#oh fucking well. pretend i said peter gabriel or whatever

[enbysiriusblack]

sirius black hcs:

the motorbike enthusiast ever. his hands are never not covered in motor grease. will see someone with a motorbike and act like those dog owners coming across other dog owners

asexual & gay

loves dismantling things and then putting it back together. will do it continuously

fav subject; ancient runes, muggle studies, and transfiguration (just because mcgonagall is the teacher)

practically lives in camden town (would go there when he snuck out)

extremely smart. doesn't study at all and still gets top marks

punk!!! he's part of the punk culture!!

uses a lot of scouse slang and says some words with a bit of a scouse accent because of james rubbing off on him. it's like a strange mix of upper rp & scouse

before 1981, peter's #1 defender and also makes fun of him the most. it's a nice little balance.

black coffee drinker (yes, he would make a pun of that)

the most loyal person ever

will wear feminine clothes sometimes because he can and he looks hot in it (queen taught him well), but most common outfit is a leather jacket, black boots with yellow & purple laces, band vest, and jeans with a bunch of chains and safety pins and rips

[radioleary-blog]

Hef Tragedy Jam

Hugh Hefner died yesterday. When the news was announced, over fifty women said they were dismayed. No, wait...over fifty women said they were “Miss May”. Fifty more were Miss June, and, well, you get the picture. If you were lucky you got their pictures.

Few of you reading this are old enough to remember that Playboy magazine was about the only place you could see a naked woman, and I say that because there are probably few of you reading this, period. But hey, my column gets more readers than the average suicide note, statistically speaking. Although I’m trying to increase my readership, and the average suicide note is more of a stand-alone project. I bet if George Lucas ever wrote a suicide note, he’d follow it up with three prequel notes. Each successively worse than the last. People would be like, “Why did he have to ruin that original suicide note, which I loved, with those awful prequel-suicide notes? I don’t care why he got depressed, but clearly only a manic depressive could make such a desperate cry for help as introducing Jar-Jar Binks. If I ruined a billion dollar franchise by coming up with an offensive racist caricature like Jar-Jar Binks, I’d probably consider putting a lightsaber in my mouth too.”

I grew up with Playboy magazine, and my early knowledge of female physiology was less from a volume of Grey’s anatomy or sketches by DaVinci, and more from volumes of Playboy magazine. It was like a reference guide, one that you would hold up with one hand. In fact, the first time I had a girlfriend who got naked, I wondered where her staples were. Of course, today, I’m the one who should have his stomach stapled, but that’s another story. Ah, sweet irony!

I’m sure Hugh Hefner went to Heaven, but whatever gleaming Mansion in the sky awaits us, no matter how glorious, for Hugh Hefner it’s going to be a pretty big step down from the Playboy Mansion. It may actually be Seventh Heaven, but Hef has been living on Cloud Nine since 1956. But, hey, he’s already wearing a robe. You know when you see depictions of Heaven, everybody is always wearing white robes? That’s because they were wearing those white robes in the hospital when they died. And they make you wear those awful robes that don’t close in the back because that’s where your wings will come out when you get to Heaven. It’s all part of God’s plan. I bet you’ll still have that plastic wristband on too, St. Peter just scans it at the gate to let you in. <beep> “Cardiac arrest. You’re good. Check in at the registration desk. Have a valid photo ID ready.”

Hugh Hefner was such a consummate pussyhound, I wouldn’t be surprised if he made a deathbed conversion to radical Islam, just to get the 72 virgins in Heaven. God would be like - I mean “Allah” would be like, “Pretty tricky Hef, pretty tricky. But...technically it counts. You old horndog!” Of course, you know what Hugh Hefner calls 72 virgins? A slow Tuesday.

The Playboy Mansion was famous for its out-of-control parties, and the mansion had a natural cave-like grotto on the grounds where everyone would go to snort coke and have sex. I guess Hef was a lot like Bruce Wayne, a millionaire with a mansion and a cave. And didn’t they call Bruce Wayne a millionaire playboy? Hef was a Playboy millionaire. But the difference is, Hef would rather do coke and fuck super-models whereas Batman would rather do-good and fight super-villains. Plus, Batman slides down the Bat-pole, and crazy hot chicks slide down the Hef-pole. In other words, Hef was sane, and Batman was, well, not so much. Batman is basically a billionaire who just wants to hurt people and not get sued for it and pretend he’s a hero. Kind of like Trump.

