#the urge to draw him RIGHT NOW is real

[croweofthebog]

reading witch hat 10 and i’ve only known atwert for 4 pages but if anything happened to him i would kill everyone in this room and then myself

[sysig]

I am not immune to any cutes - including Rick and Morty cutes, unfortunately (Patreon)

[sainthermelin]

you know the house is good when unlocking a new support convo makes you audibly groan

[burning-thistles-bt]

i wanna talk about the burning thistles reflamed au sooooo bad but i cant and its killing me

[elliewithcellie]

Girl, Interrupted

summary: Eddie crashes by your home when you least expected, but everything happens for a reason, right?

wc: 1.8k

cw: PURE SMUT (MDNI 18+), basically no plot, friends to fwb?, oral (f receiving), Eddie is a tease, fairly bold reader lol, fingering, talk of p in v sex, hair pulling, orgasms idk let me know what else

a/n: my bestie bought me slutty pajamas for my birthday, and since I'm a hypothetical whore, this has been on my mind nonstop. Finally took a break from my spn series to write this down. This is the filthiest thing I've written to date but definitely short and sweet

Eddie’s jaw fell slack as the door opened before him. He knew he shouldn’t have shown up to your place uninvited. Sure, you were his best friend, and of course, you had said he could come over whenever, but that never truly meant unannounced. He was already kicking himself for showing up as late as he did when you opened the door.

Your oh so short pajama shorts were the first thing that caught his eye, how your thighs spilled out beneath them, the cotton begging for relief. His eyes trailed higher to your tank top one size too small. The hem rested just above your midriff, the outline of your hips more prominent than he had ever seen. Your face was flush, pinks and reds lining your cheeks. He fought the urge to pinch himself, scared that he was dreaming, scared that he’d wake up to the absence of you and very real feelings emerging.

“Eddie? What are you doing here?” you asked, your arms crossing over your chest. “I thought you had a date.”

Date, what date? Eddie’s mind was going numb. His brain was flatlining at the mere sight of you, more exposed to him than he’d ever seen you. Fight or flight kicked in, debating on whether to say something or just turn around and leave. He was almost sure he was not supposed to see you in this state.

“I—uhh—it didn’t go well, so I cut it short. But I know you love the place, so I figured I’d bring over the leftovers.”

“Oh, sweet. Thank you.”

Eddie hesitated, scared to ask, but his interest piqued. “Is someone—you’re alone right now, right?”

Your eyebrows pinched together. You exhaled a dry laugh. “Please, I’m always alone. Come in. Tell me about your date.”

You ushered Eddie inside and settled into your couch. You pulled a blanket over you, and Eddie released a sigh. He couldn’t believe the hold you suddenly had on him. It was like he was in high school again, ready to combust at the sight of a shoulder. At least with your legs covered, he was less inclined to think about spreading them.

“Was it really that bad?” you asked, drawing Eddie from his thoughts.

“She was just so boring,” Eddie complained. “Like, there’s nothing wrong with her, but it was like we were from different planets! She didn’t know Metallica! How am I supposed to bond with someone when there’s nothing to relate to?”

“Did you think of showing her?”

“Showing her what?”

“Metallica!” you laughed. “Wouldn’t that be kind of romantic, you know, to introduce that to her? Maybe tell her you’re in a band? It’d be like showing her a whole new world. And maybe you’d get a groupie out of it.”

Eddie swatted at the air. “It’s not worth it. We were both bored. And it was clear she wasn’t looking to rock with a guitarist.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.”

“You didn’t meet her. She’s pristine, a Chrissy Cunningham type. Meant to be with a lawyer or some shit.”

You leaned in closer to Eddie, your blanket sliding down your thighs. “Those are the girls who fantasize about guys like you the most. Those girls on the straight and narrow, the ones who seemed destined to be sweet stay-at-home moms or perfect career women, those are the ones who dream of just one night doing something they never thought they could. Something so wild that when they’re taking their kids to soccer practice, or their ‘perfect husband’ is asleep on the recliner while they're doing the dishes, they can think back to that wild night when they fucked a rockstar.”

Eddie’s lip trembled as chills coursed through his body. You leaned back against the couch and shrugged like what you said was nothing. You had to be on something, he decided. Never had you been so frank when the topic of sex came up. Your face was still flushed with color, and you couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position on the couch, shifting yourself from one side to the other to no specific rhythm. Heat radiated off of you, though you weren’t known to be the furnace between the two of you. Something struck Eddie as so foreign but so familiar as he took you in.

“Would you fuck a rockstar?” Eddie found himself saying.

Heat rose to your cheeks. “Do I seem like one of those straight-and-narrow girls to you?”

“That’s not what I asked,” Eddie said, a newfound confidence overtaking him. “You came up with that way too fast to act like you don’t think of it, too. So, would you fuck a rockstar?”

You bit your lip and shifted in your seat. You huffed into the couch. “Wouldn’t anyone?”

“Why so shy all of a sudden?” Eddie asked, egging you on. “You’ve been squirming since I got here, sweetheart. Is something on your mind?”

Your eyes trailed from his eyes to his lips, then back to his eyes. “Tonight is not the night to ask me that.”

“Why is that?” Eddie chuckled. “Were you in the middle of something? Was something left unfinished when I so rudely interrupted? And now all you can think about is the ache between your legs?”

You shuddered at his words. “Eddie,” you said, your voice shaking.

“I could help you.” Eddie leaned closer, his words almost a whisper. “Because I may not be a rockstar, but I’m sure I could give you the night of your life.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. “Don’t tease me. It’s not funny.”

“No one’s laughing.” Eddie pulled the blanket back, his hands resting on your thighs. Your legs slightly opened on instinct. “What kind of friend would I be, huh? If I didn’t at least offer?”

Eddie didn’t know where this bravado came from, but he didn’t care. All he knew was the longer you looked at him like that, the harder he got.

You grabbed him by his shirt and forced his lips on yours. Nothing soft or sweet came from your lips. You were needy and desperate, clinging to him like he was the air in your lungs.

The urgency shocked Eddie, but he quickly found your rhythm. He smirked against your lips as he pulled his jacket off. His hands snaked from your thighs to your hips to your ass, lifting you onto his lap. You groaned into his mouth as he rolled you against him.

He was sure he was dreaming now. Only there did he ever picture you above him, grinding your hips into his. Only there did he imagine you moaning from his touch. But never were his dreams this vivid, this real, this fucking good.

He pulled you from him and pushed you back onto the couch. You whined at the loss of contact. He’d never seen your eyes so dark, so lustful, so hungry for him.

He slid down to the floor onto his knees and pulled you to the edge of the couch. “You still want my help, sweetheart?”

You nodded emphatically.

“I need to hear you, baby. Say it.”

“Please help me, Eddie. I need you. Please.”

“Atta girl.”

You lifted yourself up as Eddie pulled your shorts down your legs. Eddie’s cock jumped at the sight of you. He bit his lip to maintain what little composure he had left.

“Aww, your poor little pussy’s just as needy as you, isn’t she?” He spread your knees apart, the cold metal on his fingers sending chills up your spine. The throbbing between your legs only intensified, a small whimper escaping your lips.

Eddie couldn’t wait any longer. There was no time for teasing, no time to explore. You needed him, and he was going to deliver.

