#self-pour system

[brewscoop]

Looking for your next beer adventure? 🍻 Discover the self-pour magic, diverse beer selection, and mouth-watering BBQ at District Brew Yards in Chicago! Perfect for friends, foodies, and beer lovers alike. Check out our full review and plan your visit today! #BeerLovers #BBQ #ChicagoEats

[tea-cat-arts]

Some scum villain animal doodles (that may or may not have been floating around in my head for a couple months) to start off the new year

Animal guide: siamese cat= Shen Yuan, chow chow= Luo Binghe, Kunming wolf dog= Liu Qingge (not shown here, but Liu Mingyan would be the same breed), leapord cat= Sha Hualing, Snow Leapord= Mobei Jun, hampster= Shang Qinghua, snake= Zhuzhi-Lang

[fandomunsexyman]

SVSSS is a novel with a fandom.

[ID: A Scum Villain edit of the "missing the point" meme. A bullet arcs from velinxi art of child Shen Jiu kneeling while furiously glaring. The bullet says, "People are not entirely one thing or the other and holding them to these extremes ignores the complexities that come with their humanity." It arcs over the head of a person across from it, who ignores the bullet and exclaims: "Wow!! Shen Jiu's only crime was being mean and was wrongly hated!" End ID]

[magicpotatothoughts]

SVSSS | Like father like daughter

Something that tickles my pickles is knowing that the one learned behaviour Shen Jiu passed down to his students was throwing tea at people he hated. Kind of iconic that Ning Yingying's only act of violence is tea-throwing just as she probably witnessed her Shizun doing so to LBH for a millisecond before waking one day to Shizun randomly becoming the chaotic embodiment of benevolence and staying that way. Kids really do be learning the good AND the bad habits from the adults.

---

[goldkirk]

as I'm going back over my past history and items and journals and years, I come across all sorts of things, like the pencil I saved from that so-precious memory from second grade, and a pair of flip flops I've been missing for two years, and [checks notes] the modern-high-school-AU-kidnapped-by-a-serial-killer story I wrote in late high school jdfsjdfsjkjlksfd

[sammis-svsss-brainrot]

Thinking about how Luo Binghe just wants to do something right in his life and how he's been thrown away by so many people and it's not that he's desperate for attention or trying to manipulate Shen Qingqiu into becoming dependent on him by spoiling him so much, but rather that Binghe just wants so bad to matter in someone's life that if he makes himself invaluable then he'll never have to face the pain of being thrown away and I'm wkzmsmxntjskmwjdk

[devilsskettle]

just saw someone call horrorstör by grady hendrix “cozy horror” i’m sorry but in what world. you have to be so removed from the reality of what working retail is like to be like hehe cozy horror because it takes place in haunted ikea :) also like. was it so super cozy when that girl gets possessed and starts choking on her own snot lol like some of the shit he describes in this book is so vile so please explain to me what part of the book is cozy

[conkreetmonkey]

Red Dead Redemption 2 was so real for creating the most in-depth, realistic clothing system I've ever seen in any game, and exclusively using it on burly, unhygienic men.

You choose every layer, every accessory, with dozens to hundreds of each to choose from. You can go in and fine-tune minute details like whether or not to roll up the shirt sleeves, or button the collar, or whether to wear your pants under your boots. These clothes get dirty in real time depending on what you do in the game. Mud, dust and blood linger unless washed off. Every garment has a warmth rating based on its material, and the game calculates what temperatures an outfit is suitable for based on the combined total. Dressing too cold or warm for the weather causes health debuffs.

You can choose which way he parts his hair, and whether he gels it. If you eat too much he gets bulkier and gains a double chin, and if you eat too little he can go underweight and get all bony and sallow. Both of these states come with stat changes. His hair and beard grow in real game time, and you need to routinely style and shave his facial hair if you want any style other than a full Santa. You need to bathe him regularly or people will start commenting on his BO, and he'll start visibly appearing filthy long before that. He sunburns in the sun, and in the heat he becomes slick and glossy with sweat.

This shit is IN DEPTH. It blows the customization systems of actual fashion-centric games like tf2, Monster Hunter and Splatoon out of the water in every regard. They honestly look basic in comparison. It's a paradigm shift for sure once you experience RDR2's level of customization. Everything else starts to feel smaller.

The player character all this customization is applied to, and I simply cannot stress this enough, is a 36 year old, 6'3" smoker weighing well over 200 pounds, with facial hair thicker than a sheepdogs, forearms like gnarled tree trunks and a dark, dense forest of body hair covering every reasonable surface. His skin is pocked and marred with scars from a rugged, nomadic lifestyle, and his teeth are the colour of cornbread. He has a thick southern accent, is a known mean drunk and knows how to skin pretty much any North American animal. He has never worn deodorant, flossed or moisturized. He eats canned beans, fruit and the like by simply pouring them into his mouth and gulping, often while walking or riding a horse at full gallop.

I can think of NO better use case for such customization. Not some fresh-faced little twink, not some busty anime babe. Just a gross, hairy, unwashed homeless dude with crippling self esteem issues and a chest broader than a barrel laid lengthwise. A non fashion-centric game, certainly a non-fashion centric character, but for some reason the best clothing and customization system ever concieved, bar none. What the fuck.

[monstersqueen]

-Si vous perdez, qui paiera ? demanda Liu Qingge. -Moi, affirma Yue Qingyuan. -Si je gagne, qui garde les gains ? l'interrogea Shen Qingqiu. -Toi, conclut Yue Qingyuan.

