. He tried squeezing his legs around your head again, but found himself unable to settle his trembling legs. Instead, he reached down and gripped your hair with both of his hands, ensuring you wouldn’t get off his cock until he was ready as his dick prepared to shoot off more rounds of cum.

Two… Three… Four… The subsequent shots came at a similar speed, together coating part of your throat with Ross’s thick semen. His cock was too far down your throat to taste the sweet, tanginess of his semen. Silently, you prayed that you might get a taste when Ross pulled out, though that seemed a long ways away.

Five… Six… Seven… The next few ropes of cum fell short of reaching the back of your throat, and instead fell straight down your esophagus. The sensation was not unlike swallowing water down the wrong pipe, except you had to suppress your urge to cough as to not waste any of your dwindling supply of air.

Eight… Nine… Ten… By now, Ross’s cum wasn’t “shooting” so much as dribbling off his cock and down your throat. Still, even as his balls were emptied and his moans gave way to slight whimpers and heavy breathing, Ross’s cock kept twitching like it was trying to shoot out more cum and his hand kept you firmly in place.

It wasn’t until a fully his cock was finally still that Ross let you go. Not a millisecond later, you pulled back and settled on all fours, gasping for breath and swallowing Ross’s cum down fully. Like you hoped for, hints of Ross’s cum grazed your tongue on the way up. You couldn’t help smiling a content, saliva-coated smile.

After taking a moment to recuperate, you shifted onto your knees and looked over Ross, taken fully out of commision. He was laid out on his back, his body unmoving and pinkened from exertion. His stare was blank and mouth ajar, drooling just a little. Were it not for the rise and fall of his chest as he took breath after labored breath, you’d fear you sucked the soul straight out of his body through his cock.

His cock. The not-so-little monster was still fully hardened and pointing skyward, as if it were begging for just a little more action from you even as the man it was attached to was worn out and developing gnarly bruise on his lower back. Your spit still coated it thoroughly, dripping both down his shaft and straight off his tip onto the floor. You almost got lost in watching it, but reminded yourself that you were here to teach Ross a lesson, not just give a killer blowjob.

You crawled over his body, leaning in close to his ear. He seemed not to notice you at first, but jolted into awarness when you started to whisper.

“From now on, I hope you’ll think twice before ditching me for some stupid interview,” You told him, preparing to stand up, “‘Cause when I get blown off, I always make sure to return the favor.” If Ross responded in any way, you didn’t stick around to hear it. He need time to think about his actions and how to do better in the future. And, frankly, you needed to get off somehow, and he certainly wasn’t in any condition to do it.

✎✎✎

If the desire for A Lot More Ross resonates with you, please feel free to stick around.

[pretty-weird-ideas]

IWTV Twitter and the so-called "Fake Black Fans" Invasion

Something that I've been seeing a lot after it gained traction on Max is white fans condescendingly talking down to Black fans, some of whom have been in this fandom longer than they have, and acting as if they don't know what they are talking about because of their critique including a concept or subtext they wish to ignore. I want to repeat that this doesn't happen in the same amounts to white fans who make analyses or memes, it seems to uniquely be Black fans speaking AAVE or with Black pfps (visibly black bc of this) being bombed in the comments for having valid opinions.

I reached about the fifth tweet of white women going onto posts of Black people (particularly older women on Black Twitter) talking about IWTV and saying "You don't know what you're talking about, read the source material/finish the show" or entirely saying that "You don't understand fandom culture". Prompting those Black people to respond curtly that they, in fact, have read the source material, finished the show long before they have, and have been a fandom elder since before they even rolled into town. I witnessed someone doing BABY talk to a 30-year-old Black woman who was talking about episode 5, with "Well you see, it's not my fault you can't read". And when the woman professed anger back, she was the one blocked.

I witnessed this backhanded shit FIVE TIMES over the course of this week. With different white women doing the job of whitesplaining fandom culture and Anne Rice to random Black fans who already know unprompted with a level of passive aggressiveness and annoyance that only comes with doing it repeatedly. I must assure you (white people who are doing this) nobody asked, you can put down your task and stop pretending like you are doing something Sisyphean. You are not legally required to explain and describe IWTV poorly while getting into screaming matches with far more educated Black fans on Twitter and Tumblr.

