#solid color cotton leggings

[coxblogs]

Fashion Tips To Rock Your Black Solid-Colored Workout Leggings

Scroll this down to acquire styling ideas on how to make a statement in trendy black solid color leggings.

[gymleggings]

5 Smart Ways Following Which You Can Avoid The Dreadful Camel Toe In Leggings

However, if you still want to know how to hide it then here are some useful tips given below. Check them out now:

[clothingmanufacturer]

Complete Buying Guide To Solid-Colored Leggings

As a private label business owner, interested in wholesale ordering women’s exercise leggings, you should coordinate with celebrated yoga pants in Arab manufacturer offering a wow-worthy collection of stylish gym leggings.

[riaki]

haii >:3 i was wondering of you could write a thing on if reader was a classmatw of gojo when they were in jujutsu tech? ur hsbullt gojo was really well written 💗

sorry if i sound rude, im not familiar with how tumblr works ;(

hey there!! thank u sm for ur ask nonnie ! hope this is good... and don’t worry!!!! ur perfectly fine my love 🤍

classmates | satoru gojo x reader cw: calls u princess, swearing

1:34PM. 5/21/06 - JUJUTSU TECH GYM - more than friends, less than lovers

"fucking hell, satoru!" you rub your head slowly, gritting your teeth as pain hammers the side of your skull; feels like a bruise is going to form, and you’re pretty sure you have basketball line marks on your face.

satoru jogs over to you, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking on the gym floor. there's that pesky grin on his lips again, and his eyes shine, a vibrant glow of youth. he’s not apologetic at all, you think with gritted teeth. he slows to a stop a few yards away from you, a panting, sweaty mess, yet you find yourself irritably drawn to him either way. he shoots you a quick wink, fanning himself with his shirt in a way that lets the dip of his hip expose itself to the musty air of the gym. a droplet of sweat slides down his skin, and your face burns.

"yo! pass me that ball, [name]." he waves an eager hand towards you, and you roll your eyes, tossing the basketball in his direction. it lands square on his chest with a thump, eliciting a little ‘oof’ from his lips and pressing the cotton of his shirt against his damp skin. and it sticks, defining his muscles in patches of wet cloth. the summer heat must really be getting to you, because the sound of his voice has your thoughts running far, far away from you.

you’re yanked back into reality when a little huff escapes his glossy lips, wiping his forehead and messing up his soft white hair, stray strands clinging together over his eyes. shoko made away with his sunglasses, which means you’ve got a front seat view of those gorgeous, yet equally uncanny irises. "hey, you've got a solid throw. you should give it a shot, yeah? why not join me 'n suguru for a round—"

“hell no.”

he just laughs at that, haughty and everything you should really learn to hate as he turns on his heel and heads back toward the center of the court, where suguru is waiting with an irked expression on his face.

“suit yourself, princess.” he tosses a wave in your direction of his shoulder, and you raise a hand to your chest, feeling your heart slam against your ribcage.

9:02AM. 11/06/07 - JUJUTSU TECH CLASSROOM - best friends

“so.”

gojo glances at you, as if surprised you broke the silence. you can see your own reflection in the lens of his shades, hiding his gaze from the world. sunlight filters in through the windows; it’s early, a break between classes. it shouldn’t be stuffy in the classroom with the windows open, but it still feels suffocating.

you stare at him, and he stares back from his seat atop your desk. his lips are curved down in that usual unamused look he’s always sporting, but there seems to be weight in his shoulders; a ghost tugging his muscles down, stiffening the muscles in his neck to the point where you wish you could just offer him a massage. but you’re not sure if he’d let you get close enough to ever do that.

“what?” he snaps, glaring at you as he sticks his bottom lip out. at least, you think he’s glaring— it’s been harder to tell lately, what’s on his mind. not that you were ever able to read him easily before, though. he likes to hide.

you kick the leg of the desk he’s sitting on with a foot, sighing and humming to yourself for a moment or two. you don’t see it, but gojo’s expression softens slightly and he looks back up at the ceiling again, callused fingers curling around the edge of the desk. the pale color of his skin makes the veins on his hands more prominent; a subtle, muted blue that makes you want to run a hand over his arm.

the two of you had stopped by a store that morning. you’d bought a cup of coffee and two onigiri for yourselves, but it seems like he’s already finished his. you know right now is the prime time for his appetite to flare up— with adolescence and all, but he doesn’t seem to be eating much. or at least, not from what you can tell.

“here, have this.”

gojo glances down at you once more, letting himself observe you with his full vision; not one that’s always hidden behind a layer of thick black stained glass, meant to absorb the pain and the headaches for him. you, who’s so gentle and soft with him— surely you wouldn’t cause him any sort of aching, if not for the one inside the cavity of his chest. it takes him a moment to realize you’re holding out something to him— your onigiri, half eaten. there’s a shriveled little plum showing, burrowed between the layers of sticky rice and dry seaweed wrappings.

he’s uncharacteristically silent as he grabs it from you, the crinkle of the plastic wrapping the only noise in the world as he stares at it for a moment before starting to eat. his cheek puffs when he starts chewing; the bob of his adam’s apple in his throat when he swallows makes it hard for you to stifle a smile. even with the weight of all he’s carrying, gojo still manages to look like a child every now and then. you can’t help but think he’s grown up too fast.

you let a moment of silence pass, stealing a long glance at him as he busies himself with his half of the rice ball, wolfing it down.

“i know i cant offer much to you, satoru…” you started quietly; tenderly, if he listened closely. the way you say his name makes his throat constrict in a way he’s not familiar with.

“…but if you ever need something— anything— i’ll be here. plus, i never finish my onigiri anyway. so you can have the half i don’t eat,” you laughed, closing your eyes and listening to the morning breeze outside. gojo takes the opportunity to observe you; the soft curve of your cheeks, the way your lashes curl, the soft fade of your full lips at the edges and the hair that frames your face.

you can feel his eyes on you, but you let him get away with it. it feels like an infinite eternity goes by before his voice finally cuts through the thick air.

“…have you been resting? the bags under your eyes are darker than usual.” he pokes at you, shifting again, but you seem to revel in the comfortable familiarity of his banter; something that makes his heart ache in a way only you elicit from him. the way you pull at his heart strings is so natural and easy that it’s unnatural to ignore.

“probably more than you have,” you teased. gojo sniffles, and you chalk it up to the seasonal illnesses.

2:46AM. 12/07/08 - JUJUTSU TECH DORMS - ?

it’s half past two in the morning when you get gojo’s text. or, more accurately, the one you forced him to send when he returned from his mission.

m done. u can come pver

he looks a little too much like a zombie when you knock on the door of his dorm and it swings open for you, revealing him in all his tired glory. the bags under his eyes are redder and darker than usual, and his hair is tussled and messy. it’s obvious he hasn’t bothered to clean himself up. his white tee is stained with something damp; his tears, but you don’t dwell on it. there’s a bandaid on the bottom of his jaw; you can see a hint of angry red scrapes peeking out from beneath the beige material.

“you look like shit.”

“are you gonna come in or not?”

you oblige and step inside, the plastic bag in your hand rustling with each movement. it’s a bit loud, and you just pray you don’t get caught sneaking into gojo’s room this late at night. at least you know which boards creak.

he closes the door behind you, crossing his arms over his chest and observing you. you look the same as you always do, but the way your hair falls over your face makes him want to brush it back, like some unresolved impulse. he doesn’t do anything about it; hanging around you for so long has taught him how to keep himself in control. for as long as he can manage, anyway.

he speaks up first, voice hoarse and low with lack of use. “what’s in the bag?” he makes it sound like it’s something illegal. and at this point, you’re not sure if the feeling that pushes you to do things for him should be considered so, because sometimes it feels like it.

“a birthday cake. or— it’s a fruit tart i stayed up to make.” you said, placing the bag on his cluttered desk, pushing away photo frames and bloody tissues and pencils shaven down to eraser stubs to make room for the box. satoru meanders over to you, peering over your shoulder with one hand on the desk to support himself. you can feel his breath on your neck, hot even in the darkness. it makes your hands clammy.

moonlight spills in from the windows next to his bed, but it’s not enough, so you turn on the lamp and open the box. the tart’s been through quite a bit— jostled in transport, marred in the making— but the sweet smell of fruit and cream makes his mouth water nonetheless.

“wow, that’s nice of you. weirdly so, actually. are you really [name]?” you can hear the grin in satoru’s voice, and you know he can hear the exasperation in your voice when you reply, using the plastic utensils you packed to cut a slice for him. the red strawberry juice stains the cream as your knife slices through, a rivulet of vermillion.

“shut up and be grateful. you get the slice with kiwi and the rotten blueberries just for that,” you huff, indignantly in a way that reminds satoru of a rather petulant housecat. he takes the tart from you, cold fingers ghosting over yours as the golden brown crust crumbles in his palm.

ignoring the sour berries, the taste is like a bite of heaven, but not the distant kind that’s hidden behind a veil of clouds. the kind that’s only found within the quaint, humble warmth of a homely kitchen, made with love by one’s own hand. your hand. the knowledge tastes all the sweeter on his tongue.

he’s snapped from his dazed pastry-savoring stupor when you speak up again, enjoying a slice of your own.

“happy birthday, gojo.” he stiffens, but he’s not quite sure why. if you notice his change in demeanor, you don’t say anything about it.

“congrats to another year,” you smiled, lifting up your half-eaten tart, not unlike the onigiri you’d shared with him a year ago. except this time he reciprocates, and you share a toast of berries and cream in the darkness of his dorm, at 3am on a quiet sunday.

the dorms are silent. the only sound is the wind outside, throwing leaves and dust at the window panes as it sings a tune in ode to winter. come tomorrow, it’ll likely be silenced by a coating of thick, white snow; unmoving, burying the secrets of the earth beneath the glittering icicles. not unlike the boy next to you, with pretty blue eyes that are constantly focused yet distant all the same, hair the color of clouds and face worn with age unbefitting of a child.

come tomorrow, the snow will fall and snuff out the life of the flowers and plants. but in this tranquil bubble of time, satoru is as free as a dove outside of its silver cage.

he reaches over, pulling you in by the sleeve of your night shirt and pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of your lips. it happens in the blink of an eye; a moment of impulse, where for once, he allows himself to breathe; to let down the walls he literally holds up around him, to let his fingers curl into the fabric of your clothes and breathe in your scent, taste the heat on your skin and the buttery sweet crumbs dotting the curve of your lips; the dips in the corners of your mouth that make you always look so pretty when you smile.

when he pulls away, he refuses to meet your gaze, instead staring down at the only remaining clue of the tart in his palm— a single, rotten blueberry, squishy and soft. the silence rings in his ear as his face becomes hot.

“what was that for?” you ask quietly, staring angrily— in embarrassment, into nothing.

“there were crumbs on your mouth,” he explains.

nothing more, nothing less.

my (riaki) stuff. don’t repost and/or plagiarize !

[dreamgrlarchive]

current wardrobe shopping list 💻💕💵:

around this time of year i always like making clothing wishlists for the fall and winter, and my wardrobe naturally shifts for the spring and summer. i always seem to slightly tweak my personal look around this time of year to make sure my wardrobe is true to me! prissy girl 4 life! 💓🍰

tops:

lace bandeaus for layering, feather trimmed button down tops, knitted fuzzy fitted tops, fur trimmed half jackets and crop tops, rhinestone lettered shirts, victoria’s secret off shoulder sweaters, lace camis, off shoulder knitted tops in my color palette, satin button downs, sheer tops, lululemon strawberry milkshake define jacket, fur collar leather jacket, oversized sweaters in pink and black, basic neutral long sleeved cotton tops

bottoms:

microscopic boy shorts with cute details, leather mini skirt, tartan plaid mini skirt, fold over yoga pants, lace trimmed skirt, miss me embellished skinny jeans, denim pleated skirt, houndstooth mini skirt, leather flare pants, fur/feather skirt

dresses + etc.:

ribbed knit bodysuit, pink and black rompers for layering, cotton bodysuits in my color palette, rhinestone skims dresses, hidden cult distressed pink halter dress, skims slip dresses, knit bodysuits, i am gia tracksuits in black and pink, pink jacket and legging set, solid black leggings, gray leggings, pink body by tracy set, black and pink fine girl set, new pink workout set

accessories:

knitted knee high socks, sheer socks, fuzzy beret, baby phat belt, fur headbands, fuzzy leg warmers, lace tights, diamond hair clips

jewelry:

anklets, new pandora charms, body chains, bling nostril hoops, bow ring and necklace, tiara charm bracelet and necklace, diamond encrusted hoops, tiffany toggle choker, dainty tennis bracelets, new cute belly rings

purses:

medium ballerina telfar, hello kitty wallet, heaven sent leopard print wallet, tory burch ella tote, juicy couture wristlet, louis vuitton speedy 30, rhinestone encrusted purse, feather satchel, hello kitty purse, pink puffer tote, victoria’s secret glitter tote, burberry satchel, ruffled pink purse, juicy couture 2022 bowler bag

shoes:

fuzzy boots in pink and gray, black kitten heels, pink closed toe pumps, jelly platform sandals, white fur bearpaw boots, y.r.u. qrystal pink platforms, juicy couture fur slides, total temptress heels, sequin uggs, pink fur platform sandals, sherpa lined pink crocs, sparkly heels, strappy heels, mary janes

[waltergoldpreppy]

Anthony become Tonygold

Anthony wakes early that morning, roused from his sleep by a dull excitement he can’t suppress. The sound of a delivery truck outside reminds him of the reason for his unusual haste; his new clothes have arrived. After quickly getting ready, he rushes to the front door, where several large packages are waiting for him, neatly stacked.

The mere sight of these packages fills him with a mixture of satisfaction and haste. He begins to unpack them one by one, with almost ceremonial care. Each piece he discovers is a promise of transformation, one step closer to the sartorial perfection he now aspires to.

The first package contains several suits, all neatly stored in protective covers. The heavy, thin fabric slips through his fingers as he begins to hang them on his clothes rail.

He chooses to try on the navy plaid suit first.  He puts on the pants, which fall perfectly on his hips, without needing any alterations. The fabric is both light and structured, adapting to each movement with an almost unsettling precision. Then, he puts on the jacket, fitted, with slightly reinforced shoulders, giving him an even more confident posture. He looks at himself in the mirror, observing the fine white lines of the checks that accentuate the natural elegance of the suit. He knows that this two-piece will become one of his favorites for work days.

Moving on to the shirts, Anthony chooses a sky blue with. The cotton is soft on his skin, and he takes the time to button it slowly, appreciating the contrast between the blue of the shirt and the navy of the suit. He then adjusts his tie, a sober solid blue piece, which he tightens around his neck with an impeccable knot. The ensemble is both simple and refined, a perfect balance.

He's not done exploring yet. He moves on to the Golden Ralph Lauren sleeveless sweater, which he puts on over a white shirt. The color combination is vibrant, and the sweater gives him a superior but still neat look, perfect for more casual days at the office.

To complete it, he tries on one last accessory: a Golden bow tie. He hesitates for a moment, aware that this color stacks up enormously on his outfit but he Loves the Gold one. Tying it around his neck and adjusting it carefully, he likes this touch of shine. It adds an almost royal dimension to his ensemble. He knows he'll wear it on days when he has to impose a marked presence, where his simple appearance will have to capture attention.

Then, he tries on another suit, this time the slightly satiny grey three piece suit. The material is sublime, as he approaches the mirror, he admires the shine that gives a sensuality to the suit.  He pairs it with a grey shirt for a classic look, but chooses a Golden tie to add a touch of power. By adding a black leather belt with a Gold buckle, he feels invincible, as if this outfit will accompany him on a day where he can only succeed.

Anthony then heads to the shoes, where three pairs are waiting for him, brilliantly lined up. He chooses to try on the black brogs and Golden sheer socks. The leather is soft but strong, and the elegant cut elongates the line of his legs. He walks around his room for a moment, enjoying the sound of his footsteps, each gesture calculated, almost choreographed. He is certain that this will be his choice for today!