He dove into your aching pussy like a man starved. You jumped at the contact, your hands flying to his hair. His tongue worked overtime, kitten-licking your clit before diving in for more.

“You taste so good, sweetheart,” he said, smiling against you. You moaned in response, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him closer.

Your sounds turned him on even more, searching for his own release as he rubbed himself against the couch. His mind was in a daze, in utter disbelief that anyone could look so perfect for him with your legs spread and your back arched. Your chest rose and fell to the rhythm of his tongue, and your lips formed a perfect ‘o’. Oh, how Eddie wanted to feel your lips around his cock. How you’d sink down on him, your perfect innocent mouth being completely sinful just for him.

He placed a finger at your entrance and pumped in and out, his thumb now circling your clit. Your head fell back. “God, yes, Eddie. Just like that.”

“I need you to do something for me, baby,” Eddie said as he added a second finger.

“Wha—what’s that?” you asked, breathless.

“I need you to tell me what you think of when you get off. Tell me what you were thinking of before I showed up at your door.”

“I—I oh god,” you shouted as Eddie’s lips found your clit. “I—I thought about you on your fucking date.”

“Oh fuck,” Eddie groaned into your pussy, the vibrations shooting up your spine.

“I pictured you fucking her from behind, her skirt hiked up to her hips, her panties to the side as you fucked her in front of the bathroom mirror.”

“Fucking C—Christ,” Eddie stuttered, his hips rutting into the couch faster. “Keep going.”

“Then it was me you were fucking. You grabbed me by the hair, so I could watch what you were doing to me,” you said, your voice shaking with every word. “Eddie, please. I’m close. Please.”

“Come on, baby. You can do it. Tell me what I was doing to you.” He was past dreaming at this point. He was sure this was heaven. Hearing your words had him reeling. He didn’t want to stop, didn't know how to stop. He just knew he needed to see you come.

Your lip trembled. “Your hands were all over me, playing with my tits, your lips on my neck, and—and your big cock pounding into me over and oh-ver and—and Fuck! Eddie, don’t stop! Please, please, please!”

Your orgasm crashed down on you, expletives and Eddie’s name on your lips. Eddie continued to pump his fingers in and out of you like a madman as he lapped up your cum.

“Oh god, oh fuck!” he moaned against you.

You pushed his head off of you and caught your breath. Eddie took a breath, too, leaning back against his heels. You pulled him back up to you and kissed him, tasting yourself on your lips.

“That… was so hot,” Eddie said, releasing a breath.

“Can it be my turn to help you?” you asked, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

Eddie’s cheeks rouged slightly, his eyes trailing to the growing wet spot on his jeans. “I had a turn already,” he said, guilt painting his words. He leaned in toward you, a devilish smirk joining his features. “But I’m not done with you. Not yet.”

[ceilidho]

prompt: price/reader bear shifter fic. PART 2. (part 1 here)

-

The urge sits right under his skin.

It’s a month out from hibernation, the torpor not quite sunk in all the way just yet. Plenty of time still to stockpile supplies, train the new rangers before his leave of absence, and chop all the firewood needed for the winter months. Plenty of time on the surface, that is—with only a month left to go, John quietly acknowledges to himself that maybe he bit off more than he could chew this time around. 

It’s exhausting work though. The new batch of recruits are fresh-faced, hardly experienced enough yet to last the season without him, but he hadn’t had much choice with Gaz taking the year off to go back to school. He’s been regularly putting in sixty to seventy hour weeks, hardly leaving him any time to cook or clean or prep for hibernation. Time goes by in a flash. He hasn’t even done a quarter of the repairs around the house that he’d wanted to finish before slipping into the winter torpor.

Hard to figure it out. He’s been putting it off without a real reason, getting lost in the forest for long swaths of time, trudging through the new snow up high in the mountains. Hardly ever in his bear form, conscious of not totally giving over to the animal, but occasionally he can’t help slipping into like tumbling down a snowbank, just losing his footing for a moment and sliding, sliding, sliding until hours have passed and he finally hears his own chuffs and feels branches crack under the weight of his paws.

He winces when he turns back, bones creaking and cracking back into place. 

John has been smelling something around town for weeks now, something sweet and delicate like sap over a branch, but work has left him too busy to start anything. Instead he stops by the grocers every other day, where the scent is strongest, to pick up miscellaneous items. Canned soup here, steaks there. He stockpiles canned and tinned goods in his den, preparing for the long winter when he’s lulled into sleep for extended periods of time, but every time he enters his den, it feels oddly bereft. Empty. Missing something.

The month or so before hibernation always leaves him feeling groggy and laconic; it makes his eyes go half-lidded and his speech descend into grunts and one-worded answers. He spends so many weeks hoarding food and blankets and firewood for the brief moments when he wakes that he can’t stop himself from eyeing even the pretty cashier like another thing to hoard.

He holds himself back, but just.

John wakes up on the couch after a particularly rough shift, groggy and out of sorts. Flecks of sleep stuck in the corners of his eyes still. He’d run into another bear (a real one) on the trail hassling a couple hikers during his shift and it’d taken a couple stressful minutes to gently guide the hikers away before dealing with the bear himself. It’s easier to deal with them in his bear skin, but he generally avoids shifting in the month leading up to hibernation for a reason. It settles him deeper into his bear, draws the sleep closer.

He’s full of cuts and bruises, his side covered in a barely healed, particularly nasty gash, the flesh knitting itself together slowly. His stomach growls. He hadn’t had a chance to cook himself any supper when he got home before collapsing on the couch—had barely eaten lunch as well. That’s part and parcel of his way of life; even during the summer, the days had been long, extending well into the twilight hours. 

And bears need food. John burns calories faster than most, an enormous amount of energy expended when shifting into his other form. He’s a familiar face at every restaurant, grocery store, and market in town for a reason, even if that reason isn’t widely known. In the summer, there was at least some time during the day to gorge himself on berries or fish from a nearby stream, but the berries and fish have long disappeared with the coming of winter. It shouldn’t come as a surprise—hunger dominates his mind during the months leading up to winter—but it’s somehow caught him off guard this year. 

His head perks up when the doorbell rings. 

It doesn’t ring again, but he can hear someone on the other side of his front door, shifting from foot to foot. John isn’t expecting anyone and doesn’t remember inviting anyone over, but he gets up anyway to answer the door. 

There’s a pretty little thing waiting for him on his front porch with a bowl of stew and homemade sourdough bread. He recognizes her from the grocery store, the sweet smelling thing always looking over at him from the till. 

“Sorry to trouble you,” she says, peeking around him. Probably trying to be inconspicuous. 

It slots something in his chest into the right place. He shifts slightly to let her peer over his shoulder into the empty house; no wife or kids scurrying behind him. It eases some of the tension in her shoulders.

“No trouble,” John says. “What’s got you on my doorstep after hours bringing over supper?”

She’s exquisitely shy, almost nervous when she steps from foot to foot before holding the food out closer to him. He takes it, if only to avoid watching her strain. In his hands, it smells entirely too good; makes his mouth water. His bear huffs in his head. John can’t remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal. Certainly not since well before his mother passed. 