*shen jiu voice* stupid qi-ge getting himself taken advantage of

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

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

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.  

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.

[syoddeye]

simon doesn't pursue people, he operates more like a one-man strike team. his approach to human connection is transactional, pragmatic, a matter of logistics.

on the rare occasion he's looking for company, he wants someone easy, who won't fuss when he introduces them to a thin motel mattress. won't ask what he does for work or try to make plans for the morning. won't bother him about 'next time'. nothing long-term. no strings.

he doesn't have a 'type' so much as a protocol: pick someone malleable, pliant, and preferably on the pill.

then you start working at his local.

the first time he sees you, he doesn't notice much beyond the basics: efficiency, attentiveness, pouring pints and bantering with the regulars with aplomb. by the second or third time, he's paying closer attention. you're not just good at your job—you're quick, always three steps ahead of the chaos. you give out smiles left and right, but it's more muscle memory than genuine warmth. and you're clever, too. funny, even, when someone manages to earn your attention for longer than a transaction.

you could probably keep up with his humor. go toe-to-toe.

you're off-limits, though. that's the rule. bartenders are switzerland—neutral territory. don't shit where you eat. it's a system that works, so long as he doesn't let himself think too much about the view when you lean over the counter or the lilt of your voice when you ask what he's having tonight.

then one evening, you take another man's number. some leering idiot, too comfortable with inserting himself into your space, grinning like he's cracked your code because you haven't humbled him. simon doesn't react, not outwardly. he nurses his drink and watches as you smile, slip the napkin into your pocket, and turn back to the bar.

but that's when you become a problem.

he tells himself it doesn't matter, that it's nothing. he doesn't want a number or a date. but the thought of someone else having you—someone who doesn't know what to do with a woman like you—it's a splinter buried just deep enough to keep him thinking about it. irritating, prone to fester.

how to approach you, though? he can't be as direct as he'd like, can't pin you down with a look or crass words. no way to corner you when you're safe behind the counter, or disappearing through a staff door. hanging around until you're off would be pathetic. dog behavior, he thinks, with a twinge of contempt for the mental image. he's got too much self-respect for that, at least.

no, he's got to actually make an effort. use his words.

the next time he comes in, he waits. no more corner tables or watching from afar. he sits close, pretends not to notice how your hands look slicing a lime. he orders his usual and tries not to overthink your tone when you set it down in front of him.

"you alright?"

you reach for his card, fingers pinching the plastic, but he holds on, smirking when you tug and then huff.

this is the moment. his moment. the one he's been building toward in his head for days. but there's a hitch, a blip in his usual confidence, and he fumbles. he blames your perfume.

"so…you come here often?"

not what he meant to say, but not the worst.

the shockwave of his nuclear-level failure doesn't register until your lips twitch, and it finally sinks in. his eyes widen a fraction as the realization lands. oh, he's fucked it. all his rehearsing, for nothing.

"…yeah," you say, voice flat, a single brow raised as you gesture vaguely toward the bar around you. "i work here?"

his mouth dries, but his face doesn't change. he doesn't fight it when you pull the card out of his grasp. there's the barest glint of something in your eyes—amusement, maybe, or pity. he's not sure which is worse.

you turn away to ring him up, but when you glance back, he's gone.

next

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

thinking about LOGAN HOWLETT – 18+

mdni, fem!reader // wc: 506

With Logan, sex is either one of two ways. It’s either quick and rough and hateful, or it’s the polar opposite: slow and gentle and loving. It all just depends on how self-loathing he feels. How much he’s had to drink.

Today, it was the latter. 

He hovers above, caging you to the mattress, one arm bent beside your head, supporting his weight – the other extended down to one of your thighs, thick fingers pawing at the chub, keeping your legs open. 

His cock is heavy as he rocks into you, the slow, unrushed pace letting you feel all of him. Letting you satiate your every need. The deep, irregular pumping of his dick leaves you gasping for air – leaves you grasping at the skin on his back. The sheer thickness of cock hazing and blurring any cohesive thoughts in your mind.

The hand on your thigh moves to the side of your face, large, hairy hand clasped to your cheek – keeping you there. His palm is warm over your jaw, loose hold tilting your head back, making you look him in the eye as he fucks into you with that same mind-altering, leisure rhythm.

Strokes are slack, unrushed, the full length of him consuming you in a way so intoxicating, so fulfilling. The grinding into your cunt knocking broken, choked-out noises from you.

His thumb hovers over your bottom lip, the pad skimming over the plump of it – the act itself dominant and assertive. His gaze remains locked on you below, eyes following the movement over your lips, watching those tiny microexpression-like reactions splay across your face.

But during those moments when he looks away, they’d be on some other part of you, on another part of your body – eyes taking in the lewd image of you underneath him. Gaze darting over your chest, taking note of the soft bounce of your tits – his steady thrusts knocking them in gentle circles.

Though, he can’t help but touch them, the hand on your jaw moving to the swell of one of your breasts, large palm rolling over it – thumb teasing at the nipple, swirling the mound with featherlight touch.

And when that time comes when you both meet your end, only then would he make some more noise – deep grunts and groans muffling between the close distance as he cums into you, the guttural sounds making up for the previous irregular moments of quiet. 

While he eases himself from you, he brushes over your cheek – the act soft and sweet as he leaves the warmth of you, the comfort of you. Sliding on his jeans, he makes his way over to the dresser – pouring himself a drink and lighting a cigar. His eyes focused on you from across the room, not shying away from your glances. 