After reviewing a good part of his new wardrobe, Anthony contemplates the result in the mirror. Every detail is perfect: the suit, the shoes, the tie, the accessories.  He feels that every piece of clothing he wears is an extension of this new person he is becoming, a man of rigor, style, and discipline.

Finally, he runs his fingers through his hair, carefully smoothing it with a lot of gel, as if to perfect this picture he has painted of himself. He is ready for a new day, but this time, with an even more assertive confidence.

Anthony smiles, heading towards his bedroom door, his bag carefully packed with a few changes of clothes. Today, he will be impeccable, and he knows that this will only be the beginning of a long road to excellence.

Anthony, satisfied with his fittings, takes one last look at the pile of empty boxes that litter the floor of his room. As he prepares to put everything away, his gaze falls on a package that he has not yet opened. The box is slightly larger and, to his surprise, his name is written in Gold letters on the top. Intrigued, he opens it slowly, almost as if he knows that this package is different.

Inside, a set lies, folded neatly; a Gold jersey, accompanied by Gold shorts, a Gold jockstrap, Gold long socks and even Gold cleats. The clothes shine under the light, sending back hypnotic sparkles that instantly captivate his gaze. Without thinking, almost instinctively, Anthony decides to try on this strange kit.

He starts by putting on the Gold long socks.  As soon as they wrap around his calves, a strange warmth rises along his legs, as if his body reacts immediately to the contact of the fabric. His muscles seem to contract slightly, and he feels a slight pulsation under his skin.

Then, he puts on the Golden jock strap, and the effect is even more intense. A wave of pleasure runs through his spine, while his thighs tense, each muscle taking on a more defined shape. He looks down for a moment, surprised to see the firmness that is outlined under this simple garment. His penis swells, becoming hard and definitely bigger and thicker.

When he puts on the Golden shorts, the sensation becomes almost unbearable, as if every fiber of his being resonates with the precious fabric. His mind begins to fog up, logical thoughts slowly dissolve, replaced by a soothing emptiness. He knows he should be scared, but all he feels is a deep obedience, a desire to continue.

He then puts on the Golden jersey.  As soon as the fabric brushes his skin, a violent wave of heat explodes through his body. His shoulders broaden, his pecs swell, and his arms become more massive. He looks at himself in the mirror and watches, helpless and fascinated, the transformation that takes place. His muscles develop before his eyes, each fiber weaving denser, more powerful. His abs, once discreet, suddenly become defined, visible under the shiny fabric.

His breathing quickens, and with each breath, he feels his body grow in strength and stature. His mind begins to slowly fade. He is no longer Anthony, the man who worked in an office. He becomes something else. Someone else.

A member of Team Gold.

Without thinking, Anthony grabs the Golden cleats and puts them on. As soon as his feet touch the ground, a final wave of change invades him.  His eyes, once deep brown, begin to sparkle with a Golden glow. He straightens, his muscles tense, his jaw clenched. He feels powerful, implacable, as if he could conquer the world.

His mind is now filled with new thoughts, new rules. He is now devoted to the team. The goals are clear: to spread the transformation, to bring other men to join the ranks, to wear the Gold, to serve. He no longer remembers the doubts or resistances he had before.

All that matters now is the Gold team.

Anthony looks at himself one last time in the mirror, with his new eyes shining. He is no longer just a man, he is a soldier of Team Gold.

Anthony stands in front of the mirror, his massive, muscular body gleaming in his new Gold uniform. The hypnotic shimmer of the fabric seems to reflect a new identity, a new purpose. He is no longer who he used to be, but he still struggles to put this total transformation into words.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand. With an almost mechanical gesture, he picks it up and sees a message from *WalterGold* flashing on the screen.

"Welcome, TonyGold. It's time to bring the golden light to others."

The name hits Anthony like a punch to the stomach. *TonyGold.* The name resonates in his mind like a no-brainer. This is no longer Anthony, the quiet office worker. He is *TonyGold*, a dedicated player for Team Gold, ready to enforce the rules, to transform those around him.

The phone vibrates again. A call this time. It's Walter.

Anthony picks up, his fingers trembling with an excitement he only half understands. A calm and authoritative voice echoes through the device.

"*TonyGold*, you received your kit, I can feel it. How do you feel?" "Powerful", he answers without thinking, his voice deeper, more assured.

"Perfect. Your transformation is almost complete. Now, you know what you have to do."

Tony lets out a monumental load in his Gold jock strap, to signify his total submission to the Golden team. He catches his breath.

Anthony remains silent, attentive to Walter's every word.

"The team needs new players. At the office, some of your colleagues have immense potential. They don't know it yet, but they are destined to wear Gold, just like you."

"I understand." *Tony murmurs, his mind already visualizing every man in the office in a Gold jersey. 

"I will send you a hypnotic file, as planned. Your role will be to distribute it discreetly. They will have no choice. Their minds, like yours, will be captivated by the gold. And soon, they will be part of the team."

A shiver runs down TonyGold's spine at the thought of bringing his colleagues to the same Golden obedience that consumes him. His Golden eyes shine with a new light as Walter continues:

"Never forget, TonyGold, you are one of us now. The gold is in you. Every day you live, every action you take must be for the team."

"For the team." Tony repeats, his thoughts completely in sync with Walter's.

The call ends, but Walter's words still echo in his head. He knows what he must do. His Gold uniform is never leaving him, not even mentally.  TonyGold is ready to bring Gold to others, to transform those around him.

He looks at himself one last time in the mirror. His Golden eyes sparkle with unwavering devotion. He is TonyGold, and he is here to serve.

(End of part 6)

Part 5

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

TAKE CARE OF YOU

Sugar Daddy!Joel Miller x Female!Reader

Overall Warnings: slow burn, angst/comfort, power imbalance, age gap, possessive tendencies, eventual smut, #daddyissues, independent reader learns to let go and relax, emotionally constipated Joel Miller learns to be vulnerable; (more specific warnings to be added to individual chapters if necessary)

Chapter Word Count: 4,312

Summary: You spent your entire adult life supporting yourself and barely getting by. It's why a life of ease offered to you by a mysterious stranger sounded so foreign and unbelievable. Joel Miller, dressed in flannels that had seen better days, didn't look like the kind who could promise you the world on a plate, but he seemed desperate to help out. All he asks is that you let him take care of you. That wouldn't be so hard. Would it?

[a/n: i know what you're thinking. 'JJ, what the hell are you doing?' The answer to that question, always, is 'I have no fucking idea'. But, this idea gripped my soul. Oops.]

01: YOU WORK A BUNCH THEN ONE DAY YOU DIE

"i don't want a sugar daddy but maybe like a sugar buddy. i just hit him up like, 'Hey how are you today?' and he replies, 'Doing great thanks for asking here's $7,000.'" -unknown

The life you lived was simple and boring. You were reminded of this fact as Nima rambled through a story about how her blind date last night had turned into a bar brawl which spiraled into a stint in the emergency room. Meanwhile, you had binged a show you'd already watched a dozen times on Netflix while shoveling popcorn down your throat. This worked perfectly for you though. You got to stay in your comfort zone while living vicariously through your best friend’s disasters. 

“Please tell me you won’t be seeing her again.” You chuckled.

Nima scoffed, “Hell no. She could not carry her own in that bar brawl. That’s why we ended up in the ER.” She scrunched her nose then shrugged. “But she’s fine now. The girl only needed like seven stitches.”

You shook your head and breathed out a laugh. For the entire time you had known her, going on a decade now, Nima had never dated a normal woman. It was almost impressive how terrible her record was.

The Korean woman’s hair was dyed a solid bubble gum pink and tied up into two messy buns atop her head. Her clothes were a patchwork of pastel colors that showed off her toned midriff and long legs. The purse wrapped around her chest was shaped like a giant strawberry and the large headphones wrapped around her neck were equally as bright as the rest of her. Everything about Nima was a blur of chaos and energy and people couldn’t help but be drawn to her. Add that to her awful taste in women and it was the perfect recipe for her wild dating history. 

“Why did we come here?” You asked as your eyes scanned the menu of the coffee shop. The two of you were in the very long line waiting to reach the register, and you had to lean to the side to see around the broad man standing in front of you both. “It’s so overpriced.”

“I follow this girl on insta and she said they have the best lavender matcha latte.” Nima shimmied her shoulders in excitement. “It looked amazing.” She bumped her hip against yours. “What are you gonna get?”

“Will you yell at me if I say vanilla latte?”

“Yes!” Nima scoffed. “That’s so boring! Get one of their specialty drinks at least!”

“Like?”

Nima scanned the menu then pointed at something. “Get the cotton candy frappe!”

You chuckled and continued to scan the menu. There had to be a middle ground option between those two. The line continued to move and Nima had switched from her dating life to her newest project at work. She was an engineer currently working in construction. You were immensely proud of the success she had found in her passions. Honestly, a bit jealous as well. You were in the northern end of your twenties and you had still yet to find something you loved. It was like the world had hit pause on the momentum of your life post college. Time flew by, years passed, but nothing had changed.

The man in front of you reached the register and you realized you’d have to pick something soon. You heard him order something simple⏤ like you had planned. You didn’t pay him much mind until you noticed him patting his pockets growing more frantic with his motions as he realized he was missing something. Finally, he groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. From the angle you stood at, you could just barely see his profile, but it was enough to see his face was scrunched up in frustration. You glanced over at Nima, who was texting, then back to the man who was obviously having a terrible day.

“Sir?” The boy working the till questioned.

“Just⏤” The man huffed as if he were trying to wrap his mind around something. You assumed there was more going on than just a lack of money to buy some coffee. Not having the means to pay for something was probably just the icing on the cake for him. It wasn’t a situation you were unfamiliar with. 'Been there, done that'.

Quickly, you stepped up to stand beside him and fished out your card. “Add a, uh, cinnamon roll latte to that order please. I’ll pay.”

“Wait.” The man held his hand out to argue, but the guy at the register was already swiping your card. He wrote the orders out and motioned for Nima to step up next. The man stepped away from the register without tearing his eyes away from you. His stare was inquisitive and confused. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He had a southern drawl to his words that you didn’t hear often in this part of Los Angeles. Your eyes scanned his figure which looked even more broad when you stood in front of him. The man wore a worn out red flannel with old blue jeans and work boots. His hair was a bit messy, fluffed and slightly curled at the ends, in mostly shades of brown with a bit of silver peppered in. The silver was more prominent in the scruff along his jawline. He was handsome, there was no denying that. Even with his eyebrows furrowed and his lips drawn out in a frown, you couldn’t help but admire him.

“Don’t worry about it.” You shrugged. “You looked like you were having a rough day. We all need a helping hand now and again.”

When Nima finished ordering you turned your focus on her, but she said she was running to the bathroom and disappeared. It left you standing alone next to the man waiting for the drinks to be made. Which would be fine if you didn't feel his gaze still burning into you. Awkwardly, you crossed your arms. You were overthinking it. Paranoid. He probably wasn’t even paying you any mind anymore. To reassure yourself, you glanced over at him only to realize you had not been paranoid. Your eyes locked with his soulful brown ones. Handsome brown eyed men were a menace to society. Nobody should have that much power with just a gaze. Panicked and embarrassed, you snapped your gaze forward once more.

“Thank you.” He said gruffly.

“Like I said,” You cleared your throat, “It’s no problem.”

“I’d love to pay you back.”

You turned to face him, letting out a small laugh, but he didn’t join in. The man just stared at you patiently. Your laughter died as you blinked at him in surprise. “Wait, really?” He nodded. “That seriously isn’t necessary. It was like five dollars.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s the principle.”

“Listen, you seem stubborn, but I promise you I’m worse.” You joked and the corner of his lip curled up into an amused smile that was gone as quick as it came. You almost wondered if you imagined it. “Just… the next time you’re out and you see someone struggling, pay it forward. Deal?”

He didn’t reply for a moment. Just stared, and it took all your willpower not to glance away again. Finally, he crossed his arms over his chest. You mentally cursed when your dumb eyes traced the lines of his arms. No ogling the stranger. He nodded once. “You drive a hard bargain.” A small smile cracked his otherwise solemn features and this time it lingered long enough for you to actually acknowledge it. “But you got yourself a deal, darlin’.” Your cheeks burned again at the term of endearment. He paused before holding out a hand to you. “I’m Joel.”

You shook his hand, his much larger one enveloping yours entirely, and you offered him your own name. Silence settled between the two of you, but it only lasted a beat before your orders were called out. Joel’s long stride had him at the counter before you got there. He picked up your coffee first and offered it to you before taking his own.

“Thanks.” You chirped.

“I’m thankin’ you, remember?” Joel lifted his simple cup as a reminder. He gave you a slight nod. “It was nice to meet you, darlin’.”

“Uh, you too! Hope your day gets better!” You gave him a small wave. 

Joel turned to leave and you couldn’t help but let your eyes trail up and down his entire body. His jeans could not fit him more perfectly. Ogling the stranger was okay, you decided, as long as said stranger wasn’t watching you do it. As you shamelessly checked him out, you didn’t notice your friend drift back to you. “Nice.” You jumped in surprise. Nima was grinning at you in excitement. “Please tell me you got a number.”

“A number?” You scoffed. “Are you crazy??”

“I saw sparks!”

You rolled your eyes, “You literally see sparks everywhere, Nima.”

“Okay, yeah, maybe, but one of these days I’m gonna be right.” She argued. “Statistically, speaking.”

You changed the topic of conversation, which was always easy to do with Nima, and took a sip of your coffee. It was a bit too sweet for your taste, but the trip to this pretentious coffee shop hadn’t been a complete waste. How often did people get a chance to chat with a handsome, older southern gentleman?

The bakery you worked out was a small family owned business. The owner, a cute little old man named Henry Pack, was an old friend of your father’s and when you showed interest in work he hired you without hesitation. That was two years ago. The initial plan was for this to be temporary. A way to earn money so you could pay bills and save up to finish your degree. However, life had dished out hit after hit and suddenly your temporary plan had turned more permanent. 

Plus, the shop wasn’t doing well, it wasn’t getting the traffic it used to, and Henry was getting older and older. He needed the help and even if something else came up⏤ whether it be better paying or more enjoyable⏤ you didn’t think you’d be able to leave Henry behind. Not after all he had done for you. 

You wiped down the counter once more mostly out of boredom. The last customer had been in and out nearly an hour ago. Henry walked in from the back office and you glanced over at him. He was a short, portly man with ruddy cheeks and a kind smile. It hurt your heart how stressed he had been as of late.

“Have you noticed much foot traffic outside?” He asked, hopeful.

“A bit.” You nodded. “Lunch just ended. I’m sure that’s why we have a lull.”

“Right, right.” Henry replied as if trying to convince himself.

The older man knelt down to root around in the lower cabinets. You offered to find whatever it was he was looking for, knowing he had bad knees, but he brushed your hands away stating he was just fine. With a sigh, you thought now was the best time to bring up the question that had been plaguing you.

“Henry, I need to talk to you about maybe a… a raise?”

He glanced up from where he was knelt with a frown. “I told you, hon. I can’t afford to pay you more. No matter how much I wish I could.” Henry sighed. “Well, maybe if I…”

“Never mind.” You said quickly. It was clear that your question was distressing to Henry. It wasn’t his fault you weren’t making the kind of money you needed. He was barely scraping by as well with the costs of keeping this place open. Henry gave you a sad smile⏤ an apology. He finished what he was doing and wandered back to his office. You blew out a frustrated breath. Maybe you could pick up a new job. The problem was that you were already working a crazy amount of hours here at the bakery. If you were somehow able to become the first human alive who didn't require sleep then that could work.

You covered your face with your hands and leaned back against the counter. For most of your adult life, you only had yourself to rely on financially. It was fine. That was the hand life dealt you. Nima was constantly offering to pay for certain things, or trying to loan you money, but you always refused. Too prideful to take her money with no guarantee that you’d be able to pay her back or offer her anything in return. 