“You seemed like—I saw you come home. You looked dead on your feet, so I thought…well, I’d already made soup, so it wasn’t much trouble.”

“You saw me come home?” he repeats.

“Oh, I, uh—I live next door.”

“That so?”

She flushes prettily, just the slightest deepening of the colour over her cheekbones. “Yeah. Six months now. Moved in just before the summer. Anyway, I, well…sorry if you were in the middle of supper, I wasn’t sure if—I heard from Kate that you’ve been busy, so I thought you might appreciate not having to cook.”

“That’s mighty kind of you,” he says. There’s a pause where neither of them say anything. “Can I—I have, uh, a bowl in the kitchen if you want—”

She holds up her hands at that, taking a step back. “Oh no, sorry, I don’t want to…I don’t mean to intrude. I just thought I’d…you know…friendly neighbour and all.”

“It’s no trouble, really. Come inside.”

“No, I—I really have to get going,” she insists, finally turning away from him and descending back down the stairs. “Enjoy your supper!”

He watches her turn and scurry off back to her house, glancing down back once only to give a little start when she catches him still watching her. His nose twitches when he notices that even with the tupperware stacked in his hands, the distinct sweetness that had been hovering outside his door gradually dissipates in his neighbour’s absence. 

His bear rumbles inside his chest. 

In the mountains, he ruminates on his neighbour’s small kindness. It builds in his chest like a slow burning fire when he stands in the brisk cold and stares down into the valley below. The snow squeaks under his boots on the hike back down. The ache of hunger echoes through him again; he thinks of tupperware offered to him in two soft hands. Next time, he’ll invite her in. 

He’s pleasantly surprised when she comes by again not a few days later, this time bringing along with her a pan filled with berry cobbler, tinfoil crinkling under her fingers when she hands him the entire pan. The next day, she stops by with a jar of homemade apple cider. 

It takes awhile for John to coax her inside. She brushes off his invitations to join him for supper for days before he notices the cracks in her resolve. She lingers on the porch for longer than she should, body oriented towards his house even when she says that she has to go. John considers for all of a few seconds just dragging her inside, but there’s something immensely rewarding in reeling her in slowly. A slow hunt and the promise of a meal so decadent that it leaves his tongue heavy in his mouth.

When she finally concedes, his blood roars hot, the beast in his chest thickly nuzzled under his skin, satisfied. 

She’s skittish in his house. Hardly stays for more than ten minutes the first time he succeeds in getting her in. Just long enough to take a couple bites out of the gingerbread loaf that she’d brought over and he’d cut a few slices off before retracing her steps back to the front door. John holds back the instinctive urge to follow her and trap her in with a hand flat on the door when she tries to open it. It’s better to earn her trust. 

His interest just goes up and up as she continues feeding him throughout the week. Perfect mate keeping his belly full, keeping him nourished after a hard day’s work. She keeps him company on the couch when he invites her over on the weekend, dragging her little socked feet over the carpet and snuggling up on the other side of the couch like he might reach out and grab her. He might.

Part of John can’t believe that he’s been living beside this girl for going on six months and never scented her before. It permeates his house now, baked into the walls and carpet. He wishes sometimes she’d stop by and use his bed for a nap, if only so that he could come home to a bed smelling of her; he’d wrap a firm hand around his cock with the scent of her under his nose and tug himself off with his face pressed to his pillow, imagining her trapped under him, the plush pillows of her ass turned up to let him rut between her thighs. 

Her feeding him and spending time with him is confusing though. It confuses his bear, who associates all those things with mate. It’s nature to want to keep the thing feeding him. 

So he can’t help the way his bear expects her now. When he wakes up in his bed without a smaller body tucked away in his arms, it leaves him foul-tempered, short with his men. Picking up groceries becomes more difficult than ever when he instinctively beelines to her when he walks through the automatic doors, pleasure coiling in his chest at the sight of her staring wide-eyed at him. Always a bit shy, even as it slowly melts from her like old snow. Timidity from a season ago, still frosted over but shrinking. 

He doesn’t stop himself from dragging her into his lap before passing out on the couch after a long day at work, leaving her befuddled and uncertain. His arms don’t let her up though; they keep her pinned to his chest until he wakes back up an hour later, nuzzling the bristles of his beard over the soft skin of her neck and dragging a big palm up the inside of her thigh, seeking out the warmth between her legs even half-asleep.

His hand pauses its upward trajectory when she shifts. He’s slow to come back to consciousness, but far slower to move his hand. Mate, his bear rumbles in his chest when his fingers dig into the clutch of her thighs and John hears her muffle a yip. She should be soft and pliable for him, should let him drag his hand up into the space between her legs that she’s kept hot and tender for his touch. 

John lets her pretend at sleep until he finally moves his hand away, moving to sit up and leaving her curled up on the couch. He goes off to the kitchen to put on the kettle and comes back to find her awake, stammering out an apology for falling asleep. 

“None of that,” he grumbles, setting two mugs down on the coffee table. He sits beside her before she gets the bright idea to get up and leave. 

“Sorry, I didn’t plan on staying this long. I should get back—”

“Someone waiting for you at home?” John interrupts, curt despite himself. 

The idea of her going home to someone instantly aggravates him. Even knowing for a fact that there isn’t a man living in her house doesn’t tamp down the anger. He’s scented the exterior of her house once or twice; John would’ve caught the smell of another man by now if there had ever been one living in her house. He’s held off marking her house with come or piss, but that might have to change if she keeps dangling the possibility of there being another man over his head.

It’s his fault for not marking her yet. The trees in the mountains have been marked up over the years that he’s lived in this town, deep gouges in the bark marking the forest as his territory, but he hasn’t yet rubbed his scent into his mate’s skin. It’s his fault she’s still acting like an unattached sow. 

She hesitates; risks lying to him. He can see it plain on her face. “…No.”

His face softens, eyebrows pulling together sympathetically. “I’m not such bad company, am I? Stay for a little longer—all that food’s gonna go to waste otherwise.”

“I—I guess I can.”

“Brilliant. Drink your tea, honey.”

She picks up her mug and sips it quietly while John shifts her feet into his lap and digs his thumbs into her right sole. He shushes her when she jolts and tries to sit up, digging this thumb harder into the arch of her foot. 

“Enough of that. Back down,” he scolds.

“You, but you shouldn’t—you don’t have to do that,” she stammers, trying to pull her foot away and moaning inadvertently when he digs into a sore spot. Her hand clamps down on her mouth.

“Don’t give me that, aren’t you on your feet all day? And then baking for me after a long shift? It’s the least I can do, honey.”

She’s reluctant at first, but then squeaks again he rubs his thumb over the ball of her foot. Hardly able to deny the truth. It isn’t long until her little squeaks and moans start coming out unbidden, exhaustion opening her up. He can smell her sex leaking if he breathes in deep enough. 

“Promise to stay here and wait until I fix up supper?” he murmurs, keeping his voice low. 

She hums, eyes having slid shut. Without even really moving her lips, she mumbles, “Promise.”

“Good girl.”

Sleep warm, she finally settles into his house like she belongs, like she’ll be spending the long winter here as well. Her scent is as imbued in the couch as his. It’s cinnamon sweet. 