You couldn’t help but stare, especially now when he exudes nothing but sheer manliness: his v line prominent above his low hanging jeans, happy trail beaded with sweat, and most importantly, the best sight of all: his glistening toned chest.

okay cool got that outta my system, totally normal now. also kinda hate this? but was the first thing I wrote properly in over two weeks so yay

[junislqve]

THE NIGHT IS STILL YOUNG ﹑ enhypen

──── at the club with enhypen

( 新书 ) ── fem!r . . . 19OO ! con ♡︎ warns. skinship kissing est. rs non-proofread PAGES

juni ˊᗜˋ this took so so long oh my gosh .. wouldn’t have posted this if O7z didn’t threaten me to

𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝘰𝗀𝗌♥︎𝑓𝖾𝖾𝖽𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 ─── 𝖼𝗅𝑖𝖼𝗄

LEE HEESEUNG

heeseung has always been protective of you, no doubt. but everytime you two go to the club it seems like his instinct doubles. even when he looks loose and happy, his hands still perch on your thigh, rubbing it up and down unconsciously while he talks to his friends.

when you want to buy a drink, heeseung makes sure to always pay even though he knows you feel bad whenever he does. promising you, that you can pay the next time (spoiler : you won’t).

you wondered how quick your boyfriend could be, even when you’re making a spontaneous night out, heeseung would somehow have a table ready for you, just in case you were tired from standing. in reality, he pays for the tables without you realizing, sliding his card to the waiter the moment you two step in.

something he loves most is when you both are back in the comfort of your home and he’s tucked you in fresh clothes, the warmth of the alcohol still in your system. you’d ramble dumbly on how much you loved him or recount how you fell for him, which never stopped his heart from clenching at how adorable you were. only when heeseung presses a firm kiss on your lips did you finally pause and slowly dozed off with a sweet smile plastered on your face.

“i really love my boyfriend,” you mumble, sleepily.

he grins, “i really love you too.”

PARK JONGSEONG

jay loves holding you whenever, his hands are always on you. more so in bars or clubs because he knew there were creeps who liked staring at you. he never stopped you from wearing whatever you wanted, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t get pissed whenever someone’s looking at you too much. when it happens, jay would circle his hands on your waist, kissing your neck lightly, right on the person’s line of sight just to leave them the right message.

he lets you get loose because he knows he’ll always be there to protect you. even though you’re on the other side of the frat house, jay somehow manages to catch you whenever you almost slip from being too intoxicated.

jay has everything you love listed down, so it was no surprise when he hands you your favorite cocktail in the first 5 minutes of stepping into the club. he’s attentive, pouring you a cup of water to water down the alcohol when you get a bit too tipsy on a weekday. he knows you don’t like getting drunk on a night before big presentations.

it wasn’t a shock that jay knew how to deal with your drunken self— holding you by your waist as he bids everybody goodbye, trying to balance you who had no intention to leave yet. once you end up back at his apartment he’d lay you on his bed and wiped off your makeup as you smile dumbly at him.

“i don’t know what i’d do without you” his heart must’ve burst at how adorable you looked. that sleepy smile you sported — he would never trade you for anyone else.

SIM JAEYUN

it was clear that jake never liked going to parties. even before dating you, he was the last person to be found in a frat party. that only ever really changed because he met you. you whose usually holed up in your bedroom studying, also likes going to parties to his surprise.

he found out later on it was to let yourself loose amidst stressful schedules. that’s when jake, who despises parties. jake, who would walk away from a crowd. jake, who’d rather be in the comfort of his home, now offers his girlfriend to go to parties every month or two. going so far as to paying for your ticket the moment you show any signs of wanting to go.

when you’re around, any place seems to be bearable for him. jake found himself enjoying the music or maybe that was your laugh? he didn’t know. but he’d do anything to see you smile so loosely like that everyday.

jake also found out you were quite endearing when you’re drunk. talking his ear off about whatever found your interest by the next second. it was already annoying how he’d still listen intently when he knew there was no end to the conversation. it was more annoying to your sober self when you remembered he did all that while helping you get ready for bed.

“i hate you” you suddenly blurt after a long moment of silence, watching him.

“why?” jake’s mouth was slightly agape, his hands hovering over your arms, holding a wet cloth.

“you’re so nice to me it’s hard to not fall for you” you didn’t even get to remember what he replied with. but you had a feeling about it from how giddy he looked the next morning.

PARK SUNGHOON

usually it’s rare to see sunghoon passing off a drink when he’s already an hour into a party, more so when it’s only a light drink— 5% alcohol. it was a wonder to his friends until they noticed he started trailing off behind you, it wasn’t hard, then, to make out that you two are dating.

not when sunghoon’s hands were always on you, glaring off anyone who were bumping into you too harshly. all while you were oblivious to it, rather pulling him every which way to meet people. your giving him a field day with how many people almost stumbled into you while you were walking, scared you’d get hurt.

ultimately, jay got you to drink 2 shots and not long after got told off by none other than sunghoon himself — even though he knew it was technically your choice. he just didn’t want his friends to influence you too much, he knew how crazy they can go.

sunghoon who pulls you out of the party once it starts to get boring and you were starting to look tipsy or tired, carrying you onto his motorcycle. strapping his helmet on you, his hands holding yours tight to rest on him while he speeds through the night, even when you tell him not to. just so he can feel your arms tighten around him. his big smile hidden entirely from you.

“hoon slow down!” you shout after another quick turn, hitting his stomach lightly, your chin resting on his shoulder and your eyes closed tight.