The sound of a bell chime startled you and you pushed off the counter quickly to try and regather your bearings. You cleared your throat and turned toward the door to offer the guest a smile. A greeting began to leave your lips, but it was cut short when you realized you recognized the man crossing the space to reach the register. It was the handsome coffee guy from a week ago.

“Well, you’re a familiar face.” You chuckled. “Joel, right?”

“Right.” He looked surprised that you remembered his name. Joel cleared his throat and came to stand in front of the register to face you. He had on a similar outfit to the last time you saw him. Flannel and jeans, but he seemed a bit more put together today. “Are you guys closed?”

“No. It’s just a… slow day.” All the days were slow actually. You straightened your apron, the only uniform item required for you to wear, and offered him a bright grin. “What can I get for you, sir?”

Joel glanced over the menu then the display case before nodding. “Muffins?”

“Okay.” You nodded when he gave you no further information. His eyes just snapped back to you. “What kind? How many?”

His eyes widened and he forced his gaze back to the display. “Just, uh, six of the blueberry?”

You bit back an amused chuckle and moved to start packing a box with his order. It was funny to you that this man had come into a bakery without an order in mind. After closing the box, you set it on the counter in front of him. “So, do you make a habit of popping into bakeries to order random things? Just passing by and thought ‘why not?’.”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel chuckled. He reached into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. He gave it a small wave and nodded at you. “I have money with me today.”

“Very nice. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you.” He flipped it open and pulled out a card to hand to you. You hadn’t even told him how much the muffins would be. “I triple checked before leavin’ the house.” You handed him back the receipt with his card, and Joel put them away without making any move to leave. “How long have you worked here?”

You leaned against the counter. “About 2 years now. A family friend owns the shop.”

“Are you the one who,” Joel motioned to the display, “bakes?”

It was odd to you that the man sounded so nervous about having a simple, casual conversation. It was as if he was rusty at the skill and was attempting to stretch out those old muscles. With a small, amused smile, you shrugged. “Some of it. Henry is the main baker, he’s incredible, and I learned from him.”

“Is it somethin’ you enjoy?”

“Meh.” You answered honestly. “I’ve gotten decent at it, but I don’t necessarily love it. Just sort of fell into it.” Joel nodded and his pretty brown eyes darted around like he was looking for a new conversation topic. You threw him a bone. “What about you? What do you do?” You motioned to him and teased. “I’m guessing lumberjack.”

Joel chuckled, “Lumberjack?”

“Yeah.” You pushed off the counter to stand straight. “If I squinted I‘d mix you up with the Brawny guy.” His eyebrows furrowed in confusion and you let out a mocking scoff. “You know? The paper towel lumberjack.”

You saw a flash of recognition in his eyes and a breathy laugh left him. Joel shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve gotten that one before, darlin’.” 

“Where are you from?” You blurted curiously. “There’s no way you picked up that drawl living in LA.”

“No, I didn’t.” Joel replied. “Texas. I’m from Texas.”

“Ah. That fits. You’re like a cowboy then.”

Joel rested his hands on the counter, “Am I a lumberjack or a cowboy? I’m gonna need you to make up your mind here.”

“Hm, can I get three to five business days to decide?” 

“I suppose.” Joel nodded. 

The door chime rang out and you glanced over to see another person wander in. For the first time ever, you found yourself disappointed to see a paying customer. Joel cleared his throat, dragging your attention back to him, and you watched as he opened up his wallet again to pull out a crisp five dollar bill. You laughed with a shake of your head as he shoved it into the tip jar.

“It was nice to see you again.” Joel said.

“You too. Have a good day.”

Joel picked up the box of muffins and on his way out he called back, “I’ll be back to find out if I’m a lumberjack or cowboy, darlin’. So get to thinkin'.”

Your cheeks warmed in amusement and you wondered if he was actually serious or if that was just a teasing joke. The other customer reached the register, and you turned to greet them. The stress of thinking about your bills and work life had been briefly soothed by the distraction of talking to Joel. That was nice.

Shockingly, Joel hadn’t been joking. He came back a few days later, ordering something random and on the spot, then demanded to know if he was a cowboy or a lumberjack. You had convinced him to give you more time to think as you joked that you needed further evidence to assess. That had been the start of a habit. Joel would randomly come in just to chat every few days or so and buy a new baked good from you.

A few times, he had walked in while you were helping other customers, but he always waited until they were rung up and on their way out before initiating any conversation with you. It was during the fifth visit that you could tell he was nervous about something. After some time he had gotten more comfortable talking to you, but today it was almost like he had recessed back to that first time. 

“Are you workin’ this weekend?” Joel asked after ten minutes of small talk.

“Only on Sunday.” You admitted. “I’m picking up some extra shifts.”

“More shifts? Don’t you already work ‘em all?”

You chuckled. “Not all of them, but definitely most. But, hey, that’s life, right? You work a bunch and then one day you die.” Joel always seemed uncomfortable when you talked about your work schedule in any fashion. “Why do you ask?”

He had furrowed his brow at your working comment, but it quickly smoothed out as he shifted in place. It was cute to see a man as large and intimidating as he could be squirming over whatever topic he was trying to bring up. You stayed silent and let Joel mull it over. While he worked out whatever was on his mind, you could admire how well his plain t-shirt fit him. 

“Nothin’. Just curious is all, darlin’.” Joel finally coughed out and you bit back a frown.

“What about you?”

Joel shrugged. “Workin’ some. Stayin’ busy.”

Multiple conversations ago he had revealed that he worked as some kind of contractor. You didn’t know much about that job other than it had something to do with building houses? Maybe? When you asked for more details he had stayed pretty vague.

“I should head out.” Joel cleared his throat holding the box of cookies in his hands.

“Oh. Yeah.” You nodded. “Sure. It was nice to see you as always, Joel.”

Joel gave you a tight lipped smile before turning on his heel and beginning to leave. He was halfway to the door before he spun on his heel and marched back⏤ startling you. Joel set the box down on the counter, hands resting on the edge, and kept his eyes downcast.

“I have a…proposition.” He blurted. Joel’s eyes snapped up to meet yours and the weight in those warm brown eyes nearly knocked you to your knees. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t harboring a small crush on this man. Despite him being nearly two decades older than you, if you garnered a guess, the attraction you felt to him was not affected. In fact, it probably made you a bit more attracted to him. You knew that a therapist would probably cry out ‘daddy issues’, but you also had a hard time believing anyone could not be attracted to this man.

That being said, a part of you⏤ a very small part that you were too scared to encourage⏤ was really hoping he could be asking you out to dinner or drinks. Was that silly and unrealistic? Probably. It didn’t extinguish that little flame of hope though. You shrugged. “Proposition?”

“I wanna take care of you.” Joel spoke firmly. As if by just bringing this topic up, he had shed his nerves and was focused solely on selling you whatever this proposition was. You narrowed your eyes confused at his wording. The man continued. “Help you out, darlin’.”

“With?”

“Anythin’ and everythin’.” Joel sighed. “You name it and it's yours.”

You let out a confused chuckle. It was like the tables had turned and now you were the one who felt nervous. You buried your hands into your apron pockets and tilted your head. “Not to sound dense, but, uh, what?” Joel didn’t immediately reply. He just stared at you and his eyes burned straight to your soul. A warmth churned in your belly. “I just need you to be specific about what you’re offering because it’s going to be really awkward if I’m misunderstanding you.”

“I’m offerin’ you a life of ease. You work too much, doing somethin’ you don’t even love, and even when you’re off I bet all you do is stress about havin’ to work more to afford rent and bills. Am I wrong?” Joel challenged. You twisted your lips not having a solid argument. He wasn’t wrong. “So… let me take care of you, darlin’.” The choice of his words, the sound of his accent, in his gruff voice sent chills down your spine. You swallowed the lump in your throat and squirmed under his heavy gaze. “I’d love nothin’ more.”

“Nothing more? I… I don’t think that’s usually how that works.” You mumbled softly. An almost sickening feeling filled your gut. No amount of attraction to Joel would soften the idea of him paying you for sex. That’s what he was asking right? Joel makes you comfortable, pays all your bills, and in return you fuck him? 

Joel must have noticed the shift in your mood because he held out a hand in surrender. “I know what you’re thinkin’. Not like that. I wouldn’t expect…” He winced. A bit of his nerves crept back into his features. “I wanna take care of you, and all I ask in return is that you allow me to do that. Offer some platonic company. Someone to talk to. Plus, occasionally, I’d need…a date. No strings there either. Work drags me to a bunch of real stupid conferences and outings. Having someone to talk to durin’ those things would be…nice.”

“That’s it?” You found it hard to fully trust that. As much as you had enjoyed your conversations with him, you still barely knew him. “You’d offer someone a little cash to chat with them?”

“Not just a little cash.” Joel said firmly. “Everything. Takin’ care of you isn’t somethin’ I’d want to half ass, darlin’.”

“That’s even less believable.” You said skeptically.

Joel nodded. “Fair. How about this,” He cleared his throat, “You said you’re off Saturday?” You nodded. “Let’s meet. Talk about this. No pressure. You can ask any and all questions you have.”

You chewed on your lower lip in thought. Saturday was two days away. “Can I think about that? Before I even agree to meet you.”

“Of course.” Joel nodded. He pulled a business card from his wallet and held it out for you to take. You reached out for it, and the brush of his fingers against your hands gave you goosebumps. “I want you to be comfortable. Call me if you’d like. Or… if you’d rather never see or contact me again I⏤ I get that too, darlin’.”

You stared down at the card, but realized it wasn’t a business card like you thought. It was the same size, but he had scribbled his name and cell phone number on it for you. Joel mumbled a quick good-bye before heading to the door again. You called out to him, looking up from the card, and he paused to glance over his shoulder.

“Why me?” You questioned. It seemed so random. Situations like this didn’t happen to people like you. They happened to people like Nima. People who were willing to step out of their comfort zone and put themselves out there. This couldn’t possibly have stemmed from this man forgetting his wallet one day and you being in the vicinity to fix that problem.

Joel’s lips curled up into a small smile and he shrugged. “I, uh, I like talkin’ to you, is all.”

The chime of the door as he left echoed through the otherwise quiet room. Your eyes glanced back down to the card where ten numbers stared up at you dauntingly. Just above it, written in a messy scrawl, was his first and last name. ‘Joel Miller’. It wasn’t until you read his name for the seventh time that you realized you were actually considering his offer.

[next]

✨J.M. Masterlist✨

[dollsahoy]

That solid weekend of doll sewing started when I noticed some of this raindrop print on that blanket I recently quilted, and I remembered I still had some of that fabric and decided I should stop saving it and use it for something for my own dolls.

I know I would have been happy with it as just a plain, unadorned cotton dress, but some of @robotsandfrippary's recent frilly doll sewing inspired me to try adding as much trim as I could figure out how to, staying in as close to a single color (that wasn't white or ivory or black) as possible.

I tried the trick of getting the fabric barely damp, then tying it down around the doll's legs until it dries, to help it appear to hang with more weight than it naturally wants to

The doll's head is from the Nostalgic-sculpt version of Spring in Tokyo Barbie

[notyetneedcoffee]

Carnival Fun

Kinktober - Public Sex NSFW - Adults Only

Summary: Steve wants to give you his own ride at the carnival

The bright colorful lights shone through your closed eyelids. The heat of Steve’s mouth on the back of your neck made you moan. His hand covered your mouth and his breath warmed your ear.

“Shh, Sweetheart.” Steve’s voice was low, sultry. “Don’t want to be heard.”

Your eyes flew open as the fingers of Steve’s other hand slid through the wetness between your legs. The ruckus activity of Stark’s charity carnival played out before you. Being hidden behind the red curtain of a colorful tent and tucked away in the shadows, all the visitors went about their merriment only feet away.

“Gonna let me fuck you right here?” His teeth grazed your neck. “God, I want to fuck you right now.”

Your tongue ran along his fingers. He curved his middle finger in and you suck on it, drawing groan from him. Rocking your hips into his hands, you desperately needed release. Knowing that America’s Golden Boy stood behind you, rubbing his hard erection into your ass, desperate to fuck you right here, with everyone around, made your heart race.

“You want it? Wanna ride my cock right here in front of everyone?” His grinding inched your skirt up enough that you felt the rough denim of his jeans on your ass. You nodded against his hand.

Freeing himself, his cock slid between your legs, collecting your slick. Your back arched. He pushed in. Full, powerful, you moaned against his hand. Steve’s free arm wrapped around you. His breath grew ragged as fucked you. Holding you firm. Impossibly strong. Lifting you almost off your toes. Heat flooded your veins. Tension coiled in your core.

“You feel,” he grunted, “so fucking good. Look out there.” He ordered, increasing his pace. “Do you want to scream my name?” You whimpered, quivering. His arms tensed more. “Ah, fuck. If they knew.”

Sounds of bells and games and laughter echoed around you, drowning out the sound of your bodies colliding and your rough breath. You clutched at his arms, holding onto his solid frame. Your body clenched around his cock.

Your vision blurred, a kaleidoscope of color and movement. Steve’s taunt body wrapped around you. His heat engulfed you. The smell of cotton candy and sex filled your nose. Your core tightened, soaked. You wanted to scream but couldn’t get enough breath.

Steve’s strangled back a moan. “Yes, fuck, yes.” He fucked you harder.

You shook in his arms, helpless, boneless. Heat exploded from the inside out.

Steve ducked his face into your hair, his hips moving fast and hard. You were lost in bliss. He gripped you tight, coming hard with a groan.

Tremors echoed through your body as Steve lowered you back to the floor. His hand turned your face to his, lips covering your mouth. He kissed you deep. With a hum, he smiled against your lips.

“Let’s clean up, Sweetheart, and I’ll win you a teddy bear.”

What more? Check out my Master List.

[dadsbongos]

wild bug sluts at club cocoon!

@toxycodone aot fic is here!