“Why do you even…buy so much food if you aren’t gonna use it?” she asks, drowsy enough that even if he were to respond, there’s a chance she wouldn’t hear it. “You hibernating or something?”

John smiles. “Something like that.”

[n0vazsq]

Pretty Boy | LN4 x Reader

pairing . . . lando norris x gf!artist!reader

summary . . . While you're sketching a drawing of Lando, you notice that something's off with him. Then, you remind him that he's much more than what people think of him

request . . . no!

word count . . . 759

warnings . . . none! just one use of 'damn'

faceclaim . . . N/A

alexavia yaps . . . first lando fic!!! a bit short but i hope you guys like it <33

. . . The room smelled like salted caramel and the leather of the couch you were currently sitting on. Lando sat across from you, sat on the arm of the chair, one leg bouncing restlessly. The glow from his phone lit up his face every few seconds, softening the sharpness of his jawline, but it didn’t hold his attention for long. He set it down after scrolling aimlessly, leaning back with a sigh.

"You know," you started, stretching out your legs, "you really need to learn how to sit still. You’re stressing me out."

He flashed you that damn grin, the one he knew you hated for how effortlessly it made you forgive him for everything. "You sound like my engineer," he laughed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"Maybe I should be," you shot back, holding up the sketchpad in your lap. "You’re not exactly making this easy for me."

His eyes flicked to the page, and he tilted his head, squinting slightly. "That’s me?"

"Who else do you think I’ve been sketching this whole time? Your mum?"

Lando grinned, leaning in closer to get a better look. His hair was slightly messy, still damp from the shower he’d taken earlier, and you could smell the faint trace of his shampoo as he hovered over your shoulder. "Not bad," he said with mock seriousness, tapping his chin. "You almost got my nose right."

You turned your head, glaring playfully. "Almost? You’re lucky I even attempted that ski slope you call a nose."

He pretended to be offended, leaning back dramatically, a hand on his chest. "Ski slope? That’s rich coming from someone who-" He cut himself off, laughing at your raised eyebrow.

"Go on," you urged, smirking now.

"Nah," he said, still laughing as he settled back into the chair. "You’re not worth the fight."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. Lando had this way of lighting up a room without even trying, of making you feel like the only person who mattered when he turned that adorable charm your way. It was infuriating, really.

But tonight, something about him seemed quieter. The usual spark in his eyes was dimmer, and the edges of his grin didn’t reach as far.

"What’s going on with you?" you asked, setting the sketchpad aside.

He shrugged, looking down at his hands, which were fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. "Nothing. Just thinking."

"About....?"

He hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek before finally meeting your gaze. "You ever feel like… I don’t know. Like people only see what they want to see when they look at you?"

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Where’s this coming from?"

He shrugged again, more defensively this time. "It’s just… I don’t know. Everyone’s always saying stuff, you know? About me. Pretty boy this, golden boy that. Like that’s all I am."

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees. "You know that’s not true, right?"

"Isn’t it?" he countered, his voice softer now, more uncertain.

"My beloved Lando." You said his name like it was the answer to a question he didn’t want to ask. "You’re so much more than what people say. You’re brilliant, and kind, and funny, annoyingly so, actuall. You care about the people around you more than you probably should."

He didn’t say anything, just stared at you with this look that made your chest tighten.

"I don’t see some ‘pretty boy,’" you continued. "I see you. The real you. And if other people don’t, that’s their loss. But just saying, you are pretty."

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "You’re too good at this whole therapy talk thing, you know that?"

You smirked, leaning back against the couch again. "Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep your ego contained."

He laughed then, the sound breaking through the tension like sunlight through a cloud. And when he looked back at you, the spark in his eyes was there again, faint but unmistakable.

"Thanks," he said simply.

"For what?"

"For being here. For being… ," He took a deep breath, arms raising and falling, like he was trying to cut the air. "You.”

Your smile softened, and you shrugged. "Someone’s gotta put up with you."

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Lucky me, huh?"

And in the glow of the room, with the soft hum of the music in the background, you thought maybe you were the lucky one.

[garoujo]

✩ ˛˚ . WARM ME UP ; — cock-warming various blue lock boys.

FEATURING: nagi seishiro, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, bachira meguru + mikage reo.

warnings: f!reader, cockwarming, all characters written 22+, a little teasing in some, slight somno in bachi’s [hes inside of u before ur asleep], slight body worship (?) in reo’s, sensitive boys mostly. note: my mind spiralled w nagi’s first so that’s why his is longer but i decided 2 make it into hcs.

✩ ˛˚ . NAGI SEISHIRO

“fuck—ah, y’re g’nna make me die, quit feeling sooo good ‘ts no fair.” nagi murmurs from where he’s got you spread across his lap, resting on the edge of his bed with his cock buried in your sweet walls as he tries to beat his own high score on his game.

you’d gotten a little bored watching him, a little needy as you pressed yourself up against him and admired the way he’d bite on his lower lip as he concentrated, skilful fingers tapping at the buttons on his controller as small, low grunts of frustration fell from his parted lips.

but nagi had welcomed you so easily when you’d made your way into his lap, lifting up his arms to allow you to slide right in before he sent you a lidded, questioning look when he felt you pull at the waistband of his sweats. “huh? ‘m in a game right now, angel.”

“it’ll help you concentrate, sei.. promise.”

it’s doing anything but though, the snowy-haired striker underneath you realises with another needy, warm twitch of your walls around him. even just the press of your chest against his is driving him crazy, feeling you press kisses along his jawline when he whines from missing another shot — he can barely concentrate on anything but you.

“no fair.. you made me miss another headshot, pretty thing.” nagi grumbles as he presses his forehead against your shoulder, sighing while a tight, cute pout rests on his lips. but it’s almost like an apology, the sinful press of your hips against his as you push closer — just enough to knock the air out of him when you press his cock even deeper into you.

“hey, c-come on! angel, y’re playing dirty, wanna up my online ranking.” there’s an unsteady waver to his words that’s followed by the instinctive twitch of his hips into yours, like he’s chasing more of the friction you're teasing him with as he sighs.

“think of it as a boss fight, sei.. don’t wanna make it too easy.” your words are whispery and pretty as you pull back to trace your fingertip across the shape of nagi’s jawline — drawing his full attention as his head twists to look at you. hes starry eyed and dazed, flushed from his cheeks to his neck and you’re pretty sure the eye contact alone makes his cock twitch from where it’s pressed into you.

“eh, ‘ts no fair when you know all my weaknesses, pretty thing. gotta try somethin’ else, i guess.” it’s drawled, filthy the low tone his voice takes before he’s drawing closer to kiss you, whimpering against your lips before he’s forgetting the controller in favour of grabbing you instead.

the quick movements are followed by your back meeting the mattress as he presses you into the sheets with every deep, messy press of his lips. “sei! your game.” you gasp when your words urge his first real thrust into you, so deep and good that your toes curl from where they’re wrapped around his hips.

“eh, it’s fine.. ‘ll beat it later, f-fuck—wanna win this side quest first.”

✩ ˛˚ . ITOSHI SAE

sae was tired from practice today, but you were feeling particularly needy and as much as his muscles ached — he still couldn’t help but use this opportunity to his advantage, especially when you were already palming at him just as he returned home.