“i’m not going that fast, baby” he chuckles, knowing he exactly is.

KIM SUNOO

sunoo is the bubbly one in your relationship, he’s so upbeat and it doesn’t fall short in loud settings. it was the first time he dragged you along, he’s fast to introduce to you his closest friends who were already holding their own bottles, half empty.

you weren’t a fan of drinking, but when you offered a free one you had no mind to pass up. sunoo made sure to ask you enough if you were sure you wanted to, and you, each time told him you do.

he’s never seen you drunk, he’s never even seen you tipsy, it was a shock to sunoo when you looked so bright and loose after drinking half a bottle. instead of him, you were the one dragging your boyfriend to the dance floor, laughing along with him as you both sing lightly along to the dj.

sunoo ended up having to hold you tightly while you were stumbling, you walking infront of him, his body pressed to yours from behind, his hands on your hips as he walks you both back to your table.

“we should go more often” you hum to him, you head laying on his chest while you two observed the people around.

“of course, babe, anything you want” he murmurs, his hands raking through your hair.

YANG JUNGWON

you were at the club with your friend, deciding to fill up your night instead of doing nothing. you didn’t expect to bump into jungwon on the way to the restrooms. when he recognized you, his eyes lit up pulling you close for a hug. a hug that felt too warm for you to let go.

jungwon pulled you and your friend to the bar, that was when you realized he was already slightly intoxicated. he seems a little off rythmn than he usually is when you meet him in your classes. it didn’t stop him, however, from ordering more. when he handed you one shot you just looked up at him, he thought you don’t drink so he just smiled and placed the shot cup down. it wasn’t that, it was because you knew how expensive the drinks were here so you opt to go sober throughout the whole night, you were confused on why jungwon would spend so much on just a single shot for you.

when you caught up, you down the shot and he turned to you. when he saw your content expression he turned to the bartender to order a few more shots for the three of you, your friend offering him an appreciative smile. you three cheered and downed the shots quickly, jungwon then invited you guys to go out and meet his friends.

as it creeps closer to 2 am, jungwon offers to give you a ride home. he promised the alcohol has seeped out of him and he’s already sober, but you were still concerned.

“i’m fine, pretty” jungwon hums, towering over you as you lean on a pole.

“are you sure? how would i know you’re not going to make us crash?” you frowned. jungwon leaned down and his lips hovered over yours.

“i can tell you how you taste, will that make you trust me?”

NISHIMURA RIKI

if anything, you were the one who had to hold riki back from getting too wasted. once he stepped into the place, you were lucky enough to find him 20 minutes later at the bar. it was a struggle trying to catch up with him, you couldn’t look away for anything longer than a few seconds or he’d slip out of your grip.

it wasn’t a surprise than you found riki again later already tipsy, dabbing up random people as he mingled. you, who spent half the time trying to find him, sport a frown and a disgruntled expression when you walk up to him.

the moment riki saw you, he grins and pulls you close to him, hugging you tight. you felt his hands rubbing your waist, he leaned down and mumbled something in your ear that you couldn’t make out, you were about to ask until his friend pulled him away from you.

you didn’t have time to see him again until the party dropped and everyone were either blackout drunk or too tired to move. you found riki passed out on a couch, his friends calling you over to help him get home. it was a wonder how you managed to get him into the taxi.

riki mumbled something suddenly, you hummed and brough your face closer to his, hoping to hear what he’s saying.

“you look s’ stunning tonight, wish you were mine” he groans out, repositioning his head that was laying on your lap.

“thanks, ki” you clear your throat deciding to ignore the last bit, “you don’t look too bad yourself”

you catch his grin.

join my taglist ?

[starlightsalvatore]

hunger / damon salvatore x reader

i'm back !!! I needed to write a damon one-shot while I work on a new fic and this just tumbled right out of me lol

hunger / damon salvatore x reader

word count: 3.1k

warnings: everything??? drinking, swearing, blood sharing, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected p-in-v, a tiny bit of degradation?? this is self indulgant filth, seriously 18+ mdni

You ran a hand through your hair as you walked back and forth, unsure of what else to do with the restless energy surging through your system as you tried to fight one of your most basic, primal urges… hunger. Your fingers drummed against your thigh as you tried to focus on anything else, find something in your brain worth occupying your mind and switching course from the visuals running through your head. Your recent transition had been a shock to everyone, and Stefan had you on a tight leash to keep you in check… and you’d been on board, at first. You never wanted to cause harm, to be the reason someone else’s life ended, but with the itch in your veins threatening to undo you completely you couldn’t really find it in you to care anymore.

You heard your door push open and your head snapped up to see Damon walking in, two glasses and a bottle in his hand with an unamused expression, “if you don’t knock it off I’m going to have to replace the floor,” he said, setting everything on the dresser before pouring two generous cups of bourbon. 

“Not now, Damon,” you sighed, ignoring him entirely as your feet remained on course.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked and you shook your head.

“Not really,” you said as he shoved a glass in your hand, his eyes telling you to drink which you did… all in one gulp and he was a little surprised as he took it to refill. 

“Well, something’s gotta give,” he replied as you finished the second as quickly as the first. “At this rate the bottle will be gone in a minute and I’m not replacing original flooring.” He gripped your shoulders, halting your movements and you huffed, looking up at him.

“I’m hungry, Damon,” you said, as if it pained you to do so and he furrowed his brow.

“The freezer is full- oh,” he cut himself off, realizing that’s not what you meant as a smirk spread across his features. “You want your blood at 98.6,” he said and you rolled your eyes, pushing him off you.