12.5 k words / warnings - pinv sex (unprotected), cunnilingus, HEAVY tragedy, thematic objectification, toxic relationships, cannibalism but not for realsies just for play, modern AU, gendered trauma -> fem reader but only for the angst of it all she's more like an actual character

summary - Reiner and Zeke share a birthday, Zeke usually takes all the attention but a year ago Reiner decided to do something selfish: now he has to face it and you. You just want to go out with someone that likes you.

~~~

“You think she knows how to make a tequila sunrise?” Eren leans against solid oak, flagging the bartender before folding his arms -- silver rings glinting beneath a mosaic of colored lights. Pinks and blues melting into dark purple on black tile.

“In a bar like this, I’d hope…”

“Hm, and what do you mean by that?” Eren shoots a quick, halfhearted glare.

Reiner sighs, “Bars with personality.”

“Ha!” Eren puts in his order as the bartender finally graces them, something much blander than a tequila sunrise before smacking knuckles against Reiner’s chest, “And a tequila sunrise? Can you do that?”

She blinks at him, lips bent dismally, “Yes. I can.”

Eren nods curtly, watching her work before murmuring to Reiner, “Ooooh, didn’t even ID us.”

“They ID’d at the door.”

“I was joking,” Eren suddenly snorts, “Zeke gets dragged here by his girlfriend sometimes, and they don’t even ask for his.”

“He’s like fourty, though.”

“Thirty-two, but close.”

Once both men have their drinks, plus a bottled water in Eren’s other hand, they make way to their booth. Occupied by Armin and Mikasa sitting shoulder-to-shoulder as Armin scrolls his phone. Mikasa’s chin digs into his arm so she can share the view.

“Lame-os,” Eren slides the water towards Armin, “You on Reddit at a club?”

“A guy left his wife when she was diagnosed with brain cancer and he’s asking if he’s in the wrong,” Mikasa looks up from Armin’s screen, “So far, I say so.”

“Where’s Jean?” Reiner scans the bumping throng clotting the dance floor, pinpointing Sasha’s bouncy ponytail and Connie’s bald head and twinkly earrings along the fray. Nowhere around them is the patchy bleached hair of Jean.

“No idea,” Mikasa’s eyes continue roaming the post as Armin lifts his head, swiveling the area before shrugging.

“Go find him.”

Reiner takes the sarcastic bite as a tride duty, swinging back his sunrise before clanking the glass onto the table. He promises to be back soon; Eren calls him a true knight in wrinkled cotton shirt.

His first step into the crowd is met with much resistance, packed flesh squeezing him around the shoulders. Hands skim his forearms and heads thud into his biceps and he’s graceful enough to not take the contact personally. A Saturday night is bound to be lucky for those parched of bitter liquor and hot skin. Reiner regrets sucking down his drink as his feet jumble along the floor.

Even with the advantage of being a head taller than most nightcrawlers, Reiner struggles to discern his position. He’s jostled between a woman in a blue slip dress and a man in a Hawaiian shirt and jeans. Turning swiftly is a mistake, feeling as if his brain swirled off its stem -- caught in a cyclone like the lone olive in a martini. More pressing, however, is the fact he cannot make Eren out; everything outside the bumping floor is bathed in pitch black. While everything contained on the floor is purple, overhead hues blurring together on shimmery dresses and wandering legs until all he sees is an eye-twitching shade of violet.

Jean is most likely fine -may have even ran off to the bathroom- because seldom does Jean find himself the center of danger, that’s Eren’s prerogative. Irritation begins to nip at Reiner the more he’s pushed, irritation he knows is solely his own doing.

Nobody asked him to hunt Jean down, but he wanted to be the hero in finding him. Nobody asked him to not shove back, but he would look like a meathead jackass otherwise. Alongside being much taller than others, Reiner is much bigger: typically the biggest guy in the room on any given day. He wields it well, he promises his mother, he isn’t rough nor is he particularly vexing, knowing any fights he picks he’ll win.

Reiner almost elbows the next person to touch him.

A soft hand curling around his wrist. Nails scooping crescents down to bone.

Instinctually, he rips away only to whirl around and glare upon the bold grabber. A rehearsed apology surges onto the tip of his tongue, which he must bite back: why should he apologize?

You grabbed him.

Now, you’re smiling up at him.

“You looked lost!” you shout over the thumping music.

Dark lipstick stains your words, dredging any purity or innocence, and a tight dress draws eyes to cinched spilling fat. Vibrant pink splashes across you, hot flares highlighting the folds of fabric around your waist. He has the strangest impulse to flatten them out. A flash of blue drowns you out before he’s blessed with another burst of bubblegum.

Babydoll lashes bat at him, your head cocks, “Don’t tell me you’re drunk.”

“I’m not,” he has no reason to answer you, and there’s no logic to why he feels the need to prove it.

“So, you’re lost?”

Reiner shakes his head, almost like a child asked -with crumbs all over his face- if he got into the cookie jar. The hand previously snug around him arises, fingers splayed wide.

Does he have to be one or the other?

He supposes he wouldn’t even know what to say otherwise, so he must be.

Surely, you’re the answer. Surely, you can help. Surely, after he takes your hand he’ll feel all better.

Blue and purple lights section off chunks of your face, eyes low and smile wide -- sharp canines neon in the lighting.

You look like sex.

Reiner misses sex.

He webs thick fingers between yours and glides through sweltering, clumped bodies behind you. Hungry hands swerve him into the mens’ bathroom, it reeks of alcohol and overly enthusiastic cologne; a scent immediately overwhelmed by dewy rose perfume. Arms flung around his neck, you’re smearing lipstick around his chin, on his cheeks, and along his jawline.

Blindly stumbling into the first stall, Reiner sighs against your mouth, “Jump.”

Big hands brace the backs of your thighs, lugging you up and pushing you against the door -- slamming it shut and fumbling to slide the lock. Reiner feels you snip his bottom lip with knifepoint teeth, making him squeeze your hips, bruising himself around you. As his fingers worm beneath the hem of your teeny dress to smuggle your panties, you unlatch from his face.

Warm skin and a thundering chest, your pulses are practically mingling. You cradle his face, “So handsome, aren’t you? You look like you like me.”

“Does that make me more handsome?” he, admittedly, sounds pathetic. Not that he can imagine a better way to sound if it makes you hold him tighter.

“By far,” you titter against his mouth, dragging your palms down his cheeks and smoothing them along his throat. Digging your thumbs into his adam’s apple just to hear him wheeze.

So confident. So brash. As if he won’t drop you and walk out right now for the offense.

He doesn’t, he only kisses you harder.

Again, he reaches higher up your dress and, again, he’s met with pain. You suck the bottom lip you tore open and swallow his blood.

“You want me?” you tease.

“Bad,” he confesses, hot-faced and receptive to whatever you’ll give.

“Good boy,” you round your hands around his neck as if to choke him, “Would you let me do whatever I wanted to you?”

The bathroom door swings open. Men’s shoes squeaking across dirty floor and their voices a low rattle.

“Anything.”

“I’ll take care of you, Reiner.”

“Okay.”

Confused hums and awkward chuckles from outside the stall are somewhat familiar. Eren, maybe. And someone else. Someone he tries to forget about. Someone you held hands with on his birthday, at another person’s party.

Nails shredding through his tendons, vastly different from the playful indents you made on his wrist. Bared teeth sink into his neck. Thighs wind tighter around him, until he’s sure you could snip him in half. Spiney barbs prickle from your flesh into his, tethering you both together. Pain and pleasure burn him up, scorching every contact point between you both until he’s shuddering and whining and twitching. You bite harder, when you pull back there’s blood drenching your gums.

Reiner blinks up at you as your mouth gapes, you stare him down along the bridge of your nose and he feels small. Tedious workout schedule and pride be damned, he is petrified under your fangs and wriggling between your legs in vain.

Despite -or perhaps because of- his struggle, you’re laughing. You’re laughing and you surge forward to bite his head off.

Which, at the prospect of not having to return empty-handed to his friends, seems better than living. He would rather you kill him than return to the apartment he shares with his worst friend Porco, and he would rather bleed out in a dingy bathroom stall than go to bed alone.

You’re beautiful, at least. His most selfish request now could be that he stares at you a few more minutes.

Reiner’s knees flail, buckling the instant you’ve got the taste of his flesh -- he staggers back onto the toilet with a clang and screech of protesting porcelain. Someone bangs on the dark green stall wall, and the faint, hedonistic laughs of voyeurs sounds faraway underwater. Raw iron floods his nostrils, mixing with your floral perfume. His muscles lock, disregarding his acceptance to fate, giving one final defensive squeeze to your hips before he’s entirely limp.

Softly, your lips skim his one last time. You smile against him with a whispered ‘thanks, big guy’ and he’s inclined to smile back.

This is okay.

This is okay.

This tequila sunrise is okay.

You make it better.

“Too much orange juice,” Reiner pushes his glass away, a lone maraschino cherry left to spin in the sudden ruckus. Bobbing in a fingernail’s depth of cloudy orange.

Much too boldly, you and Eren reach for the stem at the same time and Reiner has to hold the glass still as you two try shoving the other away from a mediocre prize. As usual, you win, but only after having smacked Eren’s hand away.

“Hey!” Eren whines, reaching over to yank the cherry out of your mouth. He barely manages to snatch the stem between forefinger and thumb, twiggy thing snapping off completely. He throws it in your face as you laugh.

You beam at the attack, letting the stem bounce off your cheek as you chomp the cherry.

Not the trait of a cannibalistic creature at all.

You’re just a fleshy and tender human, but they don’t bite their mates’ heads off so that reality makes it harder for him to indulge fantasy. Easier is the mockup version of you to be around, the one where you two aren’t close friends and you’re not a person. He prefers to imagine sex with the version of you that’s a cruel, carnivorous mistress because that might be the only you he deserves.

So, he’ll continue killing himself off by your hand instead of confessing anything.

“Here, we can makeout and you’ll get the taste,” you stretch forward, puckering your lips cartoonishly.

“How nice of you!” Eren sarcastically chirps before sliding out of the booth and extending a hand for you.

He’ll continue watching you flirt with Eren.

Wild pounding on creaky wood startles Reiner awake.

He shoots up, chestnut brown sheets flying around his hips. Porco’s grating voice booms through the otherside of the door, “Your friends are here, fuckface! Get up!”

Reiner wants to strangle his roommate on a good day, and this is looking to be one of the worse ones. He physically rolls out of bed with an aggravated start, one which completely fizzles out once he’s opening the door. Porco has apparently abandoned ‘Reiner’s friends’, his keys missing from their shared hooks and shoes gone.

Reiner’s dream is already oozing out his ears in favor of following Eren’s retort,

“Did he forget he’s friends with my brother or some shit?” Eren tries to bury his annoyance beneath playfulness, an attempt that totally bombs.

Armin shrugs, perfectly permanently disinterested in dull conflicts. His eyes scrawl over Reiner, bare chest and loose plaid pajama bottoms, before jingling his keys, “You ready?”

“Oh,” Reiner huffs, looking down at himself, “Oh, no. Shit.”

“Hurry up!” Eren chastises, brushing a silky lock of brown hair behind his ear.

Armin says a sentence with your name in it that Reiner cares not to listen to, instead throwing himself into his closet for real clothes.

Something breezy but not opaque, something clean but not overdressed, something he can pretend matches the dress you sent to the group chat without seeming creepy. Though, who is he kidding?

When his thought process starts and ends with what you’ll think: it’s inherently creepy.

Eventually, he’s rushing out toward the door for his shoes in black jeans and a compression shirt which Eren immediately ‘boo’s.

“What?” Reiner hisses, lacing his sneakers.

Armin clicks his tongue, scrounging for the politest way to say his piece before realizing he simply can’t, “You’re gonna look like a douche. We can wait a little longer if you want to change.”

“Eh,” Eren dissents, “I feel like his haircut does enough of that.”

“Like I wanna hear that from you,” Reiner shoots a quick glare from Eren to Armin and stands to grab his house keys, “Alright, let’s go. Who else did you have to pick up?”

Armin says your name again, and it sounds sweeter this time now that Eren’s uninvolved.

Reiner is stuffed into the back of Armin’s clean Sedan while Eren is in the passenger’s seat. You and Connie step out together, with Armin only having to text you about his arrival since you’re not so irresponsible as to nap at 7PM. Connie locks your shared apartment while you’re popping towards the car as fast as your heels will allow.

Reiner snaps the door open for you to slide in.

“Hey, big guy!” you cheer, wrapping an arm around Reiner -- dress midnight black and tight, “Aw, we match!”

“Aww,” Connie coos, shoving into the back after you, slamming you into Reiner, before examining the blonde’s outfit, “Oh. You look… unlucky.”

“Be nice,” you bat your roommate’s shoulder and settle into your seat, letting Connie click your seatbelt in place.

“Mikasa just texted me, she and Sasha are already inside,” Eren announces as Armin takes off again.

“Seriously?” Connie groans, “I thought we were meeting outside!”

“Mikasa says it’ll be easier to get us in this way.”

“Yeah, ‘cuz bitches are lining up to go to a place called ‘cocoon’.”

You raise a brow at Connie, “They are, though. The place is really hot right now.”

“Just side with me,” he pleads, only earning a shrug and meek ‘sorry’ from you in response.

Armin shakes his head, although Reiner can see his fond smile in the rear view mirror, “If Mikasa says it’s easier this way, I’m sure she’s right.”

“Sasha’s gonna get drunk without me!” Connie fesses to his real conniption.

“Con’,” you frown, “I can get drunk with you. And Sasha’s gonna keep being drunk when we get there!”

“It’s not the same…”

Reiner watches in silence. Basking in the good humor and tunes of his friends’ prattling. Your group is not one that looks well-put, as much as he adores everyone he’s plenty ready to admit how strange the gang looks lined up. Especially on nights out.

Armin in a baby blue shirt and plain jeans because he plans on minimal socializing, though he has a black hair tie on his wrist in case Eren loses one. Eren in a sage green flannel unbuttoned over a white Tee with cargo pants that have enough pockets to hold the phone Mikasa won’t want to hang onto. Mikasa, Reiner already knows, will be in an outfit Sasha picked out for her because Sasha likes when they match.

Connie is the only clue as to what those two will be wearing because he also likes to match -- a brown shirt that says ‘I <3 MILFS’ in white and baggy pants with a leather studded belt and chains jangling off the loops. Tiny hoop earrings decorate his lobes with a simple chain necklace over his sternum. If Reiner has to guess, the only thing he’ll have in common with the couple is the color brown (Sasha loves the color brown, so it isn’t a wild assumption).

Then there’s you. Black dress. Tight dress. It tapers off at your midthigh and cups your breasts. Your hair is styled and you smell like a rose bush was dipped in sugar. On the surface: plain party attire, but Reiner can map out what’s so great about it. Short dresses have more mobility to dance, your hair looks pretty and will gain many admirers but is surface level enough you won’t have to spend an hour detangling in the morning, similar to your makeup. Captivating, but so straightforward to fix you could do it while drunk under flickering bathroom lights; and so easy to remove even Connie could do it while you’re about to pass out in bed. You balance the look he could only scratch at.

Casual yet attractive and breathable while maintaining the perfect illusion of careless, effortless sex appeal.

cocoon blinds each occupant in the car as Armin pulls into the lot, cursive lettering lit up in such a bright white it burns blue at the edges. Connie opens his side door at the same time Reiner does, both men holding it open for you to slip through.

“Ah!” you debate which side to exit, something Reiner knows he shouldn’t take as seriously as he does, before ultimately shouting at Connie, “Catch!”

You toss him your clutch and fumble for Reiner’s hand to tug you through his door.

Reiner supposes it shouldn’t matter that you picked him. Connie doesn’t seem to care, no matter how much Reiner wishes he’d at least look offended. Eren and Armin are already heading for the entrance once the Sedan is locked, paying no attention to how it's Reiner’s hand you’re holding now.

“Thanks, Reiner!” even you are shimming after the rest of the guys. Letting his hand fall astray.

“‘Thanks, Reiner,’” he sighs, eyes shut as he steps onto the curb -- pausing when a sick crunch meets his sole, “Eh, sick…” he gags at the sight of mushy greenish guts and twitching legs on his shoe. Guilt then attacks him, and he apologetically smears the insect’s remains on the concrete, “Oops…”

He’d hate to be crushed alive by some pathetic whelp of a giant and called ‘sick’.