The grotto cave on the grounds of the Playboy Mansion had a huge, heated Jacuzzi pool, where movie stars, rock and roll gods, and celebrity athletes were eagerly humped by groupies, star-fuckers, and aspiring playmates. Unprotected 1970’s sex was messier than Michael J. Fox eating an ice cream cone, so the pool was probably 60% water, 2% spilled cocaine, and 38% James Caan’s jizz. The lifeguard got syphilis just from giving mouth to mouth resuscitation. At least that was her story. But that was about the same time Grand Funk Railroad was in town, so who can say? I do think ‘grotto’ must be the Italian word for ‘gross’.

I hear some of the more politically correct crowd, or as they’re more commonly known, nitwits, complaining that Playboy exploited women. And I guess it was exploitation, in the same sense that Vogue magazine is exploiting the mostly-naked teenage anorexic girls slash super-models in their magazine. And I say slash because that’s what these girls often try to do to their wrists. Unlike Vogue magazine models, at least the Playboy women didn’t have eating disorders. They’re a lot less likely to stick their fingers down their throats. I’m not saying they’re any less likely to have something down their throats, but not their fingers.

Exploiting women. As if Hugh Hefner was hanging around the Newark bus station looking for a girl down on her luck and fresh off the turnip truck from Topeka. That sounds more like the plot of a 1930’s movie than the way his business empire was run. I think what Hef did was have his photography editors, both men and women, spend endless hours going through duffel bags of mail sent in by thousands of women from all around the country who wanted to pose for Playboy. The staff would narrow it down to probably a few dozen, and then get Hef’s opinion on who was not only the most beautiful, but who had the look that would be right to feature in the magazine. That’s exactly what the editors and publishers do at Elle, and Vogue, and every other magazine that holds up a particular brand of beauty as an ideal.

And I don’t know any women who haven’t worn out the related links on their favorite porn sites jilling off to whatever their particular porn flavor might be, so who exactly are these people that still have a problem with Playboy? Because without Hefner’s decades of battles against governmental and religious censorship, there would be no porn sites. Hef made it possible to look at porn sites without pretending you go there for the articles. Without Playboy, people would still be saying, “Did you read that insightful article on the humanitarian crisis in Darfur? And that recently-found short story by J.D, Salinger?” “Why, yes. I particularly liked the profile of Jazz trumpeters from the post-bop era. And I did notice some delightful porn as well, between the articles, of course.”

The reason Hef could get away with putting in naked chicks is his magazine is because Playboy was a serious, respected literary magazine. The greatest writers of the day were in Playboy:

Ray Bradbury wrote original content for Playboy, and serialized Fahrenheit 451, which was coincidentally the exact temperature of how hot the playmates were.

The Beat writer Jack Kerouac wrote for Playboy, and that cat was cool as hell. Beat, Jack, that is exactly what Playboy readers do.

Ian Fleming published short stories in Playboy, and the James Bond novel “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service” was published first in Playboy. We all know James Bond got enormous amounts of pussy. But compared to what Hef was getting, James Bond looks like a bible salesman with erectile disfunction. Or a guy who works in a comic book store. Think about that for a minute; the world’s sexiest pussyhound spy still gets less women than the guy who published the magazine his story is in. And Bond is fictional!

Roald Dahl wrote for them, too. The author of “Willie Wonka” writing for people who wonka their willies, sounds apropo.

Kurt Vonnegut wrote for them all the time, and that dude was cooler than Ice Nine. There’s a reference for ya!

Joseph Heller published a lost chapter of “Catch-22” in Playboy. I think the title Catch-22 might be the number of social diseases you’d get if you had sex in the grotto.

Margaret Atwood, author of “The Handmaid’s Tale” started writing for Playboy in 1991. I would imagine one of her stories was called “The Handmaid’s Tail”.