“Will you cut it out?” You poured another glass, hoping at some point the alcohol would subdue your cravings but you knew that was about as likely as him leaving you alone, so you tried another angle. “I can’t… Damon, the blood bags aren’t doing it for me, I can’t think, I can’t sleep… will you please take me out?” For a moment you thought he’d say yes, revel in the opportunity to feed with abandon with someone else, but it wasn’t that easy.

“No can do, sweetheart,” he replied and your brows pinched. “I’ve got enough on my plate without you losing control and giving me more bodies to deal with.” He was right, there was too much going on and you spinning out wasn’t an option, but that didn’t make it any easier of an answer to tolerate. He gave you a once over, it wasn’t as if he didn’t want to take you out… he would have loved to, but you were new and he knew you could eventually get to where he was, one day you’d be able to feed and leave them alive with no memory of what had happened, but that day wasn’t today, you had a long way to go and he couldn’t afford to have you slip up.

But… he couldn’t afford to have you slip up. One look told him you were wound tight, the diet Stefan had you on was restrictive, never enough to fully satisfy, and the less you drank the tighter you spun, threatening a catastrophic snap he could only assume was looming on the horizon with how frustrated you looked right now. He ran through his options, knowing letting you sit in this hunger any longer would result in a much bigger problem, but the only thing he could think of posed another set of issues and would lead to him teetering on the edge instead of you.

He let out a sigh, closing the distance between you and plucking the glass from your hands to discard on the dresser and you looked up at him questioningly, the invasion of space catching you by surprise. His normally bright eyes were dark and swimming with something you couldn’t understand, deep blue pools you found yourself getting lost in as you waited for him to say something. “You need to feed,” he said and your eyes fluttered shut just at the thought.

“I need to feed,” you whispered and he nodded, catching your chin between his fingers and forcing your head back up when you tried to look down and the action had your breath catching somewhere in your throat. 

“You still haven’t felt it, have you?” he asked, voice low and you shuddered. “What it’s like to sink your teeth into something…” you shook your head, Stefan hadn’t allowed you to drink anything that didn’t come from a cup. “Poor thing,” he chuckled, he could feel the tension radiating off you in waves, you were practically shaking beneath him as you fought to retain your grip on your sanity, on your control.

“Damon,” you sighed, eyes pleading and he just smiled as he gripped your hand and brought it up to his neck, the pulse beneath your fingers driving you wild. 

“When you feed you have to be careful… if you bite just along here,” he said, dragging your fingers along the vein, “you can control the flow. It doesn’t have to be messy,” he explained and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from the subtle way his skin moved with each beat of his heart, the sight bringing the veins beneath your eyes to the surface, your fangs descending.

“Don’t fight it,” he said, noticing you trying to rein it in, and you were having a hard time focusing on anything with the way his hands were trailing up your arms, pulling you closer. “Go on,” he tilted his head just slightly, “give it a try.” he encouraged and this pulled your focus, eyes snapping to his as you tried to ascertain if he was being serious. You had a lot left to learn, but blood sharing was personal, and you knew that… but all you saw in those dark blue eyes was a fire simmering beneath the surface you were sure was a mirror image of your own.

You slowly reached onto your tiptoes, as if he were a deer in the woods threatening to startle and bolt, but the closer you got the harder it was to resist, anticipation burning through your veins at the prospect of giving in. Your fangs were tentative as they broke the skin just where he’d indicated, but the first drop of blood immediately made you feel dizzy and intoxicated… It wasn't enough. You quickly grew feverish, your hand wrapping around his throat as you surged forward, crashing into the wall behind you and he let out a grunt as his back collided with the hard surface, pinned in place as you fed.

“There you go… that’s it,” he said, leaning back as he relaxed and let you take what you needed. His arm snaked around your waist while a hand brushed the hair from your face, cradling the back of your head as warm blood radiated through your body. A soft groan fell from his lips as you drank from him, and the sound elicited an unexpected reaction from you, your hand tightening around his throat and your body pushing flush against his and despite everything in you telling you to continue, you forced yourself back knowing if you didn’t stop you’d bleed him dry. 

Your eyes were wild and satisfied as they met his, and he dragged his thumb across your bottom lip, collecting the remnants and you were almost surprised when your lips wrapped around him, ensuring you didn’t waste a single drop. His smirk returned when he felt your tongue slide across his skin, “better?” he asked and you nodded, keeping him in your mouth for maybe a second longer than you needed to. The air was charged between you, you’d just crossed a line in the sand and you wanted to push a little further, go a little farther… 

Part of him knew he should put an end to this… stop before it went any further. He knew it before he’d even offered up a vein for you, he knew as soon as he did he’d be teetering on this ledge and he didn’t have that much self control when it came to you. Perhaps, if he really analyzed the situation, he knew somewhere in the back of his mind why you’d been so worked up, he knew what you needed and instead of letting you wreak havoc on the blood cooler he let you push him against a wall and take what you wanted, he let you feed from him in the most intimate way he could think of. 

And when you were looking up at him like that, eyes mischievous and holding an unspoken challenge with his blood still on your plump lips, who was he to resist? Your chest was heaving with anticipation as you waited for him to do something, anything, and the movement was so fast you almost didn’t register his hand curling around your throat, flipping you around and slamming you against the wall with such force you were sure you’d be dead if you were human. Your gasp of surprise was swallowed by his mouth on yours, searing and frenzied as he connected your lips and kissed you with a hunger that rivaled your own only moments ago. 