People are acting as if there's a rising population of Black fans who are "Fake Fans" and must be stopped, lest they start up the freaky discourse. OOHHH NOOOO! Whatever are we to do then???? And therefore it is completely normal and a civic duty to blast Black fans in the comments of everything that they say about the show or the books.

I've been seeing people unironically football tackle reaction posts of the show with paragraphs worth of text that is inflammatory and backhanded. This is even more apparent when the poster is visibly black or uses AAVE. The association is that Black people who use AAVE or memes obviously are uneducated, lack media literacy, and cannot consume content the way that "White" fans do.

It is an attempt to tone police Black fans away from creating new topics of discussion or creating/expanding the fandom space with the growing watcher-base. It always has to happen in their chosen language, on their time, in the places they can reach us and yell some more. They are very discomforted when Black fans have pockets in fandom where they can't be outnumbered and they do in fact control discourse in a way that isn't productive to respectability. (As much as I am a big fan of big words and rambling, that is somewhat what is expected in this fandom as a Black person to be considered "respectable" and I'm not willing to ignore or shy away from that).

This is also hand in hand with my previous thoughts about fans' dog-whistling about media becoming accessible/mainstream and how "Others" will ruin it and outnumber them. I noticed that in the IWTV fandom, it seems like white fans believe that the "Others" is just Black Twitter in general. Not just "Twitter" but specifically Black people who don't fit into their narrow respectability politics.

I hate to tell you all this, but Black fandom culture is still fandom culture, and Black people do in fact read and write. I should not be seeing a pattern of random white fans going into the comments of Black people who mention IWTV and automatically assuming that they have no clue what they're talking about.

Like clockwork, exactly as when the show came out, racist white book fans started up the discourse of "The Black people are going to ruin fandom with their racism discourse and spit on Anne Rice!" and then when that time passed, the show reaches Max, and here they go barking again.... We really need to get a muzzle.

[deathmetalunicorn1]

HIII GOOOOD TO SEE YOU <333

hades, shiva and poseidon (separate pls) with their a wife that is deaf, so they have to learn sign language and even insist on others learning it so she can be comfortable around others. it would be cute if shivas wives also coddled on reader and had fun with her👉👈

-To (Love) you weren’t any different than anybody else around them, you were able to communicate, you could cuddle, and you loved with your whole heart- that’s all that mattered to him, and he wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you.

-It had been a journey for the two of you, when you first found each other and he saw you making motions with your hands and how you wouldn’t respond when he came up to you from behind, but once he learned about you, he was all in.

-You were a beautiful and intelligent person, but funny and you could be mischievous at times- in his eyes you were perfect in every way.

-He learned sign language so he could communicate with you and took to it naturally, and he encouraged others to learn it as well, so you wouldn’t be excluded from things, like you have been in the past.

-(Love) never made you feel like a freak or someone who was unable to do things, you were still Y/N- a capable deity in your own right, you didn’t need to hear to do your job right, which is something many of the other gods couldn’t say- as many of even the most powerful gods couldn’t do their jobs right.

-(Love) coddled you early on in your relationship together, thinking you were fragile, someone who needed protecting, but you were anything but and he learned to ease back off you, he trusted you- he knew that you could handle yourself.

-It also helped that you did know how to read lips, so you could have conversations with him, but with him communicating your way, via sign language, always warmed your heart, because he did that, just for you.

-Hades- Is respectful to you and always knows how to make you smile, he knows exactly what to say to make you feel so warm and had found learning sign language to be not only challenging, but invigorating- it was fun! He especially loved your lessons where you would sit on his lap, helping him sign that way, so he could learn with you in a more intimate way. Even though he knows sign language now, Hades can be a gremlin at times, telling you to sit on his lap to show him new signs that he didn’t know. You thought it was cute that he was asking you this, as you knew that he knew, but he was just being shy about it.