“i’ve been at practice all day, know i’m tired. is this how you welcome me home?” he drawls from where he’s got you spread out against him — your back is resting against his chest as your head rolls back against his shoulder, thighs hooked over his own as his fingers circle your clit — unmoving even though his cock is already buried deep inside of you.

there’s a certain sharpness to sae’s tone that makes you twitch, shaking your head against him as your nails scratch along his forearm. you’re so desperate for him, for him to move and fuck you — it wouldn’t take much, not when he’s touching you just right, but it’s not enough — he knows that.

“just need you, sae. i, ah—missed you today..” your hips twitch above him, an obvious little plea as his cock brushes along the spongy spot inside of you but he’s too fast, sighing before his free hand is pressing your hips back tight against his.

"how much?" sae grunts with the sweet, frustrated whine that pushes past your lips as he grinds up into you - offering you an inch before he takes it from you completely, pressing a kiss against your shoulder after like hes trying to soothe you. "how much did you miss me, hm?"

the way he presses into your clit is deliberate, baring down harder on the puffy bud until you’re thighs are shaking and twitching, begging for him to hurry up and move. your lips part, head lolling back against his shoulder before he’s pressing another smeared kiss against your cheek, and sending you a sharp looks that’s urging you to hurry up and answer.

“so much, missed you so much! been waiting for you, sae.. wanted you here.” your voice breaks under the weight of your arousal but you swear you feel sae’s cock twitch at the sound. it’s followed by a low hum, like he’s considering your answer before his hand on your hip eases — finally letting you move with another slow roll of his own that presses his cock against the swollen, sweet spots inside of you.

“then take what you need, sweetheart. don’t keep me waiting.”

✩ ˛˚ . ITOSHI RIN

it was impossible to move rin from his place on the couch when he’s examining team plays, his own most importantly — teeth gritting with concentration despite the way you’re pressed into his chest, palming at his body as his cock rests inside of your slick cunt.

but as good as it feels, finally having him buried in you like you asked, you’d rather he was moving — turning you to putty above him and fucking every single thought out of your mind that wasn’t him. so you decide to test the boundaries a little, shifting your hips deliberately until you feel his large palms squeeze at your hips and your boyfriend hiss from between his teeth.

“quit— fuck, quit it.” you almost shiver at the low, sharp tone rin’s voice takes but you can tell there’s no real irritation behind it when you notice the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. he’s just as wound up as you are, his brows crumbling as he tries to focus on the tv infront of him — nibbling on his lower lip to distract him from the warm squeeze of your walls.

“you said you wouldn’t move..” he grits, still refusing to meet your gaze despite the way every squeeze of your hands across his body makes his breathing hitch. you’ve got him so fucking wound up, he’s so lukewarm — so sensitive, he can’t even control himself for 10 fucking minutes.

“but i need you, rin. not my fault you feel so good.” rin can feel the back of his neck stinging with a flush when you smear a kiss along his jawline, making his fingers squeeze even tighter into your hips before he’s growling under his breath. but the way you purr when he readjusts himself beneath you, melting into him with a tiny, slight grind of his cock into you makes him feel fucking dizzy.

it’s fast, the way he’s suddenly readjusting his feet and beginning a pace that’s too quick, and if it wasn’t for his grip on you — you’d have bounced off of his lap completely. every wet smack of his hips is loud and clapping and driven by the pure determination to feel you creaming around him as he sends the game on the tv a lidded glare.

“can’t even control yourself—uggh, shit—you’ve got until the first half finishes to cum or ‘m stopping.. and you better—take all of it.”

✩ ˛˚ . BACHIRA MEGURU

it had become sort of a routine at this point, bachira would come home from practice — wound up and so fucking hard before he was fucking you senseless, followed by him falling asleep pressed up against you while his cock still rested inside of your cunt.

you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t comfortable though and he knew exactly how to get you to accept, bathing you in wet presses of his lips and low chuckles. “jus’ wanna feel you round me, baby. m’kay? sleep sooo good like that, so warm.” you couldn’t deny him, not when you’re still coming down from the orgasm he’s dug out of you.

but now, you feel yourself wake up from your own nap — roused by the sudden movement behind you as you feel bachira’s chest press tighter against your back — followed by the sudden, deep press of his cock along the still swollen spots inside of you. “baby~ already so wet, should’a just woke me up if you wanted it, gotta take care of you.. m’kay?”

you’re not sure if it’s the sleep that still laces your body but you already feel like putty at his touch, he’s deliberately grazing his cock along the spots that crave him most — sending intoxicating little aftershocks through your body that have you gasping with every quick thrust.

bachira chuckles when your lips part to moan, followed by another loud, wet smack of his hips as his head rests against the back of your shoulder. “already so wet, baby. mhm.. you been dreaming ‘bout me? feels like you have~” he sings, whimpers when he feels you squeeze around him at the words but that only pushes him to go faster, deeper.

it’s hard to believe he was sleeping a moment ago with how well he’s working your body, palming and grabbing at your figure as moans fall from his lips — burying them into your skin as he smears kisses along your shoulders. every deep press of his cock is eased by the remnants of both your previous orgasms, squelching loudly as he pushes himself even deeper.

“awww~ i knew you wanted it, baby. mhm— ah! just gotta ask, can make you feel so good~ lemme take care of you, m’kay?”

✩ ˛˚ . MIKAGE REO

reo was obsessed with you, that much was obvious — although he’d spend his whole day proving it to you if he had to. every touch of his hands on your skin made you melt into him, he worked you with such precision but such a gentleness that you couldn’t help but seek out more.

but these moments specifically were some of your favourites, the ones when he’s pulled you onto his lap — onto his cock as his fingers leave featherlight touches along your skin as he looks up at you. it was intoxicating, to watch him appreciate every part of you, taking a slow, languid palmful of your breast as he loses himself in the mindless squeeze of your walls around him.

“does that feel good, bunny? yeah?” reo asks as his breathing cools the spit he’s left across your tits, giving you a lidded — dazed look until you’re nodding out a yes and he’s messily dragging his tongue along your nipple. you feel dizzy with how good it feels, every squeeze of his palm as he suckles at your nipples languidly, massaging and pinching at you as you try your best to keep your hips still.

but every lav of his tongue, every slow and mindless roll of it over your aching tits makes him twitch from where he’s buried in you but he’s too intoxicated, too enamoured by the way your walls squeeze with every swipe of his muscle against you.

“fuck, bunny. look so pretty, keep still for me. kay?” it almost hurts how tight your fingers are digging into reo’s shoulders with your sweet little uh huh, followed by another dreamy whimper as he suckles kisses from one breast to the next. his cheeks and chin are slick with his own spit from every sloppy press of his lips against you, and it feels so fucking good despite the way his cock still hasn’t moved inside of you.

a shaky sound breaks from his lips when you let your head roll back, your hands smoothing through his hair before the pull at the roots and he feels like he could fucking cum right there and then. you feel fucking boneless above him, melting with every greedy palm and press of his lips and hands.

“that’s it, bunny. wanna see how much you need me first.”

© 2023 garoujo. please do not copy any of my layouts or writing and translate or repost onto any other sites.