You both fought for dominance, neither one of you willing to submit just yet but you were outmatched… he grabbed your wandering hands and pinned them above your head, grip so tight you whined as he kissed down your neck, biting into you the same way you’d done with him and you couldn’t help the moan that fell from your lips as he did. Your hips rolled forward and feeling his hardening length against you gave you the surge of confidence you needed to break your hands free, sliding down his chest to pull his shirt apart, buttons flying and clattering against the floor as you pushed the fabric over his shoulders. 

His lips were greedy across the expanse of your chest as he nipped and sucked the soft skin, tearing your shirt to shreds as he pulled it from you, a mess of fabric in your wake as you surged forward and pushed him into the wall opposite you, regaining your upper hand. Glass shattered on the floor around you as the force rattled the dresser but you couldn’t find it in you to care what had broken as your hands pulled his belt free, fingers quickly undoing the button as you sank to the floor and pulled his jeans with you.

His length stood erect in front of you and you were quick to take him in your mouth, focusing your tongue on his swollen tip as your hand worked what didn’t fit, and you couldn’t help but moan around him at the groan that fell from his lips, “such a good girl,” he cooed, his sweet words undercut by the harsh hand in your hair gripping and pulling you closer, forcing you to gag around him and the sensation had his head falling back against the wall. Tears sprung to your eyes at the sharp pain in your scalp and the way he was hitting the back of your throat, but all you could focus on was the throbbing between your thighs and he didn’t miss the way you clenched them together, desperate for friction. 

You were quickly on your back, too caught up in the moment to bother moving to the bed and you pushed glass aside as he settled between your legs, tearing your underwear off and diving in like a man starved and you could feel his smirk against you at your surprised moan, head hitting the floor as your back arched in pleasure. He switched between your clit and your entrance, not giving either attention long enough to give you what you really needed, and you whined as your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging harshly.

“Damon, please,” you sighed, hips bucking against his face and he focused his attention on your sensitive bundle of nerves, tongue expertly working you up as you shamelessly moaned his name. Somewhere in the back of your mind you knew with the way you kept slamming each other against walls and the floor, the breaking glass, and the sounds falling from both your lips someone might come to make sure you were alright, but you couldn’t find it in you to care… not when he felt as good as he did between your legs. 

Your moan changed in pitch when he slid two fingers into your entrance and it went straight to his cock, his head swimming as he watched you come close to falling apart above him. When he crooked his fingers just so your grip in his hair tightened, pulling him closer as you started to grind against him, “fuck, just like-” you were cut off by your own moan when he started massaging that spot inside you, legs trembling as you careened off the ledge. His touches remained merciless as pure euphoria surged through your veins, your head cloudy as your body trembled. 

“So fucking beautiful,” he muttered against you, kissing his way up your body and you tugged him closer to reconnect your lips, tongues swirling against each other as you tasted yourself on him. His hands felt greedy and possessive as they roamed over you, gripping tight enough to leave bruises that would heal before they even had a chance to form, and it was as if neither of you could get enough. You pushed forward, tugging him up with you and all but throwing him onto the bed and his smirk was devilish as he watched you crawl on top of him.

He looked like he was about to say something but you didn’t give him the opportunity as you kissed him, rough and demanding as your hips settled above his, hand reaching between you to line him up at your entrance and you both let out groans as you took him inch by inch. The stretch was sweet, filling you almost to your breaking point as you settled fully and started to roll your hips against him, shuddering at the feeling.

“Fuck,” he moaned as you started to bounce up and down, setting an unforgiving pace and you felt like you could feel him everywhere, every nerve ending radiating with fire. He sat up to wrap his arms around you, hips bucking to meet yours in a way that had your head rolling back and he took the opportunity to sink his teeth into your neck and you had never felt pleasure like this before. His hand was firm around your throat as your body shook with each thrust and soon you were boneless in his lap, only able to hold yourself upright as he drank you in. 

When he pulled back you licked along his lips, face changing at the taste of blood and he swore he’d never seen anything sexier. Neither of you was going to last much longer, not like this, and he delivered a rough smack to your ass that had you whining and rolling against him. “Oh my god,” you breathed out, letting your forehead fall against his and he smacked again, gripping the tender skin, “Damon-” you tried, but nothing would come out.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” he teased, gripping your hair and pulling you back to look at him, “oh, look at you… all cock drunk and fucked out,” he teased and you had nothing to say as a firm thrust had you seeing stars. You buried your face in his neck, fangs sinking into his skin as you felt your release barreling towards you, the mixture of blood and his steady thrusts too much to bear and a streak of red trailed down your body as you came, only able to shout his name as you cried out.

Your grip on him was maddening, pulling him right over the edge with you as you milked him for everything he had, and when you both slowed to a stop you were having a hard time catching your breath, your mind floating somewhere above you as you tried to return to your body. You felt his tongue along your chest, cleaning up your mess as you leaned back and he tried to commit the sight to memory… your hair wild, cheeks flushed, and skin dewy as blood lingered along your skin. 

You still weren’t fully with him, stuck in a haze as you felt him whisk you into his bedroom, and into the bathroom and it wasn’t until you were under the stream of water with him that you hummed contently against his lips as he kissed you softly, “there she is,” he chuckled.

His hands were delicate as they roamed you, and yours slid down the front of his chest as you looked up at him, doe eyed and happy. “That was…” you trailed off, unsure of what word to use to fully sum it up and he placed another soft kiss on your lips.