Hunter S. Thompson. Gabriel García Márquez, John Updike, Joyce Carol Oates, Truman Capote, they all wrote for Playboy. This magazine was the real deal, kids, it was smarter and cooler than absolutely anything you know today. You see, all of these stories were longer than 140 characters. Or even 280.

I actually learned quite a bit about culture from Playboy, between rounds, if you know what I mean. By middle school I could discuss the literary feud between Gore Vidal and Norman Mailer in English class and sound like a friggin’ genius, I just couldn’t tell the teacher where I learned it. “Where did I learn that? Oh, you know. Around. Literary journals, and the like. At that building that has all the books. Yes, exactly, the library! That’s the one! I frequent that establishment, I‘ll have you know.” What was I gonna say? My father’s sock drawer?

The Playboy Interview was legendary, they were deep, involved discussions, frank and uncensored. Here are some of the people they interviewed: Salvador Dali, Patty Hearst, Groucho Marx, Ansel Adams, Stanley Kubrick, The Beatles, Albert Schweitzer, Buckminster Fuller, Orson Welles, Peter Sellers, Abbie Hoffman, Tennessee Williams, Erica Jong, Allen Ginsberg, and Bertrand Russell. Then there are the so famous they’re known by just one name:  Fellini, Castro, Brando, Nehru, Sartre, Bowie, Nabokov, Hoffa, Carson, Antonioni, Mastroianni, Gleason, and Sinatra. And Playboy was woke, they interviewed Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jr., Alex Haley, Miles Davis, Muhammad Ali,  Eldridge Cleaver, Dick Gregory, and Huey Newton. Holy shit, right?  Who do you see interviewed today? Kardashians? Ryan Gosling? Taylor Swift, but interrupted by Kanye West? This time we live in today has less culture than a petri dish.

Hef lived so long that most people today have no real idea how influential he was, what an important cultural icon he was, and that he somehow talked Marilyn Monroe into posing naked on the cover of the very first issue of his magazine way the hell back in 1956. That’s a dude with the Kavorka, big-time. And nobody was naked back in 1956. Not in this country. In 1956, people showered wearing a suit and tie, and apart from time shampooing, a smart fedora. They say people were more cultured back then because they went to art museums, bullshit, I think they only went to art museums to see the nudes in the oil paintings. You would too, and you know it, don’t even try to deny it. You’d say you were admiring the Titian, but you were really just admiring the Tit.

Nearly every issue, Playboy featured a very prominent celebrity with a well-established career and respected in her field who actually wanted people to see how beautiful she was without any clothes. Starting with Marilyn Monroe. And she was smoking hot, too, an icon in her absolute prime. Future historians will be more grateful for that photo shoot than they are for the discovery of the Nag Hammadi texts. Where do you go from there, Playboy? Well, how about Farrah Fawcett, the biggest sex-symbol of the entire 1970’s! The list of gorgeous, talented, famous, successful women that wanted to pose for Playboy might be hard for you to imagine, as you live in an age where women pose in magazines like Maxim with their clothes on! And men today pay to see that? Wtf? Man, I can see women with their clothes on just about anywhere I go. I can see that in line at the deli counter, I don’t need to pay for it.

Here are just a few, a very few, of the already-famous women who chose to pose with no clothes:

Daryl Hannah. Olivia Munn. Kim Basinger. Charlize Theron. Drew Barrymore. Denise Richards (she had kids with Charlie Sheen, so posing for Playboy was comparatively a relatively sound decision). Shannen Doherty. Belinda Carlisle. Jayne Mansfield. Mariel Hemingway. Margaux Hemingway. Nastassja Kinski. Sharon Stone. Rosanna Arquette. Vanna White. Elle MacPherson. Brigitte Bardot. Uma Thurman. Kate Moss. The list is almost endless. I almost said bottomless, but being Playboy, “bottomless”  goes without saying.

Sure, the last decade and a half weren’t great for Hef, but who stays cool past the age of 75? Only Bob Dylan and Picasso. Hef couldn’t let it all go, and at the end it was pretty sad. It was like Sunset Boulevard with viagra. But I’ll miss the Hef of fifty years ago, that man was at the forefront of political movements, cultural progress, gay rights, equal rights, reproductive rights, and the right to take your goddamn clothes off if you feel like it.