Upon siding with his group, Reiner discovers what Mikasa meant by “easier to get you guys inside” and simultaneously admires and hates her for it. She’s perched over the bouncer’s shoulder, arms folded and eyes sharp as if she’s his boss; and for all her unbothered swagger she may as well be. As soon as she’s spotted Eren and pointed your group out, you five are waved in after a cursory ID check -- abandoning the rest of the line to swear and whine.

“I’m gonna hit the bar,” Eren announces, “Anyone up to join?”

“You just got here,” Mikasa ‘tsk’s, “Order a water too, at least.”

“Sure,” he probably won’t, even Mikasa knows that, “Anyway. Any takers?”

Armin automatically deducts himself from the conversation as the designated driver, as does Mikasa since she’ll be driving herself and Sasha home. Connie shakes his head, murmuring something about scoping the population before bouncing off with the other two.

“Can you get me- “

Eren cuts you off, “No, come with me!” his front as the group’s leader melts away as soon as he’d tried putting it up, “I hate going up to bars alone.”

Your face sours, entirely disinterested in spending your opening minutes waiting to get noticed at a clogged counter.

“I’ll go,” Reiner steps toward Eren before nodding at you, “What do you want? I’ll get it for you.”

“Nice that someone has manners,” you ‘teehee’ at Eren’s expense before placing a hand on Reiner’s shoulder as the music rises so he can hear you better. He cranes his neck lower, your lips brush the shell of his ear, “Can I get a hummingbird?”

He nods, “Should’ve known. You always start with that.”

“Ah!” you cover your mouth, eyes wide, “Am I predictable?”

He nods again, “I like it.”

“Really?” you tilt your head and he dare not nod a third time.

“It’s cute.”

Eren tugs Reiner over with a hand on his bicep, you wave the men off before spinning to find your friends in their booth.

“You sure you even need a drink?” Eren muses, “Pretty bold back there already.”

“Shut up,” Reiner doesn’t like discussing his feelings with Eren -- not because of introspective masculinity bullshit, he just gets sick when Eren has your name in his mouth, “What’re you getting?”

“No idea yet,” he shakes his head, muttering, “Nothing weird like a fucking hummingbird, though. Why does she get those?”

“I dunno. I’m craving a tequila sunrise, though.”

“Craving, huh? You sound like an alcoholic when you say it like that.”

Reiner takes the insult in good faith, because honestly he can hear it, “Yeah, whatever.”

“You think she can make a tequila sunrise?”

Reiner’s neck itches, “In a place like this, I’d hope so.”

“Hm, and what do you mean by that?” Eren shoots a quick, halfhearted glare.

Reiner sighs, “Bars with personality.”

“Ha!” as the bartender finally graces them, Eren puts in his own order (something straight and bland, quite fitting), “A hummingbird, and…” he smacks Reiner’s chest, “And a tequila sunrise? Can you do that?”

He’s trying to come off easygoing, like he’s perfectly willing to change any drink in the lineup if she finds it cumbersome.

He sounds like a total dick.

“And a water. No, two waters.”

The bartender levels him with a flat stare and nods.

“Ooooh, didn’t even ID us.”

“They ID’d at the door,” Reiner glances around the room, he’s not sure why. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for -- just that he needs to.

One of Eren’s many silver rings pierces his vision beneath the colored lights.

“I was joking,” Eren snorts suddenly, “Zeke gets dragged here by his girlfriend sometimes, and they don’t even ask for his.”

“He’s like fourty.”

“Pretty much. Thirty-two.”

“Oh my God,” Reiner grumbles, clenching his eyes and massaging the bridge of his nose.

“Hm?” with their height difference, Eren doesn’t have to crouch to look the man in his scrunched face, “What? You okay? Headache?”

“No,” shaking off the uncomfortably stiff sense of familiarity, Reiner groans, “Deja vu or something. It was weird.”

“Oh,” Eren shrugs, already grabbing for their drinks and turning away, “Okay.”

Reiner swipes the water bottles when he notices Eren struggling to juggle both in one hand. They come upon the party’s booth to find Armin and Mikasa curled into the back of the horseshoe seat, faces lit by the blonde’s phone.

“Losers,” Eren cocks a hip against the dark lacquer frame and Reiner settles a plastic bottle in front of them, “Now who's addicted to their phones?”

“Still you,” Armin cracks without pause, “You can’t cook without watching something.”

Mikasa swerves a potential squabble by announcing what her and Armin are pouring over, “‘Am I the Asshole: broke up my brother and his girlfriend because I’m in love with her,’” she glances up at the men standing across the table, “Thoughts?”

Reiner doesn’t think anything of it. Preferring to search for you in the bumping throng.

After a taught pause, Eren sits by Mikasa, “I think you found Porco’s Reddit account.”

Reiner flinches. Eren doesn’t take it back, though, even as Armin softly gasps and smacks his friend’s leg. Mikasa says nothing, but the bored roll of her eyes from the screen to Eren’s face betrays intrigue. Praying to cut this gossip rehash short, Reiner says the only possible thing that can come to mind,

“Where’s Jean?”

“Jean?” Eren scoffs, pulling out his phone, “Fucker said he’d ‘try’ to make it. He’s probably spending the night with his sushi date from last week.”

“He’s been canceling last minute a lot lately,” Reiner teases Eren’s messy, hateful nature, “You think he’s okay?”

Armin’s brows furrow, “I don’t think he’s sick.”

“I bet he’s pissed about something!” Eren snaps.

“Like what?” Mikasa frowns.

Reiner slouches into the booth, head lolling against his shoulder and poking out of the back frame to survey the floor. Sasha and Connie are dancing, but he cannot pin you in the dark crowd -- even under coral lights. His frenzied search masqueraded as not wanting your drink to grow warm before you have a single sip.

A sharp slap captures his attention, skin on hardwood. You’re radiant. Eyes sweeping from Reiner’s shocked face to the pale yellow syrup cocktail.

“That mine?”

Reiner nods, voice petrified in the bulb of his throat.

“Awesome,” you twirl around the table to slam against Reiner, shoving him deeper into the seat.

Your bare arm brushes Reiner’s, he jumps at the sudden low temperature of your skin -- offensive porous abrasions scratching him, like a dried foam scrubbing his skin raw. Chugging the zesty mix, you noisily gulp it despite the violent fizzing. Barbie pink lights dazzle off the bubbles as some spits through your lips. Syrup and elderflower rolls down your chin and onto your collarbones like mucus slobber. He’s never seen you so messy.

Slamming down the glass, you rasp for breath and thumb at the gooey lipstick print left along the rim.

“What’re we talking about?”

“Jean, he sucks,” Eren answers.

“He was supposed to come out tonight,” Reiner clarifies.

“Oooh,” you lean off the leather cushions, perching a cheek in your palm and laying your chest against the table. It gives your breasts a natural push.

Not that Reiner thinks you need it. If anything, your cleavage is fascinating even when he can’t see it: when it's hidden behind big Tees and sweatshirts. He adores your cleavage when it’s plump and shoved into everyone’s faces and he adores your cleavage when it’s hanging braless and he adores your cleavage even when it's being peppered with kisses from someone else’s lips.

So it makes sense his unbecoming stare is noticed.

Obscured are the sounds and sights of your friends -- they chirp amongst themselves like they were yippy children again. Completely unfocused on whatever adult matters are pervading Reiner’s mind. Which makes it easier for you to chide him like an exasperated nanny.

“You’re obvious, big guy,” his eyes dart to your face, shiny and glossy. You shake your head before asking the next thing to make him panic, “Do you like my tits, Reiner?”

“Uh…”

“Does it like my tits?” you cup his crotch, arm firm and purely clinical. Assessing rather than caressing. Unlike his fantasies, you’re groping with a cold, objective palm, “Do I make you feel good, Reiner?”

“I- you- uhm,” he stammers, heart punching into his throat and mouth sand dry. Not from want. From dread. He doesn’t know what to say, he can’t be sure what response will get you to handle him with more care.

“No? Not gonna get hard for me?”

Breathlessly, he whimpers, “I’m sorry.”

“After everything you did for me? You can’t just get hard?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re selfish, you know that?” the dimples in your skin smoothen, plasticine and without fault. Freezing your nonchalant expression in time with shell-like precision.

“I’m sorry,” maybe if he apologizes enough you’ll stop bringing it up.

“I thought you wanted me. Needed me. You’re just greedy.”

Loving you is fruitless, lusting after you is wrong, but to not do either feels even worse. He is ripe with affection for you, suddenly pretending otherwise is unnatural.

So he just has to keep apologizing, “I’m sorry.”

And pray you stop talking to him.

“Your friends are here, fuckface! Get up!”

Reiner scrambles out of bed at Porco’s voice. Expedite that with the fist his roommate mercilessly beats against his door and he’s left desperately unscrewing himself from his sheets.

Before he can berate the loudmouth for so rudely interrupting his rest, Porco is slamming out of their apartment and leaving both Eren and Armin huffy.

“He knows he’s friends with Zeke, right? He went to my high school graduation,” Eren grumbles.

“He probably doesn’t care,” Armin placates before turning to Reiner, “Wanna change? Like, maybe put on any clothes?”

Immediately, Eren glances down at Reiner’s groin, clad only in slim boxers, “Nice cock.”

“Shut up,” Reiner flushes, whirring around to retreat into his room and dress.

“Good view,” Eren chuckles, loud enough to ensure both blondes hear.

“Don’t embarrass him,” Armin is laughing too, though.

Reiner makes haste to finish getting ready before popping into the backseat of Armin’s Sedan. He’s sure the all black ensemble will treat him well in a dim club, but he’s similarly sure all his friends will have a ball continuing to pick at his plain shirt and jeans.

“Armin’s wearing the same thing, I don’t get what the problem is.”

“Armin has a disarming face, plus his outfit’s got color.”

Reiner opens the side door for you as you and Connie hop down the stairs of your apartment. Greeting you with a, “Is my face unsettling?”

“No!” you gasp and throw yourself into the car, curling an arm around Reiner’s shoulder, “Which of you said he was scary-looking?”

“I never said that!” Eren defends, wide-eyed at Reiner, “I didn’t say that!”

Connie barks a laugh, reaching around you to poke Reiner’s stiff jaw, “Gotta admit, man, you’re intimidating. Especially in that, you look like Eren trying to be emo in high school.”

“Whatever,” Reiner swats Connie’s hand, as loose a wave as one would to shoo a housefly. He doesn’t hate the outfit, in any case: it matches yours… somewhat.

A black dress you sent to the group chat weeks ago. One he’s tried shoving out of his head because the only thing it’d been good for was demolishing all productive thought. Rather than advance his career or make up with Porco or even grow the courage to ask you out, he’d fist his cock and picture you in that little black dress.

Upon pulling into the lot of cocoon, you slink out of Connie’s door -- nails dug into the scrawny boy’s arm for balance as your heels choke your ankles. He hisses and you apologize quietly. Reiner wishes it was him. He just as quickly wishes he wasn’t so hopeless.

“You think she knows how to make a tequila sunrise?” Eren leans against the bar, flagging the bar tender before folding his arms -- silver rings glinting beneath a mosaic of colored lights. Pinks and blues melting into dark purple on black tile.

“In a bar like this, I’d hope…”

“Hm, and what do you mean by that?”

Reiner barely blinks before saying, “Bars with personality.”

As if the response were programmed into him.

“Ha!” Eren requests his own drink, two waters, and a tequila sunrise before floundering, “And a… uhh, what did she want?”

A (what he hopes is) charming smile smatters Reiner’s face to disband the evident annoyance in the bartender’s face, “A hummingbird.”

Your classic opener on any night out.

As the woman nods and gets to work, Reiner finds his mouth opening on its own mind,

“They ID’d us at the door.”

“Huh?”

“What?”

Eren shrugs up at Reiner, “I dunno. I didn’t say anything and you just reminded me they ID’d us at the door. Are you okay, man?”

Reiner shakes his head, “Did I?”

“Yeah. It was weird,” Eren narrows seafoam eyes at the man, “Are you okay?”

He’d be better if it were you beside him instead of Eren.

“I don’t know why I said that,” he mumbles instead.

“Me neither,” the brunette billows through pursed lips as their drinks are laid out. Then sympathetically glancing back towards the woman behind the counter, “Should I get you a water, too?”

“No, I’ll live,” Reiner flashes another grin, “Don’t worry about me, I’m tough.”

“Okay…”

In the wake of his oddity, Reiner decides to sit back with Armin and Mikasa while Eren joins Sasha and Connie on the dance floor. You’re nowhere to be found and your hummingbird oozes condensation over the table, as if to coax its predator.

“If my boyfriend did that to me, I’d kill him,” Armin spits in disgust, tossing his phone screen-up on the table.

Mikasa nods, sitting up to grab her bottled water, “Sasha would cut off her own hand before doing something like that.”

Needing a distraction from his self-inflicted problems, Reiner decides to indulge in aggressively personal relationship troubles of internet strangers, “What’s going on in the Relationship Advice sub tonight?”

Armin rotates his phone and slides it across the table to where Reiner sits at the edge of their horseshoe booth, “Just read it. Unbelievable douche.”

Reiner hunches over the table, leaving his friend’s phone face-up, eyes squinting through the harsh light.

A peculiar title makes him raise a brow at the sober pair. Mikasa folds her arms and nods him along, “You haven’t gotten to the worst, yet.”

The title, in all caps read: FINGER’S GETTING FINGERED. FUCKED UP, RIGHT?

Mouth dry, Reiner wets it with his entire tequila sunrise and wishes it’d, miraculously, make him black out in the single swig. He blinks down at Armin’s phone and rubs a knuckle into his eyes to clear any mistiness. Stubbornly, the title remains the same, though it’s not what his attention is pinched by anymore. Because the body is somehow worse.

YO, POCK. YEAH. YEAH. I KNOW. IT’S FUCKED UP, ISN’T IT? YOU SHOULD DO SOMETHING. I DON’T KNOW. YEAH, I’LL BACK YOU UP. YEAH, THAT’S A GOOD IDEA. SOMEONE SHOULD TELL HER THOUGH, RIGHT? I WOULD WANT TO KNOW. ARE YOU SURE? YEAH, YEAH, I CAN DO THAT. OKAY, MAN, YOU BETTER WIN. HAHA. YOU GOT IT, POCK, GET THAT FUCKER.

I’M NOT LYING! SERIOUS. POOR THING, I KNOW, HE’S THE WORST. POCK’S NOT TAKING IT WELL, EITHER. THAT’S PROBABLY WHY PIECK ISN’T HERE, ‘CUZ SHE KNEW YOU’D SHOW. I KNOW. EREN? OH. EREN’S WITH ZEKE IN THE LIVING ROOM.

ZEKE. ZEKE! CALL THE COPS!

“Awful, right?” is whispered into his ear. Sharp chin digging into his shoulder as you bend at the waist into the booth, hands holding you up by their perch on your knees.

“Terrible,” Reiner doubles down. Sweat bullets down his face, your eyes piercing him -- irises pins in a sea of bulging white. So white it’s searing green around the edges.

Then, your nails are puncturing the solid table, knuckles burning the way they did when you held another man’s hand at a birthday party (and then later that night when you had to pull thrashing men apart). Reiner would consider it a soft mercy if you used those nails to stab him in the heart this very instant.

Chittering whispers precede a hiss parted with low, jerky hums. Your jaw clacks shut as soon as Eren saddles up beside you, smoothing a hand up your back until it rests between your shoulder blades. He smiles down at Reiner, working soothing circles into your stiff muscles without acknowledging the flimy green overtaking your bare skin.

“I’ll get her, bud. You can go home. You’ve done enough for everyone tonight.”

I’LL GET HER, BUD. YOU CAN GO HOME. YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE TONIGHT.

Every comment under the post is the exact same, too. Except for the very top one, in lowercase as if to hide from its eye-catching peers was a mere:

reiner youre fucking insane. i dont care its your birthday i dont care if youre drunk i dont care. i dont care. youre insane. dont talk to me until you tell her. - bert

Reiner pouts up at you miserably, your thin stare unforgiving and unmoving. He feels crowded despite the fact you’re nearly half his size. Petrified, Reiner can’t even think of something to say and redirect your attention. His brain is silent except to register your face in front of his, to log your breathing.

Suddenly, you’re climbing into the seat beside him.

One leg thrown over his lap with the knee digging into his chest, effectively keeping him pinned. The other leg is spread to keep you upright in the booth, arms cage around Reiner and chest pressed obnoxiously against his; he can feel your heartbeat. Sharp. Pointed. Calm.

There’s no rage in this attack because it’s not revenge: it’s justice.

You bob left and right behind the knee pinning him, needlepoint eyes whizzing over his upper body. Searching for the express spot to cut him down as fast as possible.

Before he can so much as blink, you’re striking his pulse and your nails slice open his cheek and arm. Instinctually, his arms fly up to rip you from his neck, scratching your back and tearing your dress’ zipper down. His legs jerk beneath the table, a loud crack echoing through the club.

Nobody comes.

Everybody watches.

You tear into his throat violently, digging through skin and tissue like someone might pry your meal from you.

His arms go lax around you, a soft hug he selfishly takes to his grave.

Until there’s a shriek behind wood and vinyl, “Reiner! Reiner, get out here!”

Reiner wakes smelling the tang of raw meat. Just the scent alone enough to make his mouth water and imagine the many dishes aided by a hearty helping of meat.

Like pasta.

Pasta is a great carb-loading meal, and despite keeping himself cut with outrageously defined muscles Reiner cannot recommend pasta enough. His only gripe with the food is he cannot eat it when he’s wearing his earbuds. Something about the malleable silicone suctioned into his ears makes the squishy tearing between his molars much louder than it should be. It disgusts him until he’s unable to finish dinner.