“Everything you ever dreamed of?” he provided and you laughed as you swatted his chest. 

“Hush,” you replied, feigning annoyance but you didn’t have it in you to feel anything other than bliss. The rest of your shower was spent with wandering hands and sweet kisses, a stark contrast to how rough and domineering you’d been with each other and when he pulled you into bed and wrapped himself around you, you looked up at him as your fingers trailed along his chest absentmindedly.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, and you flushed slightly under his gaze.

“It was more than I dreamed of,” you answered, and he raised a brow in question. “I haven’t… I hadn’t done that since turning, I didn’t know it could be like that,” you explained and realization passed over his features.

“My god,” he chuckled, “no wonder you were wound so tight.” His hand on your back was comfortable, holding you tight against him as he rubbed soothingly, “we’ll go on a little trip this weekend,” he said as you rested your head on his chest.

“A trip?” 

You felt him nod, “away from all the chaos here… we’ll find you some warm bodies and I’ll teach you how to do it the right way, you don’t have to live a life of blood bags forever.” 

“I don’t know, you seemed to do the trick,” you teased and he laughed.

“Sweetheart, you have no idea what you’re missing.” 

[dukeofankh]

Leaving toxic masculinity behind as a source of community is pretty much an unmitigated good, especially for men who are chronically underperforming in one or more metric by which hegemonic patriarchal status is measured (heterosexuality, whiteness, ability to perform violence, ect.). No real external spur is needed for leaving. It doesn't even require empathy. Just perspective. Relying on an abusive pyramid scheme for self worth is bad, actually.

But when you leave that, I dunno, call me a whiny incel who expects emotional labour from others, it would be cool if there was some sort of community or support structure in place for progressive men to find celebration and identity and acceptance. It would be nice if we had cultural conceptions of positive masculinity that could be emulated instead of individual, exceptional, disposable blorbos to be fawned over. It would be nice if being masculine wasn't viewed as something that negates or problematises my queerness. It would be nice to even be able to find media about masculinity that isn't poisoned by fascism or more interested in dunking on said misogynists for clout. I feel like I'm trying to build something new from scratch. Why? Why is this such a fucking wasteland.

I don't know about y'all, but I have never felt understood and accepted by any community ever in my fucking life. I have never felt seen. I have never felt at home. I'm not gonna become a misogynist about it but there sure isn't anything positive to lean on or collective vision for a positive future to fucking strive for, is there? Christ.

And like, because I know I do have to end with this, before you try some faux-hopecore bullshit on me that actually seeks to shift the blame right back onto me, I'm already donating to and planning to volunteer for my local left wing party for our upcoming federal election. I already signed up for more classes to fill my time, I'm married, I text my stupid friends who bail on me and don't text back. I have been to therapy several times. I have already poured hundreds of hours trying to build community in male feminist spaces online. Systemic issues do not magically become individual failings when we talk about men.

[sweetshuga]

That One Autumn Evening ✰ MS

───~𓆩♡𓆪~───

Hooking up at a mutual friend’s party.

Warnings! Smut!, strong language!, obscene descriptions, pet name (pretty), oral (f! receiving), fingering, p in v (unprotected), overstimulation, size kink (kinda), praise kink (kinda), etc.

wc. 1.4k

notes. English is not my first language! Prologue to Keep it on

The music blared throughout the house, drowning out your thoughts. A solo cup in your hand that you occasionally took a sip from—even though you knew you had one too many tonight. Most of your friends had already gone home, having excused themselves saying they had work or just weren’t up for a crazy hangover tomorrow.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about anything at the moment. You had just broken up with your boyfriend of 2 years, over an argument about the dress you were gonna wear to this exact party you stood in, gulping down drink after drink.

The pouring rain outside contrasted starkly to the liveliness in the house, but it matched your mood all too well. The stormy weather was almost blanked out by the darkness looming over due to the late hours, but the sound of pattering droplets of rain kept reminding you of the turmoil outside, and in you.

Well, you and your boyfriend started to have a strain in your relationship from the second year mark so it wasn’t really a surprise when he broke up with you tonight; it was inevitable. Everything you did seemed to make him either annoyed or somehow even pissed off, which was completely unreasonable since all you wanted was his attention.

"He’s a fucking scumbag, always was, only you saw him through rose-colored glass," your friend held your hand, slurring her words as she spoke. A bitter scoff left your lips before you chugged the rest of the mix of alcohols that you didn’t even recognise the names of. "I know, don’t remind me," you mumbled, trying to keep your words from slurring.

One of your friends suddenly clutched your arms, and with wide eyes she whispered, "holy fuck, there’s a crazy hot guy approaching us, you have to at least get his number, forget about that dumb ex of yours— just act flirty okay?" She slurred. "What?" You answered dumbly.

You looked back when you felt a tap on your shoulder, locking eyes with a blue eyed brunette with a charming smile. "Yes?" The guy chuckled, "you’re really pretty," he said bluntly, the alcohol in his system fueling his confidence.

You just stood there and blinked at him for a good minute before your intoxicated self acknowledged what he said, straightening up as a smirk made its way onto your lips. "You’re not bad looking yourself, and nice chain," you said pointing at your own collar, indicating to the silver chain – with a horse pendant – around his neck.

He laughed softly and looked down at his chain briefly before raking his gaze over your body appraisingly, leaning in as he whispered in your ear, "you up for a more quiet talk?" A smile curved up your lips and you nodded, telling your friends you’ll be back.