[suhtorus]

mama's day. gojo satoru

fluff. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ parents au, non sorcerer au, mom!reader, family fluff, two unnamed sons and one baby girl. a little gift for myself ! ᡣ𐭩

little sunshines au

satoru has a plan for your birthday—a very detailed one.

step one. wake up the nuggets

it takes him less than two minutes to get the oldest out of bed, and there's really no point in waking up his baby girl since there's not much an eight-month-old can do.

the problem is your toddler.

"c'moooon, don't you wanna give mama her gifts?"

satoru's tone grows exasperated the longer his son refuses to cooperate, kicking his legs and throwing his nemo plushie at his face.

"no!"

the five-year-old immediately shushes his baby brother, only making the latter whine even more, tears now running down his chubby cheeks.

satoru feels his face fall upon seeing his son so upset, he should've expected the little ones not to take it too well to be woken up at six in the morning.

"hey," he tries softly this time, caressing the soft blond hairs of his toddler, "I'm sorry, mochi. can you forgive papa? go back to sleep, I'll wake you up when breakfast is ready, okay?"

the sobs end and now there's only small sniffles coming from the sleepy kid.

"oki."

step two. make breakfast

"like this?"

satoru leans down to inspect his son's work, brows furrowing as he tries, and fails, to read whatever gibberish his son tried to spell on top of the freshly made waffles.

with a loud smooch on the kid's cheek, satoru squeezes him in a tight hug, grinning proudly the way a father would. "a masterpiece. mama's gonna love it."

dad and son work surprisingly silent, focused on their own tasks. it doesn't take them long to have plates full of food and fruits, as well as freshly made juice.

"why don't you grab these," satoru hands his son two bags with the names of expensive brands on them, "while I go get your siblings. okay?"

"on it!"

step three. gifts

"happy birthday, mama~"

"ma-ma!"

you wake up with a start, surrounded by four pairs of blue eyes staring down at you.

"happy birthday, love of my life, mother of my kids, my one and only!"

satoru pecks your mouth as your brain processes the beaming faces of your three nuggets. your boys sit next to you, one on each side, while satoru holds the baby in the air right above your face.

your confused face finally eases into one of happiness (and relief).

"thank you, my little babies!" you smile drowsily, urging yourself to blink the sleep away as you smooch the faces of all three of your children. "mwah, mwah, mwahhh–"

your husband can't help but smile upon seeing you smothering the kids with kisses. and with his hold still on his baby girl, satoru tugs her away from you and nods at your lap.

"open your gifts, baby. we got you aaaall of your favorites." he winks at his son and the little one covers his mouth behind his tiny hand, giggling. "and we also made breakfast for mama, right?"

with a pointed look from satoru, your toddler remembers the plate of food on his lap.

"eat waffu, baby." your two-year-old offers you the plate full of waffles, pushing it towards your mouth, insistent. "eat it."

step four. spoil her rotten

your two boys happily run across the gardens while your baby girl crawls on the grass, squealing right behind her brothers.

"liked the surprise?"

your husband's arms wrap around your middle from behind. his hold is the greatest comfort you could've asked for.

"you mean waking up with three of your clones staring down at me while I sleep?" you snort, but there's no real bite in your tone. "I loved it. especially their drawing of me surrounded by blue-eyed mochi."

your eldest had insisted on drawing their little family—with you right in the center—and satoru thought it'd be funny to add the mochi instead of the kids.

"oh, but I'm not done yet, sweetheart." he spins you around in his arms, now grinning at you. "an entire weekend. you and me. what do you say?"

a groan slips past your lips and he immediately frowns, indignation clear on his face.

"c'mon, pretty. it's been a while since it was just the two of us." satoru goes for the puppy eyes, knowing that by doing so he already has a fifty percent of chance of winning. "you're not only a mother, but also a wife. let your doting husband pamper you."

"and who's watching over the kids? the baby??" you try to reason, glancing at your nuggets as they giggle their little hearts out as they play together. "satoru, we can't just leave."

"sweetheart, relaaaaax. ijichi got us covered."

oh, that poor man.

you make a mental note to give nanami a call.

[orcasoul]

Marcus Acacius Imagine #1

Warnings: Fluff, age gap, smut (under 18's DNI!)

Word Count: 665

Older husband Marcus Acacius who never expected to marry again almost two decades after his wife ran away with a servant. Who had long ago given up on the notion of love and poured all of his energy into serving Rome. Who, at a large celebration in honour of his retirement felt the whole world slip away as your father introduced you to him. Who became instantly besotted with your delicate smile, your gentle mien, and the shyness you exhibited around him. Who spent the whole evening in deep conversation with you, drawing you out of your shell and learning as much as he could. Who the very next day arranged your marriage to himself with your father.

Older husband Marcus Acacius who felt the gods had truly blessed him as you walked towards him in your bridal attire, looking like Venus herself. Who felt your smaller hand shake as you took his and instantly became overwhelmed with the urge to ease your nerves and to protect and shield you from every bad thing this world had to offer. Who knows that your youth and naivety has not prepared you for the real world and as long as you have him to care for and safeguard you, you'll be fine. Who will spend the rest of his life ensuring you will want for nothing from this moment on. Who's not foolish enough to believe that you love him as he does you - by the few interactions you've both had it's clear you do care for him, but love can take time for some people - and he will make it his mission to gain your love.

Older husband Marcus Acacius who, being an experienced lover knows just how to both sooth your wedding night anxiety and excite you at the same time. Who trailed his lips over your shoulder as he released the clasps of your dress, the fabric flowing to the floor around you. Who stared in reverence at your naked flesh, your subtle curves and the swell of your breasts, professing that you are the most ethereal creature he has laid eyes on. Who tilted your chin up to meet his eyes and saw both lust and apprehension staring back at him. Who allowed you to take your time undressing him, getting lost in the feel of your soft fingers as they trailed over his many scars. Who's heart almost burst with joy as you tiptoed up to press your lips to his.

Older husband Marcus Acacius who laid you on the bed, smoothing his hands down your body, from your neck, over your breasts, past your navel and finally settling over your sex, cupping it gently. Who began to rub circles over your clit with the heel of his hand while pushing a finger inside your aching core, soon followed by a second. Who grinned in triumph as you came apart beneath him, your flushed face looking both awed and fascinated at what just happened. Who, only once you had become pliant enough entered you slowly, pushing in all the way to the hilt. Who watched your eyes roll back as he increased the intensity of his thrusts inside your warm, wet walls, drawing moans and gasps of his name from your pretty lips. Who made sure you came one last time before spilling his seed inside you.

Older husband Marcus Acacius who held you in his arms as you slept, studying all the fine lines, beauty spots and freckles on your face and shoulders, smoothing the silky skin of your back and relaxing in the warmth of your body pressed to his. Who has never felt more at home than his is right now, embracing the woman he adores and has waited his whole life for. Who hopes that his seed has already taken hold and will soon have you swelling beautifully with his son. Who will love, worship and protect you and any children you give him until his dying breath.

[laiiaaa]

trying to go to bed mad at Carmen but he’s just not having it LMFAO i just love him with a grumpy gf :(((

You’d like to blame him for it, just because he was short with you this morning. Stressed about a food critic coming to The Bear this weekend, he’s been on edge, losing sleep, and this morning was just one of those days it was getting to him: dodging your affection, hurrying out of bed, disjointed conversations he doesn’t try too hard to be a part of.