He hears that squish now, coupling a fresh whiff of open carcass: making him so nauseous he may literally burst.

Wet, sloppy chewing and ragged swallows, intermittently severed by the sound of sharp teeth clacking and ecstatic hisses.

Fingers tickle his sides, middle and pointer parting the puckered slash down his abdomen for you to bend down and suck from. It doesn’t feel too different from giving blood at a clinic. It doesn’t feel like much at all.

Even as the fingers melt together and broaden. Even as you cradle his head with bent slabs, strapping him down via insecticine pincers, and dig into his cranium you’re quite gentle. Like a lover.

Mingling kisses with nips, you crack his skull between jagged, sawing mandibles. Grinding him up into a fine, white powder.

Reiner wakes up screaming.

Porco is knelt over him, face blown in worry and breathing erratic, “What the fuck?!”

Reiner takes a slow draw of breath, gaze bouncing around in a panic to verify he’s in his room, “What?”

“‘What?! What? What’s wrong? What were you dreaming of? You were catatonic until you screamed and I came in!”

What was he dreaming of?

It’s already beginning to fade. He thinks he should let it -- best to forget and move on.

Best for Reiner, maybe, but not Porco.

Porco, who looks more terrified than Reiner feels. Porco, who forwent their passive-aggressive feuding to make sure his roommate wasn’t dying in bed. Porco, who’s nearly stradling Reiner in his scurry to wake the man.

And not best for you.

“Pock,” Reiner can’t forget, “I have something to tell you.”

.

.

.

Armin and Eren are perusing Armin’s Reddit homepage when they’re stunned to a still, only able to glance at each other as Porco shouts,

“Motherfucker!”

Porco storms out, straight past the younger men, and slamming the front door behind him after snagging his keys from their hook. Eren is first to shake himself to life, standing slowly to creep through Reiner’s door.

Reiner is pulling on a white shirt, rather steadily for a man who’d just been screamed at.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Reiner?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, Eren,” Reiner tugs on pale, baggy pants, looping a belt around his waist, before passing his friend with a short clap on the shoulder, “Alright. Let’s celebrate Zeke’s thirty-third birthday.”

And, really, it was nothing to Eren. What happened on Zeke’s thirty-second birthday was not for Eren to know yet because he still had to tell you.

Not in the Sedan, though. He can live a little longer in the dreamworld where you still like him.

He pushes the backseat door open for you as Connie straggles behind, locking your apartment. You wave excitedly and clamber in beside him with a loose side-hug.

“Hey, big guy! It’s been too long,” you squeeze. Connie slips in shutting the car door.

Connie’s scruffy buzzcut tickles the round of your shoulder as he looks over Reiner while reaching for your seatbelt (knowing you won’t click it into place yourself), “Looking good!” he huffs when you don’t make his job easier, “Dude, can you move?”

“Huh?” you follow Connie’s eyes, “Oh! Whoops!”

Eren snickers quietly at your antics before announcing to the car, “Mikasa says she and Sasha are already inside.”

“No!” Connie dramatically clutches the sides of his head, “My ‘fit doesn’t make sense without Sasha!”

“You just walked from the apartment to Armin’s car, I think you can live walking into a club without her!” you pat his back, “You’re strong, Con’.”

Reiner smiles gently at the man’s dilemma: a maroon shirt with ‘HUNTERS’ in bold white. Hardly as humiliating as Connie deems, especially since most people will overlook it in comparison to his twinkly jewelry and pants three sizes too big. Connie loves using his best friend privileges to bud into Sasha’s relationship, and everybody else loves watching what those two will do to make spectacles of their group next.

“Hide behind me!” you suggest.

“Yeah,” Armin pitches in, tone light and flowing with nothing but good intent, “She’ll catch enough attention for both of you.”

“Good thing,” Eren patches, as if the addition was needed.

“Thanks, guys,” you wax your palms down the bunched hem of your dress, kneading your thighs nervously, “I started getting second thoughts as soon as I sent the picture!”

“You look good,” Reiner says quietly, so he could pretend to have not said anything if you didn’t like the sentiment.

Thankfully, you’re sweet like pie and giggle, “Thanks, Reiner,” your eyes drift over yourself, “It feels good to dress like this again. I missed it,” you giggle and wink playfully, “Missed being scandalous.”

Tight black dress that pushes up your breasts and displays plenty of leg, the last time anyone had seen you in such a revealing piece was a year ago. Zeke’s birthday. Since then, you’d partied in more concealing shirts and skirts and Reiner hated it: knowing you were recovering from an emotional scathe. One you never would’ve heard if Reiner was a better person.

“We missed our girl,” Eren pipes from the passenger seat, earning a nod from Armin, who is turning into the club’s parking lot.

cocoon’s LED sign is blinding as the sun crashes beneath the horizon, forcing Reiner to shield his eyes with his hands as your group merges with the winding entry line.

“Oh,” you pinch Reiner’s bicep, “Happy birthday, big lug!” his surprise must be evident because you laugh blatantly, “Thought I’d forget, huh? You can’t hide from my birthday cheer, you know?”

“I don’t mind Zeke taking the attention,” Reiner promises, a lie he’s mastered telling, “I’ve never had a big birthday.”

His mother tried, but there was only so much a single parent could do let alone one on a shoestring budget.

At that, you shake your head, sympathetically patting the skin you assaulted, “You should someday. Maybe when Zeke finally mellows out at old age.”

“I don’t see that happening.”

“We’ll have to see.”

After momentary tilted silence, a man slightly bigger than Reiner in a tight black shirt approaches, waving everyone forward. Eren elbows Connie: ”See, Mikasa already being inside was a good idea, huh?”.

Bypassing the bar entirely, Mikasa herds the group from door to booth, of which she had Sasha save. Sitting beside Sasha (who's wearing a maroon shirt with ‘COUGAR’ in bold on the front, completing Connie’s outfit) is a golden ray of light in a kid’s green-and-blue party hat with circular glasses on a thin wire.

“Other birthday boy!” you hurrah, bounding past the group to wrap around Zeke, laying your head atop his.

Never one to mind your over familiar affections, Zeke brings up a hand to cup yours on his chest, “Hey, pretty girl. It’s been awhile.”

Reiner feels a hot white flare in his chest, something flagrantly upset by what he should know is common ground for the older Yaeger. What makes his anger all the worse is how he cannot pick it apart morally: Zeke is freshly single, you and Reiner aren’t together, and you’re both adults. Reiner can only chalk his jealousy up to that -- pitiful jealousy.

“I know, I know! We’re terrible,” you sigh, unlooping from Zeke to sit beside him as more people slide into the horseshoe booth (Connie resorting to extreme whining so Sasha is sandwiched between him and Mikasa), “We need to hang out more.”

“I’m old now,” Zeke ‘tsk’s, “I’ll die trying to keep up with you. Oh,” he points at Eren with raised brows, “They didn’t even ID me at the door.”

“No shit, you’re thirty-three,” Eren goes to add that his girlfriend brings him here every other weekend, but wisely realizes that would be insensitive. Since it’d be his brother’s now ex-girlfriend. To make use of his already open mouth, Eren thumbs at the bar over his shoulder, “Drinks, anybody? I’m gonna make a stop.”

Reiner knows better than to assume Eren is willing to visit by himself and nods, “I’ll go with,” he gestures to you, “Hummingbird?”

As you’re gearing up to confirm, you stand, “Actually, I’ll just go with. You guys will probably have a lot of drinks to carry back,” you poke Zeke’s shoulder, “Drink, birthday boy?”

“Margarita. With mezcal and lime. Key lime,” a chorus of grumbles escape the table, Zeke guffaws, “Not my fault it’s just better!”

“Waters for you two,” Eren shields his brother from more teasing by speaking up, glossing over Armin and Mikasa, “Sasha and Connie?”

With the punks’ orders in place, you wonder aloud what Jean and Bertholdt will want once they arrive. Only then does Reiner realize he doesn’t recall Bertholdt’s preferred beer with the same certainty he used to.

Zeke interrupts the realization, “No idea, but Pieck will get a negroni.”

“Pieck’s coming?” you mumble, sounding downright shy. You don’t want to be that person, and you doubly don’t want to ruin Zeke’s birthday by excluding one of the friends he didn’t make through his brother.

“Uh-huh,” thankfully, Zeke is a grown man who can understand nuance. He sympathizes with your hurt, yet he’s grateful you’re not the type to lay his evening to waste over that pain.

“Negroni for her, then, cool. Cool,” you turn sharply, eyes wide, “Cool. Cool. I’ll be going to the bar now.”

Eren surges to give chase, quickly put to pause by Reiner’s hand on his chest. Reiner shakes his head subtly, “I’ll get her. Spend time with your brother.”

Cramming through the swamp of bodies towards the bar, Reiner finds you chewing a thumb nail at the counter. Brows knitted towards the center of your face and an arm curled around your churning stomach. Frantic, jittery tugs to the bottom of your dress interrupt the nail nibbling. Reiner can’t take it anymore.

He calls your name over the pounding music and you jerk to attention, an uneasy smile finding your painted lips. Laying a noncommittal hand on your shoulder, Reiner follows the summon with a question, “Can we talk out back?”

Mistakenly relieved by his request, you eagerly nod and lace your hand with his. Fingers knotting and nails shoveling shallow crescents along the back of his hand, Reiner silently wrings you out to the alley behind the club. Dumpsters hide your bodies from onlookers still waiting in line, as well as filling the space with a stale rotten stench that makes his nose wrinkle.

“I have to tell you something,” he laments, no longer the paragon of tranquility he was when dealing with Porco.

“Okay.”

You’re sweet like pie, after all. You really are. He doesn’t deserve you. He thinks that’s what makes looking you in the eyes the hardest part of confessing.

Reiner deserves Porco, and Porco deserves Reiner -- they’re meant to be roommates, although neither is sure how it happened. Entitled dickhead going to bat against entitled dickhead: Porco isn’t going anywhere.

You could. And you wouldn’t be wrong to leave.

“Last year, at Zeke’s birthday, I’m- “ his knees beg to cave, but he strains anyway. Forcing himself rigid to avoid collapsing no matter how terribly he wants to, “Marcel wasn’t cheating on you with Pieck. I lied and said that to Porco so he’d say something to you. I didn’t think he’d start a fight, but I guess- I just- I should’ve… known. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Marcel didn’t do anything wrong, I was just…” he can’t believe himself, even a year later he can’t verbalize it without wanting to die, “I was jealous of him because I’m in love with you.”

Staring up at Reiner, you’re shocked into silence. Eyes wide and pupils small, dread and terror gushing into the bowl of your jaw, you’re certain you’re about to puke.

“What?”

You heard him perfectly well.

“I lied to Porco and said his girlfriend was cheating with your boyfriend, his brother,” Reiner knows you heard him, and he doesn’t know what he’s gaining by putting it simpler. He is, however, precisely aware of what he’s going to lose, “Marcel never cheated on you with Pieck. Aside from what he said about the way you dress, he was a totally fine boyfriend. I just… I just wanted you.”

A car roars by the backside of the alley, punctuating your chunky silence. Faint bass pumps through the club walls. You hug yourself as if to wall Reiner off by force. Head shaking.

“You- I can’t… oh my God, Reiner!” you whirl around and hyperventilate against the brick, muttering variations of that same sentence string to it.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

He prefers his fantasies, where you’re not a person but instead a monster that can tear his head off his body. He prefers to die.

You charge back inside, no doubt to shiver in the arms of Eren just like you did last year when Reiner started this whole thing. Part of Reiner can’t believe he’s been honest, he plucks a few arm hairs clean out just to be sure: both blessed and cursed with the truth.

He’s facing reality.

You know. Porco knows. Soon, everyone will know, and everyone will decide what to do with him. So, he lets you finish the story between hiccups and sobs while he kicks rocks into the dented, graffiti’d dumpster.

For a moment, he has the strangest urge to smoke. Reiner has never smoked before but now he’s certain he needs one. Maybe one of those particularly expensive ones in Zeke’s pocket, the brand that makes Eren’s water when his brother so much as opens the pack.

Finally stepping back inside, Reiner is surprised to see nobody preening over your crumpled, weepy form. The only indication he has that you’d even carried this burden inside is the fact you’re hugging Pieck. You’re blabbering into her ear as she giggles, close-eyed, and rubs your back. Upon separating, you squeeze her hands and she nods to whatever you’ve said last.

Then you flounce away, head flipping this way and that until you find Connie and Sasha.

Reiner apprehensively approaches the booth, where a red-faced Zeke is listening to Jean and Eren bicker. Their newest debate topic is one he cares little for since he’s certain it’ll change before the end of the night.

“Hey, birthday boy,” Reiner claps Zeke on the back, kneeling against the leather seat to ensure his friend hears, “I’m heading out.”

“Already?” Zeke scowls up at him.

Fumbling around his pockets for his phone, Reiner nods and holds up the device to shake, “Porco called. Smells gas.”

Porco should not be home -- Reiner hopes Porco isn’t home, but either way the younger Galliard’s estrangement from their group makes lying easier. Something which is also Reiner’s fault.

“Jesus,” Zeke, a recent home-renter understands the paranoia and waves Reiner off, “Hope your place doesn’t blow up.”

“Thanks, man. Happy birthday.”

Zeke doesn’t return the sentiment whatsoever. Reiner tells himself that is fine.

Pieck is beautiful: black hair shiny and alluring despite numerous fly-aways and unkempt strands. Eyebags that cradle relaxed brown eyes. Nose strong yet with an adorable bump. Voice lullaby soothing. Twelve months ago, you were envious of her, and twelve months ago you wanted to no-holds-barred box her in the middle of poor Zeke’s party. Today, however, you’re squashing her tight and murmuring apologies into her ear.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know, I just heard it was true and I didn’t even talk to you! I should’ve known better, you’re so nice and soft and I just wanna be friends…!”

A graceful little simper escapes the older woman, she accepts your nuzzling and even encourages it -- hugging you closer, “I’d like that, too. I’m not upset, I would’ve been pissed too if I were you.”

Her empathy only makes you feel worse.

“Though, I do wonder what made you come to this realization…” she muses.

“Oh, it was, uh…” you teeter off to find your answer wandering through the club towards the door.

If asked by any rational and well-meaning person, you could not tell them why you excused yourself to chase Reiner. You could not explain why you grab him by the arm and spin him around. You cannot justify why you look up at him all downtrodden and bashful and wanting.

“Why tell me now? Why not earlier?”

“Same reason I did it in the first place. I’m a coward, I can’t face you.”

Despite his stature dwarfing your own, you can easily tug Reiner away from the crowd. Fluttering from the face of the club to the bathrooms and slinking inside the unisex solo-stall. You stow Reiner away before locking yourselves inside.

An aggravated knot curls your face inwards, lips puckered like you’ve tasted something putrid.

“You could’ve just… you should’ve…”

Reiner watches you reel, you stutter and shiver and cross your arms and uncross them and tap your foot and curl a finger through your hair. He holds back from speaking or reaching out, fixed on the idea that any poking through your film could make you fly away.

“Have you told Porco?” to your question, Reiner merely nods, “And Marcel?”

“I don’t have his number, I assume Porco’s told him by now.”

“You’re okay with that?” you fold your arms again, Reiner hates himself for daring to peek at how it fluffs your chest, “You’re okay with Porco just telling Marcel?”

“I can’t be picky about this. I’m not the one I hurt.”

You’d have to be really stupid to forgive him so quickly. You would have to be dumb beyond comical relief, dumb beyond scary, dumb beyond dumb itself.

You step closer, both arms slithering up Reiner’s chest until your fingertips graze his lymph nodes.

Luckily for Reiner, you’ve never been described by partners as the sharpest tool in the shed.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you don’t know how to lie.

“Sure.” You don’t know how to read a room.

“I’m serious, okay?” you don’t know how to stand up for yourself, “This doesn’t mean anything. I’m just…”

You’re just fucking desperate. Just like Marcel and every other boyfriend before him said.

“You just want to use me for tonight,” Reiner nods, “I’m okay with that.”

Winding your arms tight around his neck, you lean onto the toe of your heels to kiss him -- nodding against his face with a muffled, “Yeah, Rei, just for tonight.”

Big hands wrap around the backs of your thighs as Reiner sighs into your lip lock, “Jump.”

You hardly get the chance to when he’s already lugging you up, one arm braced under your ass while the other cups your back and fumbles to slide your zipper down. Reiner feels you snip his bottom lip timidly earning a clutch from him until your tits are spilling out onto his chest. He’s prying your tight dress off, fingers on your bottom wrinkling up the hem of your dress to snatch your panties. You flit off his face.