𓆩♡𓆪

The way up the second floor stairs and into a spare bedroom was a blur, followed by giggles and muffled sounds of clothes hitting the floor.

Your giggles turned into breathy sighs as he kissed your bare skin, trailing his lips down the valley between your tits and leaving a few wet kisses there before going lower. Humming in appreciation to your body as he licked a stripe down your pelvis, causing your breath to hitch.

Matt chuckled when he noticed you squirm under his attention, slowly parting your thighs with his hands, "you’re so pretty, m’gonna eat this pussy so good—so pretty," he murmured before diving down. Your eyes rolled back briefly the moment his tongue made contact with your throbbing clit, a breathy moan escaped through your parted lips.

"Mhm... so sensitive ain’t you, pretty?" he mumbled against your flesh, causing vibrations that made your hips buck against his face, a whine leaving your lips. "Fuck... feels so good—yeah, just like that, oh fu—ck," you moaned as he plunged two long digits into your spasming walls, curling them just right.

His fingers and mouth worked in tandem, making that knot in your lower abdomen tighter with each lick and stroke. Your moans grew louder as you squirmed against his face—only to be held down by his free hand, eliciting a sob of pleasure from you.

"Can’t—m’gonna, gonna—shit, shit, shit," you moaned loudly, your fingers clutching on his hair for dear life as a powerful orgasm washed over you. The intoxication of the alcohol in your system made it all the more intense as you struggled to come down from your high, and the way his tongue flicked over your oversensitized bud of nerves didn’t help one bit.

He sucked hard on your clit and started to pound his fingers into you, intentionally curling his fingers upwards. "Wait—shit, i’m gonna—oh fuck, fuck—" you moaned loudly, almost wailing as you squirted all over his face, the sensation bordering on too much.

Your body went limp on the bed, your breathing ragged as you tried to comprehend the earth-shattering orgasm you just had. Matt wiped his face with the back of his hand, rising up your body, nudging his painfully hard erection against your pelvis.

Despite your obvious sensitivity and almost overstimulating experience, you found yourself wrapping your legs around his torso, beckoning him closer—to which he gladly did.

He leaned down and brushed his lips against yours, "shh—you were so good, so good fo’me... you think you can go a bit more, pretty?" he murmured against your lips. "Yeah... just slowly, please," you whispered, your voice dying on you due to overuse.

He whispered soft praises and sweet nothings in your ear as he slowly pushed inside you, keeping a steady but slow pace. "Just like that, keep those pretty eyes on me and just feel alright?" He whispered, his lips trailing along your jaw and down your neck—ending at your collarbone where he left hickeys.

He made sure to be gentle even in his intoxicated state, knowing you were as drunk as, if not more than, him. His pace was unhurried but the tip of his cock brushed against your cervix with each thrust, grinding his hips whenever he bottomed out, making you whimper.

"Shit, you’re so big," you moaned, unable to think of anything but the thick girth inside you. Your walls fluttered around him, and each time he pulled back he would let out a groan at the way your pussy seemed to suck him in.

"Fuck—you like how big I am?" He rasped, and all you could do was nod, muttering a soft "yes" to which he groaned aloud. "Fuu—ck that’s dangerous," he mumbled, closing his eyes to hold on to that last bit of control, but the damage was already done.

His pace quickened, his hands gripped your knees and pushed them up, almost folding you in half as he started to pound into you. The tip of his cock hitting your cervix with bruising force each time, making you clutch onto him and the bedspread, your eyes wide as you moaned loudly.

He groaned loudly before smashing his lips against yours, swallowing your desperate cries of pleasure. The sound of the bedframe slamming against the wall rivalled with the sound of his hips slamming against yours.

The bed creaked beneath you, and your moans grew louder when he suddenly changed his angle, hitting that spot that made you see sparks. Your eyes rolled back as the pleasure threatened to consume you whole.

You jolted awake, sitting upright as you took in your surroundings, clutching your head at the severe pounding in your head. "Fuck, shouldn’t have drank so much..." Your hoarse voice trailed off when you noticed your nakedness under the covers.

Your mouth gaped as you tried to make sense of anything at all, but the hangover was preventing you from thinking even the slightest bit.

A slight movement beside you caught you off guard, and your gaze travelling to the guy sleeping beside you. His back was facing you—full of red marks, undeniable scratch marks. A soft flush creeped up your face at the sight.

You tentatively reached over and gently shook his shoulder. "Hey..." You tried to say but your voice was too hoarse and quiet so you opted to just get out of there before he woke up, but not before you wrote a small note, leaving it on the pillow next to him.

𓆩♡𓆪

Matt woke up a bit later, turning around just to be met with—no one. His eyebrows furrowed, he was sure he had hooked up with someone, "did I have a wet dream or something?" He mumbled to himself. Sitting upright on the bed before his gaze landed on the note beside him.

His face broke into a huge grin as he read the note, a soft chuckle escaping through his lips. You had written your name and phone number on the note, and had marked it with your lipstick stain.

𓆩♡𓆪

wc. 1,475

Isa's notes. Yeah... I know I haven't been posting, but what can I say? School has started and I'm in grade 12 (senior year) sooo I have a lot of things to do at the moment:( Also, I made so many jump cuts just because I was too lazy to write it all 😃

xoxo 𓆩♡𓆪

Taglist: @strnilolover @mattsfavoritestar @sophand4n4 @tpwktahlz @lilyyliloo @slut4angstt @pvssychicken @poolover123 @loud-sturniolos @inlovewchrissturniolo @queenshet @chrisstopherfilmed

© sweetshuga