This may be the first funeral where you should bring condoms. In lieu of flowers, please give blowjobs. So long, Hef. Thanks for the mammaries.

[greenappleeyes]

When You Go (Part 4)

Words: 3.4k

Summary: Misha tries to convince the love of his life that he only wants her.

Warnings: Language, feels, smut (vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, the slightest dirty talk, unprotected shower sex)

A/N: I’m planning on having one more part and possibly an epilogue after that. Who knows, I’m an indecisive person. Tags at the bottom; let me know if you’d like to be added! Also, I love Vicky, no hate, yada yada yada, you know the drill.

—————

It had been 5 days since the convention and your night spent with Misha. To put in mildly, you were miserable. Sleep didn’t come easily; when it did you were plagued with either nightmares about your breakup, or worse, dreams of better days; days with Misha. The nightmares at least matched how you felt when you were awake and you could grow numb. The dreams fooled you, briefly, into feeling like everything would be alright. Tonight was one of those nights.

————–

“Dmitri Tippens Krushnic! You sick son-of-a-bitch! You are dead! You hear me? DEAD!!“ your voice echoed across the asphalt between trailers.

You stormed into Misha’s trailer where he was casually lounging sitting on his couch, arms behind his head with the biggest, self satisfied grin plastered on his face. “Ah-ha, Ma Chérie,” he giggled in an obnoxious French accent. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?! What the fuck is this, Misha?!” you shouted as you gestured to the ridiculously short French maid outfit you were wearing. “Where the hell are my clothes?!”

With mock surprise he covered his mouth and gasped, “Those aren’t yours?!” He stood up and stepped behind you and lifted the back of your skirt to peek underneath letting out an obnoxious mock French laugh.

You swatted his hand away and tried not to smile, “What if someone saw me? You didn’t even leave me any underwear!” you spoke in a hushed whisper, even though no one outside the trailer could hear you.

He simply smiled while moving to kneel in front of you having you lean back against the wall. Seeing him look up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen started to melt your anger away. He placed a kiss on your knee and trailed his lips upward. Lifting your skirt, exposing the bare flesh between your legs, he smiled up at you again. “Happy Anniversary, Baby.” He kissed up your inner thigh until he was almost where you desperately needed him. “Mmmm, baby, I lo…”

BEEP BEEP BEEP

The sound of your alarm jerked out out of your sleep. “Fuck!” you yelled out as you rubbed your eyes. Now you were desperately turned on, lonely, and missing the last person you wanted to see. You closed your eyes and let yourself remember the rest of that day. You had great sex in his trailer, he made you dinner while you made dessert, and you fell asleep with your head in his lap while he read you some of his favorite poetry. It wasn’t a glamorous first anniversary, but it was perfect. You opened your eyes again once you realized your pillow was now soaked in the tears that were gently streaming down the sides of your face. Sniffling, you uttered a final “Fuck” before wiping your face and getting out of bed.

The day passed like the last 4 had. You weren’t due back for filming until the end of the month, so you spent your days wallowing in self pity. Today though, you had the addition of a nagging feeling that got worse the more you ignored it. You knew exactly why you had that dream last night, but you really didn’t want to think about it.

4 years. Today would have been your 4th anniversary with Misha. You stopped looking at your phone because even seeing the date in the screen would upset you. It became too much and you couldn’t handle it anymore. So you decided to go back to bed before the sun dropped below the horizon.

—————

You woke up suddenly to the sound of something hitting your bedroom window and music playing outside. You grumbled as you walked over to the window to see Misha standing on your lawn with an old boom box that was playing ‘In Your Eyes’ by Peter Gabriel.

After opening the window, you yelled down to him, “Mish, what the hell are you doing? It’s late, someone’s gonna call the cops!” You were able to lower your voice when he stopped the music. “Come on, man. Are you really going all ‘Say Anything’ on me?”

He shrugged, “That depends. Is it working?” There he goes again; you want to be so angry with him but you still have to hold back a smile. He was too dorky and adorable for his own good.

You were going to remain strong tonight though. “Misha, I know you’re scheduled to shoot tomorrow. It’s late, go home.” Then you closed your window and crawled back into bed, knowing sleep would not be coming tonight.