Reiner swallows hard.

Red is smeared around your parted lips, soft puffs of air escaping as you stare him down. Your hair is muffed from its style, and he’s sure he’ll only make it worse.

Still holding you by your back, Reiner swings you back to undo his pants. Your nails shinny for leverage against his neck, legs kicking harshly into his sides -- like he’d drop you.

His cock twitches against you, tip weeping into the rolls of your stomach and you clench up at the sight of how deep he’ll stretch inside you. Then your eyes hone in on the way he carefully prods your hole, lip blistering between his teeth as he slowly rocks inside you. Every little hiss and huff from your throat makes him cautiously glance at you, thumb swirling wetly, apologetically around your clit.

“I know, I know,” he husks as tears prick your eyes, black mascara stains coagulating beneath your lashes, “Just squeeze me, pretty girl. I can take it.”

Your head flings back once Reiner has sunken flush. His hand on your back slides up until he’s got your shoulder to aid each sharp thrust. Amusement crawls over him when your hands fly to wrangle around his biceps, ankles locking behind his waist.

Wide, doe eyes vapidly blear over his pinching face, inspiring a sudden charge of those warm, obsessive feelings that got him in this trouble a year ago. Reiner drags his initials across your swollen clit and coos, “So pretty, pretty fucking girl. Cute and squirming on a big cock.”

Mewling at the praise, you buck against him -- whining when his tip slams a particular spot in your sucking cunt. Before you can catch a proper breath, Reiner tugs you again: ragged and gnarly mumbles leaving him as his pistoning hips quicken. Hard and fast into your guts as you squeal: pitchy and wispy and unable to breathe around the impression he’s scarring inside you.

From your hot-faced moaning and quivering muscles and tits jiggling in time with his rough plunging, Reiner’s eyes are kept busy. So busy he almost doesn’t notice when your abdomen scrunches up and your hole pulses around him. Almost.

“Fuck!” you shudder forward, arms curling around his neck to press sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw. Legs flailing behind him.

“Fuck…” Reiner echoes after you, “Cum on me, pretty baby -- cum all over me, sweet thing.”

Someone bangs on the door, followed by Zeke calling your name. Reiner feels you spasm around him tighter, something he could excuse if it weren’t for the sudden gush of slick that followed.

“You okay? You’ve been gone a while.”

You look at Reiner, blinking with the silent question of what to do.

Reiner is no use whatsoever, merely winding the hand not playing with your clit into your hair and pulling to expose your throat. Eagerly bruising the flesh with his teeth.

“Zeke,” you whimper, earning a jealous bite from Reiner, “Ah! I’m fine!”

A sick laugh cracks from the other side of the door, a sarcastic “okay” leaving the man.

“I’m fine,” you sputter, skin clapping loudly on Reiner’s and drool wetting the corner of your mouth, “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” you gasp, back snapping as Reiner’s cock twitches, ringing ecstasy through you, “I’m fine! Oh!”

Wet, squelchy splashing picks up as your cum pools and dribbles out, dripping from his soaked thighs and splattering right onto the floor with every dive of his hips.

“Not inside!” you buzz in a panic as Reiner’s gravely pants and growls crescendo into huffs and moans. His rhythm thrown completely, “Not inside, Reiner!”

“Okay, baby,” he kisses your cheek and pulls out, sodden cock slapping against your tummy again, “Whatever you want.”

The ominous promise is overshadowed by the shiny glint he catches with your cum and his pre sheening beneath ugly bar bathroom fluorescents. His fist bobbing along the shaft until he’s painting your clenched gut white with thick ropes.

Reiner holds you a moment longer, and the fact his arms aren’t shaking under exhaustion nor your weight serves good promise he could go again if you desired. Unlucky for him, you don’t think you want to. You don’t think this was ever a good idea.

Undoing the lock of your legs, your heels clack against the floor. Gravity berates you quickly. Reiner’s cum begins running down the pouch of your stomach only for the man himself to swear and scoop it up with his fingers. A sticky smear is left behind, and he rushes to clean that too.

Reiner, with no better alternative, is forced to dampen paper towels from the dispenser to supplement the shower he’s sure you’re hankering for. Airy grievances leave him until you push back.

“I wanted it, Reiner.”

He’s on his knees, fingertips kissing your bare skin as he cleans you off. You look tall from his angle: you look broad and strong and beautiful. Stray hairs stick wildly like pricks. Or antenna. He nods slowly, tossing the soiled clumps away before rising to his feet (now you look small again, but no less beautiful).

“Can I zip your dress?”

“Sure.”

Your tone lacks romantics. Devoid of the warm fuzzies currently congealing Reiner’s veins.

He’s smiling, cheeks vibrant red, as he maneuvers your skewed number and shimmies your tits back into their cups before holding the back closed. His knuckles branding up your spine as he re-zips you. He holds you by the waist with his other hand, lips sugary on your forehead.

You can’t recall the last time a man was so adoring to you after sex. Even in your coldness, his devotion is sickeningly syrupy. You can hear the ‘i love you’s he’s bravely withholding.

Marcel was not the most giving man you’d ever dated. Far from the cruelest, but still not very charitable.

“Marcel hated this dress,” you mutter, staring at Reiner’s legs crowded around yours. One of his shoes poised between your heels so he can sap up as much of your space as possible.

“You’re serious?” Reiner is happy you’re speaking now, so he’s blinded as to what the best thing to say at this moment would be. Because it definitely isn’t, “Any guy would love looking at his girlfriend in this.”

“He said I looked slutty.”

“You’re pretty when you dress slutty.”

Hanging your head, you snivel against Reiner’s broad chest, “Am I?”

“All the time,” Reiner rubs your arms warmly (your skin is smooth, pliant, inoffensive), relaxing his cheek on your head, “You’re pretty in your pajamas and your work clothes. You’re pretty all the time.”

You hadn’t noticed the intensity of your stressed muscles until Reiner was massaging them out with gentle hands and a honeyed voice.

“Marcel met you in a dress like that, he can’t get mad when your entire wardrobe doesn’t change for him. Marcel can’t pin your wings,” as if to emphasize, he pinches the skin over your shoulder blades.

Flinching, you whack against his sturdy abdomen (internally groaning when you realize the giant likely didn’t even feel it), “Corny.”

“It’s true.”

Drifting back from the embrace, you turn and unlock the door before fluttering into the club’s swarm.

Reiner waits, counting down fifteen before strolling out.

“So, the apartment’s good?”

“Zeke, were you… waiting on the bathroom?”

“Something like that,” Zeke’s nosey and invasive to an absolute fault, if Reiner had to guess it’s in the man’s top three flaws, “Anyway, I take it the apartment’s good?”

“Pock called ixnay.”

“Good,” Zeke slides closer, clapping his friend on the back in a way that feels too celebratory, “Let’s drink, then!”

“You already reek.”

“And you do, too, so let’s cover that smell up with alcohol.”

Reiner feels smug despite his position on your shitlist -- after all, you let him fuck you, so that has to mean something positive, doesn’t it?

“Sure,” Reiner wraps an arm around Zeke in turn and together they manage to the bar, “Been needing a sunrise all day.”

…

“You smell fine, really,” Sasha eagerly hands over the body spray in Mikasa’s purse regardless of her insistence.

“I can smell myself,” you grimace, “I feel disgusting.”

Connie shakes his head, silver earrings blinding you when they blaze under pink bulbs, “It’s probably just the Zeke fumes. Dude permanently stinks like cigarettes.”

Admittedly, you can pick up the stench of a cigar box -- old and musty and catching your nostrils like dust, but more so is salted sweat. So you spray away, ignoring your friend’s comforts. Once you’re drenched in the addictive scent of tangerines, you return the spray and promise to buy Sasha a new one if it’s drained.

“Don’t be crazy,” she rolls her eyes and elbows you, “You didn’t drain that thing. Besides, I’d never let you buy me a new one.”

“That’s Mika’s job,” Connie nods as backup.

“Yeah,” Sasha giggles, and their glee makes you perk up, “Mika’s in charge of the expenses.”

Arms find your waist, a back stifling your own, and even though you can tell it’s Eren by the brown hair hanging into view and the rings and the cologne -- you strangely feel suffocated. He isn’t hugging hard, and he’s not the type to intentionally cause you anxiety, but you feel as though he’s got you caged.

A terrible thought, for sure, so you forcefully shove it back. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable.

“Ran off on us, I was worried,” he affectionately slurs.

“Sorry, ‘ren,” you pat his arm, “Was with Reiner.”

“Oh,” he backs away, now spinning into view with wiggling brows, “You were with Reiner?”

Sasha shoots Eren a concerned glance.

Instinctually, you try to ease everyone’s minds, “It’s not a big deal.”

Even though their assumptions are correct.

Your name is called from over your shoulder, Bertholdt and Jean are waving you over. Grateful for the segue from a rapidly curdling conversation, you bid the group adieu and race for the boys.

…

Close to midnight, designated drivers Armin, Mikasa, and Pieck are hauling the rest of the party (each person varying tipsy to slammed) to Denny’s, since the older birthday boy was starving for pancakes. Pieck quietly addresses the freckled teenager operating the floor as the drunkest of the group, Zeke, is led inside by Eren and Jean.

Meanwhile Sasha is helping you out from the Sedan, you spot Reiner staring through the glass doors. Coincidentally, also staring at Pieck. Totally unintentional. You’d have to be an idiot to get jealous.

“Hey, Reiner,” you beckon him over.

He heeds, now looking at you instead. It feels better. It feels right.

You also feel terrible, and guilty, and gross.

“Can we talk?”

Talking quickly dissolves into Reiner eating you out in the backseat of Armin’s pristine Sedan.

Maybe you can delude yourself into thinking this makes you both even. Maybe you can trick yourself into thinking this is a worthwhile apology. Maybe you can rationalize that he’s earned forgiveness this way. Maybe, maybe, maybe- maybe- maybe-

“Fuck!” you thrash up off the seat, hips jolting into Reiner’s hot mouth.

Thumbs spread you open for his lashing tongue to wiggle deeper inside you, nose nuzzling your clit and eyes shut as if he’s the one in bliss. Your thighs muff his ears as his hungry slurping continues. Worry that you could pop his skull burdens you up until Reiner tongue-fucks the concern from your ditzy head.

Shaking his face into your cunt, Reiner flays your lips with broad, soaked strokes only to hurriedly revert to precisely attacking your sensitive hole.

It isn’t supposed to be good.

He isn’t supposed to be good at this.

But he is and you’re whining like a bitch and he’s sloppily, greedily drinking you down.

“Productive talk?” Armin glances over both you and Reiner as you walk into the Denny’s, specifically where your thighs are clenched and the fabric of your little dress folds.

You let out a noncommittal hum before slipping past him and beside Connie at one end of the two tables staff was kind enough to let Jean and Eren push together.

Reiner approaches, dropping keys into Armin’s awaiting palm, “Locked up.”

Armin glares up at the man, “Did you keep your promise?”

(“Promise me, Reiner, promise me you don’t do anything to that car that will make me kill you.”

“I promise, Armin. We’re not animals.”)

Reiner suspires quick and itching to escape his friend’s deathly stare, “I’ll pay to get it cleaned.”

“Fuck you!” Armin mimics strangling Reiner, “Fuck you!”

“I know, I’m sorry…”

“You’re worse than animals! You’re parasites.”

“I’m sorry, seriously,” Reiner doesn’t like likening you to a parasite -- you’re lovelier than that, “It wasn’t full blown sex, just oral.”

That, surprisingly, does seem to calm Armin somewhat, “Which one of you was ass-out on the seats?”

“She was.”

“Okay,” Armin sighs, “Okay. I can live with that. Just - fucking - just go with me to clean it so we can use your card.”

“Done.”

“Asshole,” Armin bites as he turns. Which is fair in Reiner’s opinion.

What’s unfair, however, is the way everyone hounds you at the table.

You sit crinkled, eyes focused on your lap, “Nothing, really. Nothing happened.”

Armin bristles and Eren scoffs. Zeke downright laughs. Reiner sits across from you and tells them to mind themselves.

“We could all see it coming!” Sasha jeers, beaming over at you full of mirth and sunshine and good intent, “Reiner’s been in love with you since you met!”

Bertholdt flinches at the call, spiking a glare the blonde’s way.

“About time you moved on from Marcel,” Connie nods in agreement, the past year lifting from his shoulders like a sack of bricks. As the one to have held and soothed you in the aftermath of Marcel’s apparent cheating (and subsequently Porco and Marcel’s bloody brawl), he couldn’t be happier to hear you’re back out there, “That guy sucked.”

“He was…” okay. He was okay. He was okay. But Reiner’s…

Your eyes dart up to Reiner.

Reiner’s a liar. His actions inherently manipulative. No matter how terribly Marcel’s words could sometimes make you feel, he was a faithful boyfriend. Reiner’s crush could potentially be obsessive.

“He sucked,” Pieck reaffirms, smiling at you warmly.

You don’t know what to do with Reiner.

Except to grab his hand over the table and nod, “Yeah, he sucks.”

Reiner fondly brushes a thumb over your knuckles. Cheeks rosy.

Bertholdt is squeezing his fist so tight there’s blood crusting beneath his nails.

When everyone’s belly is full and your large party is spilling out of the Denny’s, Connie nudges your side. Whispering while nodding towards Reiner, “You coming home? Or…”

“Reiner and I need to talk some more.”

(Reiner and Bertholdt are preoccupied with conversation.

“Are you serious?”

“I told her. She knows.”

“You’re fucked up,” Bertholdt has half a mind to shout at you from across the barren parking lot to confirm if Reiner’s claim is true.

“You weren’t part of it.”

“You told me what you did! That made me part of it…” Bertholdt chides heatedly, grinding the heel of his palms into straining eyes, “She actually knows?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Okay…” Bertholdt rakes through mussed black hair and blinks weary eyes, “Then I’m sorry for avoiding you, I just… You were insane for that.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We’re good. You didn’t do anything wrong.”)

“Yeahhh,” Connie drags out, elbowing you in dramatics, cheering, “Get it, girl!”

You shrug, Reiner suddenly at your side and directing you towards Armin’s defaced Sedan by his grip on your hand, “Sure.”

Connie laughs because he assumes you’re being uncharacteristically shy.

Maybe he had a point, though, because as soon as you’re in Reiner’s apartment, you’re on him.

You don’t want to talk. You don’t want him to explain himself (honestly, you don’t know what more he could say). You just want him to make you forget he ever opened his fucking mouth.

“After this,” you gasp into his mouth, nails sharp in his back, “Make me a drink.”

“What kind?” he entertains, pulling your hips to roll against his.

“Something sweet, like nectar. But I want it strong.”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

…

Waking the next morning with a pounding headache and sore hips, you trip from Reiner’s earthy sheets and lazily haul on his white shirt from last night as well as his boxers before quivering into the kitchenette. With an eye closed, you barely find the dark rum from your many guava nectar cocktails before shooting it. Nursing a hangover with more alcohol: always works.

A scoff fishes your attention, Porco sitting at the couch with a steaming mug on the table. No coaster, like a beast.

“You can have the fucking coffee.”

“Thanks…”

Saying Porco watches you fix yourself a cup of coffee would be too lax, he moreso studies you. How you gingerly wait for approval before opening his fridge for creamer and cabinet for sugar. How you stir the sweeteners into your mug. How you don’t bother with a test-sip before tucking everything away.

You haven’t spoken with Porco since you arrived at Zeke’s house twelve months ago -- an awkward hello between two people that never clicked. But you were dating his brother at the time, so you couldn’t just avoid him.

Now, you’re crawling out of his roommate’s bed, which (as expected) is already providing less opportunity to avoid him.

“Did he talk to you about last year?”

A lie can’t even form on your tongue, “Yeah.”

Porco’s brows raise in shock, pointing at you, then the closed door to Reiner’s room, “And still?”

“Yeah.”

As if sensing the moldy turn of conversation, Reiner makes his appearance. He scratches his bare chest and yawns, mumbling gratitude to Porco for making coffee. All awareness of their conversation yesterday seems unapparent on the blonde now, and it may as well be. Reiner remembers yesterday in full clarity, meaning he also remembers why telling Porco the truth was so easy.

Porco wasn’t going anywhere.

“So, what?” Porco’s question is open to both of you, but his eyes needle you specifically, “You two dating now?”

Reiner gives pause. He, too, studies you. He remembers why telling you the truth was so difficult.

You feel a burning in the back of your eyes, you blink it away and find trepidation swelling your throat shut. You clear the blockage with a swig of scorching coffee before answering, “Yeah.”

When that feels too bland, you take another swig and try again:

“Yeah. We’re dating.”

Reiner wasn’t expecting you not to go anywhere, either.

[stitchposts]