It’s not entirely his fault, and you know this, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less, to be put to the side for even a day to make room for that colder edge to him when he gets zoned in.

So you give yourself the liberty to be a little bit shitty, too, just for the night.

You don’t greet him like you usually do, with a deep kiss hello and your hands squeezing at his sore muscles, offering to massage the knots in his shoulders. Instead you sit on the couch reading your book and offer him a fleeting glance. He pauses at the difference, but carries on.

You wait until long after he’s showered to get up. He even pops back into the living room beforehand, shorts hanging low in his waist, to call for you:

“You comin’ to bed?”

“Soon,” you tell him, which could be true, but not definite.

“Okay,” he sighs, coming behind you with a hand on your shoulder and a kiss to the opposite cheek.

You don’t give in, though, and he heads off to the bedroom.

You do join him eventually—almost an hour later, when you’re so tired that it’ll make you even more of a pain to deal with. He’s in the middle of fighting off sleep, trying to stay awake to make sure you come to bed with him, but as much as that makes your chest yearn for him, you plop down in bed a foot away and turn your back to him.

Behind you now, he shuffles to sit up. “Hey,” he tries, a soothing hand on your shoulder, “You alright, baby?”

No response.

Scooting a little closer to lean over and see your face, he brushes hair out of the way to press a kiss to your temple. “C’mon, talk t’me.”

But you turn away from his touch, and he scoffs.

“What, you mad at me now?” He watches you expectantly. “Not even gonna tell me what I did?”

“You didn’t do anything, Carmen,” you mumble, face muffled into your blanket.

“Wh—baby, don’t be like that right now—”

“Be like what?” you snap, sitting up and turning to look at him. “I’m sorry that my needs don’t align with your work schedule. Just let me know when it’d be best to reach you next time.” And with that, you drop back into bed, moving just a little further away from him.

He nearly laughs, then, real subtle with a hand rubbing his eyes and forehead because he knows you, he knows how you get when you miss him. He turns back onto his side with a groan and reaches his hand upon your waist, smoothing beneath the fabric of your shirt.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, but you don’t dare move his hand away: it feels so much better this way, getting the touch he didn’t give you this morning.

“You’re bein’ mean today. You all cranky ‘cause you miss me, ‘s that it?”

You don’t answer.

“C’mon,” he urges you, shuffling closer so that his arm wraps fully around your waist and his face can bury into your neck with a kiss to your smooth skin. “‘M sorry for bein’ shitty this morning.” Instinctively, he draws a hand up your tummy, right beneath your breasts. “Missed you all day, y’know that?”

“Just leave me alone, Carm, I’m serious.”

“‘M really sorry about this morning, baby.” Pressing kisses to your neck, he takes a deep breath to sink into you. “After that guy comes, it’ll be over with, and I’ll take a couple days off, alright?”

“I don’t care, do what you want.”

He sighs, deep and gravelly and frustrated with your antics—but more so frustrated with himself. He has been shitty this week, he knows it, and he knows you especially don’t deserve it. “C’mon, hon, you’re killin’ me here, at least—at least gimme a kiss goodnight, huh?”

But you don’t. Because of course you don’t, he’s on you’re fuckin’ nerves with his distance lately—but this, his rough hands against your skin, his pleading, his groveling like he can’t imagine a world without you…it helps.

A little.

Not quite enough to cave or give in, though.

He seems to lose a bit of strength against you, laying into the mattress on his back again with a sigh and an arm resting over his eyes. The room stills, the fan whirrs, yet the tension between you is thick enough yet to slice through it with his chef’s knife.

That is, until his arms wrap around you again, and his hands grip your waist tight, and he lets out a grunt of a Can’t believe you’re makin’ me do this, and he wrangles you on top of him, leaving you chest to chest, with your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck and his hand rubbing soothing patterns up and down your back while the other holds you steady, worried you’ll slither away again.

Like he knew it would, the tension in your body dissolves. And maybe that’s what you wanted anyway, but you’d never tell him that—at least, not until tomorrow morning.

The room stills again. The hand smoothing along your back sneaks beneath your shirt, and you melt that much quicker. It’s hypnotic, his rough palms against your soft skin, scratches an itch you didn’t know was there until he wasn’t. He smells crisply clean and of the body wash he buys because you like the scent, a little musky with aldehydes and vetiver and sandalwood.

“This better, baby?” he murmurs, lending a careful kiss to your head.

But you only bury yourself further into him and answer with “Mm.”

He chuckles a bit, squeezes you tighter to make your heart throb. “Thought you’d say somethin’ like that.” Punctuates it with more kisses where he can reach, because now that he’s got you tethered to him again, he doesn’t think he could let you go.

The two of you stay where you are, then, just soaking in the other’s presence with wordless appreciation exchanged, growing heavier with sleep as heartbeats sync and eyelids slip closed. And by morning, legs will be intertwined, and Carmen will pull you from a groggy daze with a kiss to your lips, and you’ll be a little less bitter when he heads off to work.

(He knows it’ll simmer till he comes home, but if he gets to sleep with your weight and your warmth again, he’s sure it’ll be alright.)

[ckret2]

Chapter 53 of human Bill Cipher not properly appreciating the fact that Mabel is his only friend on Earth:

Mabel has read a book about Bill's home dimension and is prepared to interrogate him all about where he comes from.

Bill is willing to do anything to avoid being interrogated.

(Featuring SEVEN illustrations, provided by 🌈 MABEL 💖)

####

Flatworld, from what Mabel had read, was probably literally the worst place to ever exist. 

The book was a hundred pages of an old-fashioned formal-sounding super boring guy rambling on about the most egregiously evil society Mabel had ever had the horror of reading about.

Society consisted of a bunch of geometric shapes—which in concept sounded half nerdy and half adorable—but they'd made a brutally oppressive government organized by quantity of sides, with infinite-sided circles at the top and three-sided triangles at the bottom, and one-sided lines—women—oppressed into near silence. Career options, educational opportunities, who you could love, were all determined by your sides. Irregular shapes—quadrilaterals that weren't squares, triangles that weren't equilateral, anyone with a side too long or too short—were presumed from birth to be criminally insane. Each generation had sons with one more side than their father—and they had to, because having higher-ranked sons was the only way families could climb out of poverty. When babies were born with too few or irregular sides, poor families abandoned them—or worse—and rich families put them through oft-fatal bone-snapping surgeries to regularize or increase their sides. Knowledge of the third dimension was considered heretical, and anybody claiming it was real was locked in an insane asylum.

There was a lot of mathy stuff in the book about a square meeting a magical sphere and going on educational adventures to the higher and lower dimensions; but most of it passed by her in a blur. When she'd finished reading last night, Mabel had lay in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about dead baby shapes and fighting the urge to wake Bill up just so she could hug him; until she'd finally drifted off and woken up in her own bed.

At least, thank goodness, the bit about banning colors so lower shapes couldn't contour themselves to look like higher shapes was false. But she was sure that at least part of the story was true. And it had happened to somebody she knew. It was a lot to process.

So she processed it the way she usually did the stories that weighed on her: by creating a self-insert and pulling out her art supplies.