About 30 minutes passed and you were still a mess. Seeing Misha was hard enough because of his Cusack move on your lawn. But being that he did it on the date of your anniversary made it so much worse. You had assumed he didn’t even remember what day it was, which actually upset you more. You were torn from your thoughts by an odd noise coming from downstairs.

“Well, if I get murdered in my house tonight at least I won’t have to deal with all this bullshit anymore!” you joked to yourself. You knew houses made noises on occasion, so you weren’t really that concerned. That is until you remembered that you forgot to set your security alarm before going to bed and the odd noises started sounding like footsteps acceding the stairs.

You stood in the dark by your bed playing every violent home invasion scenario you’d seen on TV. When your bedroom door started to creak open you screamed and threw the closest thing you could grab towards the intruder; your bedside lamp. You had terrible aim as it crashed against the wall, nowhere near the door or your soon-to-be murderer.

“Jesus, Y/N! A lamp? Really? I’m lucky your aim is awful.” an all too familiar voice called out in the dark before flipping on the main light.

You winced at the sudden light as you yelled, “Are you kidding me, Misha?! Your broke into my fucking house?! I could have called the cops or tried to stab you or something.” You huffed and rolled you eyes, “How’d you get in anyways? You left your key behind when we broke up.”

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, unsure if he really wanted to admit how he got in. “Yeah, uh, you have a window downstairs that doesn’t lock right. You should really get…”

You cut him off by snapping at him, “Get it fixed?! Yeah, the same window I had asked you to fix a year and a half ago that you never got around to doing? That window?!” That may or may not have been a bit of a sore subject for you. Misha was great, but he was scatterbrained as hell.

He winced when he remembered how many times you had asked him to fix it. He had intended on getting to it several times, but his busy schedule often caused it to slip his mind. “Sorry. Yeah, I… uh.. I can… No, I will fix it for you this week. I promise.”

Your eyes rolled so hard it almost hurt, “Whatever, Misha. It’s late, you’ve got to shoot tomorrow… oh right, and a fucking fiancée to get home too!” You were so caught up about the window and the fear of getting murdered that you almost forgot about Vicky. “Please, just, leave me alone.” The words came out more sad than angry. You were too emotionally exhausted to stay angry apparently.

He grabbed you gently by your shoulders to pull you into a tight hug before explaining himself. “Sweetheart, I don’t have a fiancée. Vicky needed help planning a wedding. We broke up months ago. I’m sorry. I tried to call and tell you, but you shut me out again.”

You stood still for a moment, unsure on how to proceed due to the shock and embarrassment washing over you. When you were finally able to speak, all you could utter was a quiet “What?”

You expected him to gently lecture you about how you never gave him a chance to explain, how you just blocked him out again, or how awful it made him feel that you had such distrust for him. He didn’t. He gently cupped the sides of your face, with his long fingers moving back to tangle in your hair. Before you even had a chance to appreciate the physical touch, his lips were in yours.

Initially letting out a squeak from the sudden movement, you quickly sank into the kiss. Without separating your lips, Misha whispered, “I love you.” He pulled back to stare into your eyes before continuing. “So fucking much. I’m not doing this anymore, ok? I love you, you love me. That’s it, that’s all that matters. If you try to push me away, I’ll just hold on tighter. I will handcuff you to the bed if that’s what it takes to keep you from leaving. You’re mine and I’m yours. Forever, get it?”

You were filled with so many emotions. He was so demanding and passionate and… hot! But he was also so loving and forgiving. You stood there with your lips parted and eyes wide, not able to respond. He quickly returned to his goofy adorable self by responding your you in an exaggerated, high pitched voice, “Oh Misha! I love you too! Let’s get married and have thousands of babies!” Returning to his normal voice, he responded to himself, “Well, Y/N, if you insist. But maybe not thousands.”

He continued this mock conversation with himself for another 5 minutes. You were laughing so hard you had tears running down your face. You finally decided to stop him when he started pretending to make-out with himself while humming back and forth between high and low pitches. “Ok, stop! Now you’re getting weird….er.”