-Shiva- Can have very in-depth conversations with you since he has twice the hands of a normal god, which is something you learned from him, watching both sets of his hands signing at the same time, which was impressive. Your co-wives learned alongside your shared husband when you first started dating the four of them, and they all found it invigorating to learn a language that didn’t require talking or listening, despite you being able to read lips. Your co-wives were all doting on you, showering you with cuddles and praise, showering you with love, and Shiva was quite protective of you just as he was with his other wives, but he does his best to not coddle you- you’re deaf not helpless.

-Poseidon- Is very protective of you in the sense that he demands respect for you, just as it’s given to him- you are his wife and you are to be treated as such and anything less is seen as disrespect to him, and nobody sane would ever disrespect Poseidon. He treated learning sign language like it was his duty to do so, especially now as your husband, you are to be informed and included on anything that goes on in his kingdom and has made servants and guards learn sign language so you can always feel included. Poseidon adores everything about you, except when you got up to mischief with Zeus- he didn’t want to deal with two pains in the ass, but at least he was willing to forgive you, with just punishing you with kisses. Zeus wasn’t so lucky.

[jellalism]

Wriothesley x GN!Reader fic: To soften the pain

You're in a depressive episode. Wriothesley comforts you.

Word count: 645

Genre: Comfort

Content warnings: Depression; mention of a meal.

Notes: Reader is gender neutral.

Read below or on AO3.

“Wriothesley?” You step through the large doors and move towards the stairs leading to his office. 

“Hi dear,” he responds before you’re even within his field of vision. When you’re high enough up the staircase, you look over the Duke’s desk. Wriothesley is sitting behind it, handling some papers, not looking up.

There’s a surprisingly large amount of paperwork that comes with running the Fortress. You once asked whether the amount of bureaucracy in the Fortress of Meropide couldn’t be reduced. After all, it’s an autonomous entity and is not required to follow the regulations of the Palais Ordalie. Wriothesley had laughed and explained that, even though it’s formally autonomous, the Fortress still collaborates with the Palais, and so must deliver the documents that it requires. Its bureaucracy is inescapable. You often find him in the position he is now, hunched over files.

He doesn’t look up as you enter the office. “What brings you here? Have something to ask, or did you just miss me?” His tone is light and teasing.

You’re not sure how to answer that. You did miss him, but it would be wrong to reduce the reason for your visit to just that.

At your silence, he finally gazes up at you and looks at your face. His expression grows serious and he stands up, walks to you, and places his strong hands on both your shoulders. “What’s wrong? You look exhausted.”

“I am.” You want to speak at a normal volume, but all your throat produces is a whisper. “I feel like shit.”

At those words, Wriothesley pulls you close. For a few moments, he doesn’t say anything; he just lets you soak in his warmth. He feels safe. “I’ll clear out the rest of my day for you. I want to be with you tonight.” He kisses the top of your head.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to go that far…”

“I want this too, you know. You’re not the only one who’s been missing their partner.” He holds you a little tighter. “Haah… I know it’s been only a few days, but I really wanted to hold you again like this.”

You smile slightly — something you haven’t done in a few days. “I missed you,” you mumble. Your voice is muffled as your face is buried in his chest.

“I missed you too, love.” His voice is soft and calming. With one hand, he plays with your hair. “Do you want to tell me what makes you feel so bad?”

You disentangle yourself a little bit from him so it’s easier to breathe and speak. “Not sure,” you mutter. “Sometimes, the depression just hits, you know? Well, maybe you don’t know. I hope you don’t know.”

“I don’t know, but I can imagine.” He still holds you in his embrace. “Is there anything I can do to make it easier? Anything, from a hug to the more practical things.” You’ve talked about depression with Wriothesley before, and he knows it makes it harder to take good care of yourself.

“Maybe… If it’s not too much trouble… You can help me clean the dishes?” It feels silly to ask for something stupid like this. What kind of pathetic loser needs help doing something so basic?

Instead of answering, Wriothesley lifts your chin and presses a kiss to your lips. “I see you talking yourself down. But nobody gets to insult my lovely partner. Not even you.” He sounds stern, but his smile is a teasing one. “I’ll help you clean the dishes and anything else you need. Later tonight. For now… How about we get something to eat above ground? I think you could use a good meal.”

You nod. He stands up, dragging you along with it. “Alright then. It’s a date night now. I promise you you’ll feel better by the end of the day.”