i love your trans dragon embroidery!! i don’t know a lot about it yet, but i’ve been looking into techniques to learn and i was wondering if there was a name for the stitch you used to fill the body colours on the dragon? i love how it looks, so nice and flat and even

Hey there! Thank you so much. Sorry in advance this is long, i just really fucking like talking about the topic, and I'm actually really used to helping newbies get started. The fill is entirely 'long and short stitch' throughout the entire piece. It's normally used the most in the technique called 'thread painting' which usually aims for photorealism and involves swapping out a lot of colors to achieve a smooth color transition. I instead do one solid color for my fills, and rely on the thread direction + refraction of light to give it depth. That's a style choice vs it being exactly normal or usual - like any art, embroidery artists develop a recognizable style even when using different stitches or approaches to their work. I mention the above caveats because here's a guide from the Royal School of Needlework showing how long and short stitch is worked. It shows it as it's most normally used - very careful planning of the stitches to achieve closer to lifelike shading, and swapping out colors at junctions. Thread direction still matters even when you use different colors for shading as shown in that guide. The goal no matter what when using mercerized cotton or silk floss for this is to make it as smooth as possible so that it's glossy and reflects light. Back to my art style - without color changes, the animals or fabrics or whatever I'm embroidering long and short on, the end result of controlling the thread direction is that it looks far more lifelike and has depth, such as in this photo from the original post, where you can see how the light hits different twists and turns.

The light reflecting differently on different parts is a key part of my style - it's not a happy accident and that is why it looks as nice as it does, it's the most important part imo, because even if the long and short stitch was done correctly, it might look odd or not be the look I wanted if say, I made all my thread simply point up and down. I had to choose as I went how I wanted the components that make up the dragon to contrast and work with each other, since it is a very smooth and even surface, to provide the visual interest. The wings being entirely smooth and slick with their different color sections, the grip of the claws, the way the muscles work over each other on the legs, the scales being outlined and interrupting the flow - these all build within the composition of the piece to help direct the eye.

My original pattern I used doesn't have instructions on that, it's basically a stencil. However modern patterns aimed at teaching this technique do show where to direct and angle your floss in order to get the correct result: nice and flat and evenly shiny. If you're interested in the photorealism aspect of long and short stitch, check out Michelle Staub, who has a very excellent book that teaches both the stitch techniques and how to blend colors. Stitching animals with fur direction is a good way to get a handle on how rendering fur and muscles works.

[coxblogs]

Complete Buying Guide To Solid-Colored Leggings

Check out this blog to know how to get hold of appropriate solid-colored leggings for daily workout session.

[gymleggings]

Complete Buying Guide To Solid-Colored Leggings

Maintain a disciplined fitness regime? Then, you must’ve seen that it can be quite difficult at times to purchase athletic leggings of the right size

[cuddlyhell]

Sparklecare: Rediagnosis - Cuddles

decided i wanted to finally get around to making some stuff for Rediagnosis, so i made a reference sheet with some lore for Cuddles! it's only fitting we start out talking about my favorite character :P

i'll put a image description below this cut i don't think the image description would fit in the limit, so the description below will be describing the image and text clearly while the image description itself will be a transcript.

i'm also going to be adding onto to this post later with a deeper explanation of his character, the changes i made to him and why i made them.

[Description]

Cuddles is a 4 feet tall naked mole rat/bunny hybrid anthery. He is, assumedly, around 40 years old. He is a bisexual transgender man who goes by he/him pronouns. He is the owner & head doctor of Sparklecare Hospital.

Cuddles is a fully pink-skinned and furred anthery, with white spots across certain parts of his body, signifying actual fur which appears glittery. (These areas include his ears, tail, the tops of his feet, as well as tiny amounts on his collar/neck and cheeks.) He has a chubby torso, contrasted by his skinny legs and arms. His hands are wrinkled, with yellow, small yet sharp claws protruding from four fingers on each hand. His feet are quite long, a little wrinkled, and are obviously stitched onto him below the knees. Despite having no paw pads on his hands, he has hot pink ones on his feet; three for each toe and one other, the metacarpal pad (the biggest, centermost one), which is shaped like a heart. His tail is outrageously large, essentially being the same size of him, even reaching over his head a tad. It's fur is incredibly curly, fluffy, and a little untamed, akin to cotton candy.

His face is only a little bit chubby, his snout is quite stubby and is wrinkled at the bridge of his nose. Three whiskers protrude from either one of his cheeks in any given time. (I suppose like Mickey Mouse ears?) The line of his lips is, seemingly, naturally wrinkled or mishappen near the corners; resulting in a slightly crooked smile. His lips are also formed like a cat's. His many teeth are yellow, much like his claws, as well as being incredibly long and sharp. He has shorter, yet still sharp, buckteeth. His eyes are large and off-putting, due to his sclera being pure black, his relatively small irises are hot-pink with small, heart-shaped, black pupils. His ears, much like his feet, are obviously stitched onto his head where there were most likely no ears before to begin with. They are long, bunny-esque ears which hang down just below his head, lay flat and limp against either side of his head and are, of course, heart-shaped with hot-pink inner ears, which are also heart-shaped.

Cuddles wears an undershirt with pure blue accents on the collar and hem, the entire shirt is also covered in a rainbow polka-dot pattern. He wears his staff badge on the left side of his chest on his undershirt, attached to a custom-made badge reel of a hot-pink heart, split down the middle in one single crack, which appears to be stitched back together. (This is a purposefully stylistic design, it's not actually broken.) Over his undershirt is a large, wrinkled doctor's coat with popped-out collars. Resting on the bridge of his snout is a pair of solid, pure red reading glasses. He also wears a red, short skirt. (The skirt was a random element I threw in on a whim as I wanted him to wear actual clothing on his lower body, I may replace the skirt with something else later.)

Other notes about Cuddles are as follows: He actually does need glasses to read, this is due to his naturally poor eyesight by being born a mole rat. He dislikes wearing them all the time but is overall fine with them. Despite being yellow, his teeth and nails are simply naturally colored like that. He actually pretty good at hygiene, he just.. tend to get really messy with his work.. and he tends to be so busy with said work, that he forgets to wash off, from time to time. He has top surgery scars shaped like two halves of a heart.

[shadeysprings]

Rebound - Part III

—DBF!Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: Your night of wallowing in your misery takes a different turn when your dad’s best friend bumps into you at the bar. 

Warnings: noncon/dubcon undertones, oral sex with fingers at play, unprotected sex, age gap (around 20-25 years), kinda SoftDark!Joel but also nah, gaslighting & predatory vibes. Use the warnings wisely and tread carefully.

A/N: Monday is unfortunately here again but I hope y'all have a good week ahead. Stay hydrated, my fellow hoes also make good choices! Also, just wanna put out that your likes don't really do much for me. If you like and support my work, a reblog and/or comment would help me a lot more. Thank you!

Your feedback and reblogs are highly appreciated. Support Content Creators! And of course, I hope y’all enjoy!❤️

— Previous Chapter

Stripped down to nothing but your shirt and your panties, you sit still and watch Joel as he gently presses the damp cloth against your stinging soles. He’s calm—for now, and you push away any thoughts of fighting back, the ache pulsing through your cheek acting as a solid reminder of the anger and violence he hides within.

Yet the fear keeps a tight grip on you as you see his eyes rove up the length of your legs, hearing him release a shuddering breath when he exhales heavily, your fingers digging into your duvet upon noticing his eyes grow darker, hunger swimming in those hazel orbs as they land on the apex of your thighs.

It’s still unclear to you why he’s doing this. Why the man you’ve known for years and have treated like family, someone you trusted with your life chooses to hurt you in the most sinister and sickening way. 

It has your thoughts flitting to your dad, the one who introduced you to this man, wanting to run to him and reveal to him the true colors of the one he calls his best friend. But you know not how or when you’ll be able to get the chance to do so, or worse, you don’t know if he would believe you of your confession. 

Doubts begin swirling in your head, the anxiety closing in that you shudder at the image of your father being ignorant to his friend’s sins. Because how can he believe you when you can’t even believe it yourself—that Joel would do such a thing and such quick succession, leaving you in a constant state of confusion addled with dread.

A ticklish sensation running up the inside of your calf takes you away from your thoughts and you stare in horror, freezing in your seat when Joel sets down the cloth and spreads your legs wide, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as his lips trail soft kisses against your skin. 

“Joel—” you whimper when he nears your cunt, “What are you doing?” 

“Hush, baby,” he whispers while nuzzling his nose against the cotton of your panties. “I just want to make you feel good, make you feel better.” 

You push your hands against his shoulders, urging to stop when he laps his tongue against your clothed cunt, dampening the fabric. A squeal of shock then leaves your lips when he hooks his fingers on its waistband and effortlessly slips them down your legs and off your ankles. You try to kick him away, wriggling yourself off the bed but your strength is no match with his as he easily grabs your leg and pulls you back to him on the edge of the mattress. 

“Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” Joel chuckles darkly and you whine when he hooks his arms underneath your thighs and presses his palm down your abdomen, effectively locking you in place and pinning you down on the bed. “I’m over here.”

“Please—Joel,” you plead, tears rolling down the side of your face. “Please stop—I don’t want any of this.” 

“But how would you know what you want when I haven’t even started yet?” He smirks and doesn’t even give you a chance to respond as he proceeds to press a languid kiss against your clit before circling the tip of his tongue around it. 

Gasps and moans leave your lips, shame washing over you as the sense of pleasure takes over your entire being. His beard tickles your skin, rubbing it raw as he sucks on your precious bud hard and your hand constantly pushes against his shoulders, slapping his head stop him from his depravity. But even then he’s unfettered by your assault and only responds with a low growl.

Your lips part and your breath hitches, desire blooming deep in your core when he teases your slit with his thick finger. Slowly, he pushes it in and you grab onto his dark locks, pulling on them hard as your pussy takes him, sucks him in and you whine when he adds another, the thick digits stretching you wide as he plunges them deep to the knuckle.

A battle between your mind and body then erupts from within, the desire to push him away yet at the same time, to pull him close as you slowly begin climbing your peak. Your pelvis moves on their own accord, fucking yourself against his hand and his mouth with your mind going blank as all you can think of is chasing your release. 

“That’s it, baby—” he mumbles against your mound, trailing soft kisses on the expanse of your hips as he quickens the movement of his hand, moaning incoherently when his fingertips poke against your sweet spot, your body rising further and further as your core curdles and your spine ripples in want. “Take what you want from me.” He coaxes you further, hand gripping hard on your thigh and lips circling back around your clit, sucking hungrily, tongue flicking and fueling further the fire burning within. 

Your eyes then blow wide and your pussy lips flutter around his digits when you finally reach your peak and come hard on his hand. Your toes curl as your essence gushes out of you, coating his digits, your chest heaving as you slowly come down from your high and lay limp on the bed, strings of moans slipping past your lips as Joel continues to thrust his fingers in deep.

He pulls away and you close your eyes, breathing heavy as a sense of relief takes over you upon thinking that the worse has already pass. But your respite is disturbed when you feel your shirt slipping up your body, your bra following its wake and a chill of the air kissing your skin when you’re left naked on the bed. 

“You say you don’t want this but your body tells me the opposite, baby,” he drones against your hair, feeling him press a kiss at the crown of your head.

You try to open your eyes but the exhaustion makes your movements sluggish. Still, it doesn’t stop you from hearing the rustle of clothing and feeling the bed dip, your lips trembling when Joel leans down and runs his lips up your sternum. His hands trail up the sides of your waist then cup the underside of your tit, teeth nibbling on the plump flesh before latching his lips around your stiff nipple and sucking on them softly.

“No more—please,” you beg, moving your hands to push him away once more. 

But such efforts are fruitless when his mouth leaves your chest, but not after biting the skin, trailing it up to your neck. You groan when you’re turned to your side and feel Joel’s naked chest press against your back. 

“I’ve wanted you for so long, baby—” he breathes against your ear, your breath hitching when he wraps an arm around you and his fingers framing your neck, effectively pulling you closer to him. “And now that I have you, I’m never letting you go.” 

You moan when you feel the tip of his length prodding against your slickened pussy, your hand grabbing onto his wrist by your neck and the other reaching down to push his pelvis away. But once more, you’re helpless against his persistence, your fingers digging onto his flesh instead when he finds your entrance, a cry of despair escaping you all the same as he finally impales you with his cock.

I no longer keep a tag list but if you want to be kept updated on my fics, follow my side blog @springlibrary and turn on notifications.

[harveyguilleniconodelamoda]

Staple Piece: Black Overalls

These black overalls have made several appearances at cons, events, casual outings, and most recently on an episode of Dropout TV's Um, Actually. It's easy to see why these are such a go-to for Harvey!

They have a relaxed fit through the hips and legs, with the traditional square neck and snaps in front, a single off-center chest pocket, and button-up sides. They're a nice, solid true black (as opposed to a distressed, faded, or stone-washed black), and look so comfy! They're also really versatile, and can become a whole new outfit with a change of the shirt underneath!

These overalls differ slightly from the traditional "workwear" overall in that they have a lower waistline, a small off-center chest pocket rather than the single, centered large chest pocket on most overalls, and a squared neckline in the back with thinner straps rather than the thick v-straps of workwear overalls.

It's hard to say what brand they are or even what material, though they don't look to be heavy-duty "working" denim like something you'd buy at Carhartt. If I had to guess, I'd say a heavier-weight cotton or a stretch denim. The buttons are somewhat reminiscent of Levi's, but it's hard to tell for certain with such a small detail in photos. No logo is visible in any photos I've seen.

Styling

Harvey tends to pair these overalls with various brightly colored shirts and cute sneakers, such as the Converse low tops he sported on Um, Actually. I especially love the blue crocheted crop top option with the cheeky peak of skin on the sides (so much so that I recently tried something similar with my own pair of overalls...10/10 would recommend). It's a look that's adaptable to all seasons and great for any occasion where you want or need to balance comfort with style!

Affordable Options

It was the wrong season to make this post, because I had a terrible time trying to find any good overall options. But I did find a few!

These casual slim fit cargo overalls from Ciciful ($39.99) come in black, khaki, and green and have the single small off-center pocket. They also have elastic in the ankle hems, but maybe you like that! Available in sizes up to 3XL, which fits a 50-inch hip measurement.

The plain patched pocket button-up overalls from Bloomchic ($45.90) have a skinny fit and are available up to size 6X (70-inch hip), but are currently restocking. You can sign up to be notified when they're available!

For a more traditional work overall, Dickies' plus relaxed fit bib overalls ($59.99) are a great option! The black wash is a bit undersaturated, but it's still a nice solid, even color that doesn't look distressed, stonewashed, sandblasted, etc. Available up to size 24W (51-inch hip).

The A3 Denim stretch denim cuffed overalls ($28.99) from Walmart come in sizes up to 26W (56-inch hip) and have a straight leg with a cuffed hem. These are a nice true black with pewter-colored hardware.