“Thank God you stopped me! I almost got to 3rd base!” he said with a laugh as he wrapped his arms around your waist again. He pressed his forehead to yours and his expression became serious again. “I mean it. I love you and I’m not going to let anyone separate us again, even you.” He furrowed his brow in concern before stating, “Ok, that was a little more creepy than intended.”

“Is that any creepier than you telling me you’re going to chain me to the bed?” you asked with a wink while wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re such a dork….but, I guess, you’re my dork.”

“I could chain you to the bed, you know; if that’s what you’re into,” he said with a cheeky grin. Bringing his mouth right next to your ear with his voice suddenly dropping to a low, seductive tone, “Arms above your head, unable to fight against me. Just have to lay there, taking everything I have to give you.” He began placing open mouthed kisses under your ear and down your neck and he backed you towards the bed.

“Fuck…Misha..” came out in a breathy moan. You had missed him and his touch so much over the last year. The night you spent together after the convention only left you wanting more. Part of you felt like you should take this slow, the other part wanted him to be inside you and never leave.

He must have picked up on your slight hesitation when he stopped all movement, “Is this ok? We.. uh… can take this slow if we need to. I don’t want to rush you.”

You laughed at his sudden change in demeanor “Baby, I would have stopped you if I didn’t want this. Now, who am I getting tonight: sweet Misha or this new, dominating Misha?” you asked with a cocked eyebrow.

“How about somewhere in the middle? Tonight should probably be more romantic, shouldn’t it?” he asked back with a smile. He kissed you lightly on the lips before continuing, “Happy Anniversary, sweetheart.”

You wanted to cry, you wanted to laugh, you wanted to fuck him so hard neither of you could walk tomorrow. “Happy Anniversary, Misha.” was all you could say before you pulled him into a passionate kiss as you both dropped to the bed.

His hands roam your body with his lips on yours again was a feeling you could never get tired of. That is, until a sudden realization hit you causing you to push him away from you. “Misha, stop. Wait.”

He looked down at you, his face full of confusion, worry, and a hint of annoyance, “Y/N, you’re kind of giving me mixed signals here. What’s wrong, sweetheart. If we’re moving too fast…”

“No, no. That’s not it.” you said quickly, cutting him off. “I just… I’ve been mopey all week. You know how I get when I’m like that.” He continued to look confused, not understanding the problem. “Babe, I haven’t showered in forever! I’m gross. I don’t even remember if I brushed me teeth today! My mouth must taste awful!”

He leaned down to kiss you again briefly and smiled. “You and your flawed logic. First, you’d never be gross to me. Second, don’t you remember when I dragged you camping with me. We didn’t really bathe the whole week and we fucked like rabbits.” He leaned down to kiss you again, deeper this time before pulling back to look at you again. “You’re mouth tastes fine. Mmm, garlicky”

“Shut up! I didn’t even eat garlic today! ” you yelled while slapping his chest. You were still self conscious, but laughed at his attempt to make you feel better.

“Fine, I guess we’re moving this to the shower then.” he said while pulling you up and dragging you to your bathroom.

You relaxed under the almost-too-hot spray of your shower. Misha had his arms wound tight around your waist while peppering your neck with light kisses. “Mmm, as good as that feels Mish, I’ve gotta get clean before the hot water runs out.” you warned.

“Fine.” he pouted. “But I’m helping!” He grabbed your shampoo and began massaging it into your scalp earning a relaxed moan from you. He let you rinse and repeated the actions with conditioner. Lowering down to your ear, he spoke gruffly, “Now the fun part.” Standing a full hight again, he cocked his head and smiled. “Well, no THE fun part. But A fun part.”

You chuckled and responded in a relaxed tone, “Mmhm. Whatever weirdo.”

He ran the soapy wash cloth over your back and shoulders and laughed, “Have you met me? Hi, I’m Misha, licensed weirdo.”

You were about to give a sarcastic comeback until he reached around to “clean” your breasts. He always seemed to more time than necessary “cleaning” there. He lightly squeezed them and placed lingering kisses on your neck. You could only let out a small moan in response making him smile against your skin.

Slowly, he moved his hands and the wash cloth down your stomach. You instinctively reached your hand up to thread your fingers through his hair and turned to kiss him. It only took a second for the kiss to turn into a heated, passionate make-out session. Your tongues fighting each other for dominance. He finally broke the kiss and cocked his eyebrow at you, “I thought you wanted to get clean. You’re very distracting.”

Grabbing the hand holding the wash cloth, you brought it down between your legs. “You better get on with it then.”

He rubbed the cloth between your legs for a second before his turned you to face away from him again and dropped the cloth. He brought his soapy fingers back down to slide through your folds, keeping the pressure just hard enough to get you worked up. His free hand moved to roll a nipple in his fingers while he pressed open mouthed kisses to your neck.

You could only moan and lean your head back on his shoulder and grip his hair again. Your moans got louder as he slipped a finger inside you and continued light strokes on your clit with his thumb. “Fuck, baby, you’ve got no idea what those noises do to me.” He smiled as you pressed your ass against his erection. “Or maybe you do.”

He added a second finger and curled them; rubbing the pads of his fingers against your g-spot. You yelled out his name as your legs began to tremble. “Misha, fuck, I’m close.” was all you could gasp out.

He could feel you clench around his fingers. “Ok, baby. Come for me, come on my fingers. Let me hear you, don’t hold back.” he growled into your ear, knowing how much you loved it when told you to come for him.

You were lucky that Misha was strong enough to hold you up or else you would have collapsed. Your orgasm hit you hard; letting only a small, strangled groan come out. Misha pulled his fingers from you slowly and ran his fingers soothingly over your sex.

“Baby,” he whined, “I said I wanted to hear you. You barely made a sound. Can you stand yet?”

“Yes. I think so.” you panted out. It took you a second to catch your breath and regain your footing.

“Ok, come here, baby.” He leaned back against the wall and pulled your back to his chest. He lifted your leg and placed your foot on the ledge you use for shaving. “Brace yourself baby, gotta make this one count.” he said darkly as he lined himself up with your entrance and slamming you down on him.

You cried out, loudly, at the sudden fullness. “There she is…. Theres my girl…. Let me hear you, baby.” He grunted out the words between each hard thrust.

He felt himself fast approaching his edge and needed to get you there with him. He slowed his movements to try compose himself. He grinned and grabbed your handheld shower head. “Hmmm, what’s this. It’s got a pulse setting. You ever use this on yourself, babygirl?” he asked playfully.

Of course you had used it before; you had been painfully single for the last year. You wanted to bring your thoughts to his attention; but you were cut off when he brought the spray directly to your sex. The feeling of the pulse setting alone is intense enough on its own. Add in the feeling of his free arm wrapped around your waist, his lips on your neck, and his cock pounding into you; that was enough to send you careening towards your own orgasm.

This time, you came screaming, much to Mishas delight. He followed you with a shout of his own. You both just stood there for a moment to catch your breaths as the handheld shower head was left dangling and momentarily forgotten.

Misha came back to reality faster than you. He slowly slipped out of you and used the rapidly cooling wanted to rinse you both off. He turned off the water and helped you out of the shower before scooping you up, bridal style, and carried you back to your bed.

“Ew, my pillows going to be a wet.” you whined sleepily.

Pulling the blankets up over your cooling bodies, he chuckled at your complaint. “You were the one who insisted on the shower. That’s on you.”

“You were the one that fucked me into a such boneless state that I couldn’t dry myself off properly.” you yawned out. Even with your wet hair, you managed to get comfortable snuggled in close to Misha. “I guess I can complain too much about that though.”

He chuckled and pulled you in tighter. “You’re welcome for that.” He kissed your wet hair and smiled at the situation. A little over a year ago, his world all but fell apart. Now, he had you back and he was never letting go. “I meant what I said earlier. I’m never walking away from this, from you, ever again. And I’m not going to let you either. Happy Anniversary, Y/N, I love you.”

You would have cried if you weren’t so tired. You felt the same way he did. You were never letting go either. The last year had been hard and you’d need to talk to him about it at some point. But, not right now. Right now was all you could ever wish for. Of all the things you could say to him in that moment, the only thing you could muster was a sleepy “I love you too, Misha.”

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