####

"You're drawing fan art of Flatworld?" Bill asked warily.

"I wouldn't call it fan art. I'd say it's more of a... thoughtful artistic critique. I don't think I'm a 'fan' of the second dimension," Mabel said. "No offense."

"Sure."

Mabel had designed a shapesona of herself: a pink heart with a rainbow-colored outline, a big sparkly eye, and skinny black stick limbs like Bill's. If, as Bill had said, colors weren't illegal, she didn't see any reason she couldn't be rainbow. The heart shape was maybe unconventional, but Bill hadn't said she couldn't be a heart yet, so she was sticking with it for now.

She'd honestly expected Bill to come over and interrogate her about her creation long before now. Usually, when she was doing art and he was unoccupied, he was hovering right by her, examining her work and dropping hints—some more subtle than others—that she should draw him next. But she hadn't immediately noticed when he'd silently drifted into the room, and she wasn't sure how long he'd been there before speaking up. He was still leaning on the wall, arms crossed, watching askance from halfway across the living room as Mabel worked with her crayons, as if she were playing with a chemistry set and he was trying to figure out if she was building a bomb.

"Is Flatworld really about your world?" Mabel asked. "Did you tell Edward Bishop Bishop all that stuff? With the circles and all the laws about shapes and stuff?"

Bill mulled over the question, staring into space. Mabel had never seen his face look so inexpressive before—at least, not since his first night as a captive, after he'd gotten all the screaming out and had looked too exhausted to feel. "We talked," he conceded. "I'm surprised you got your hands on it. I suppose Stanford brought it up."

Something in the back of her mind pricked up defensively—what was that supposed to mean, he was surprised she got her hands on it?—but she pushed it back down. "Yeah, he told me and Dipper about it when you guys got home yesterday," Mabel said. "But you brought it up to me first!"

"No I didn't. When?"

"A few weeks ago? You mentioned Edward Bishop Bishop."

"I don't remember that," Bill muttered. "I probably didn't think you'd make sense of it."

"Hey!"

"You didn't make sense of it! Ford had to tell you about it."

"Yeah, but—mean!" She shoved aside her drawing and started on another one, grumbling, "I could've made sense of it if I'd looked it up."

What was up with Bill today? He wasn't usually this much of a jerk. To her. Lately. Plus, she thought they'd really had a moment yesterday! But Bill had had a rough couple days. Maybe he was just tired and cranky. 

A wiser person might just leave well enough alone. But a wiser person wasn't exploding in their brain with curiosity about just how bad Bill's life had really been. There was something itching at the back of her head, had been itching since she'd woken up—something about Bill, something important, she was sure of it—but she couldn't quite put together what it was. She just needed to talk to Bill long enough to figure it out.

"So..." She glanced up from filling in a shape yellow, "were lines really executed if they didn't make noises all the time so everyone always knew where they were and they couldn't sneak up and stab anyone?"

Bill scoffed, rolling his eyes, as if the very idea was stupid. "It wasn't that extreme. Making a peace cry is like a human saying 'coming through' when they're trying to squeeze past somebody. Lines are just taught to do it in public because it's easier not to see a line, that's all."

"If they didn't, were they executed...?"

"No. They were just rude."

That was a relief. Mabel had been worried for her fellow ladies. She was plenty noisy, but she didn't think she could remember to make constant sound any time she was around other people. She turned back to coloring her newest drawing, but watched Bill out of the corner of her eye. "Is it true that rich people killed almost all of their babies by giving them surgery to break their sides?"

The corner of Bill's mouth curled in a sneer. "Do I look like a pediatric surgeon?"

"Um." Not a welcome question. She tried to backtrack to something softer. "So, in the second dimension, the outside of your body is just your outline and your guts are everything inside the outline, right?"

He gave her a wary look. "Yeah."

"So your bow tie is basically in your stomach."

Bill sucked in a deep breath; but quickly caved in to the need to be the most correct person in the room. "More like around my esophagus, but. Sure."

"So, where did you wear it when you were back in the second dimension? Was it on your side? Did you have to wear two so people could see them from both sides—"

"I didn't need a bow tie then."

Mabel stared at him. "What do you mean, you didn't 'need' it? What do you need it for now?"

Bill ignored the question. "You know, I didn't think Flatworld was an interesting enough book to deserve this much attention! Especially not from you. You like fun stories." It felt oddly like he was criticizing her for having read it.

"Well—yeah, but it's about your home! That makes it fun!"

Bill raised his brows.

"Right? Doesn't it?"

"Kid." Bill laughed condescendingly. "Don't give me that. You read an entire book. In the summer. About math. With a downer ending where the narrator goes insane and gets locked up. That's some people's idea of a fun time, but I know it's not yours."

Maybe "fun" was the wrong word—but it was still important. She was glad she'd read it. She'd cared about it. She'd cared enough to know Bill was describing it wrong. "That's not what happened. The square got locked up because he kept telling everybody the third dimension's real."

"Like I said! He went insane!"

"But he's not insane. Everyone says he is, but he's right about the third dimension! It's everyone else who's stupid!"

"So what," Bill said. "The things he knows mean he'll never be able to see the world the way other shapes do, and no matter what he does he'll never be happy with his home. If that's not insanity, what is?"

Last year, she'd heard Bill agree when Gideon called him insane. She'd always wondered. "Is that why you're insane?"

Bill shot Mabel a furious look. That was the wrong thing to say. "Shooting Star—"

(Oh no, she thought, he's using my full name.)

"—what's with the third degree." Bill crossed the room to lean on the other side of the table. He gave her the guarded glare of a guilty suspect facing down a cop in an interrogation room—and trying to figure out whether he could kill the cop before he was stopped. "What do you think you're trying to dig up?"

"I'm not trying to 'dig up' anything," Mabel said. "I just want to learn more about you!"

"Oh yeah, I'm sure you do! Who doesn't wanna know all about me! And right after I trusted you yesterday! Do you think you're the first person to start digging into my history? 'Hey, does anyone know what made Bill Cipher so crazy'?" Bill laughed bitterly. " You're not even the first Pines to try it. Not even the second."

"That's not what I'm trying to do!" said Mabel, right before it dawned on her that that was exactly what she was trying to do.

"Right. I'm sure whatever you learn will make a nice two-page spread in Journal 5. Another secret you and Fordsy can add to your Mysteries, huh? Think he'll draw the dead babies?"

She thought back to Portland—to asking Ford what had made Bill so awful. I think if anyone’s ever had a chance of finding out what made him like he is, it might be you. Mabel shook her head. No. She didn't want to be that. "I'm not Grunkle Ford's spy, I'm your friend. I just—I just want to understand you—"

"Yeah, and the 'friends' who understand you are the most dangerous kind." Bill laughed harshly. "Your uncle and brother couldn't figure me out! And Sixer's been trying for years! So what makes you think YOU can?"

He was calling her stupid. He'd been calling her stupid all day. That was why he was so surprised she'd read the book.

"You—shut up!" She wadded up her latest drawing and flung it in Bill's face. (He snatched out of midair.) "All I did was read a book I thought was important to you, you jerk! I thought you'd like that!"

She hadn't meant for that waver to enter her voice. But she was exhausted from too little sleep and worrying about dead baby shapes and worrying about Bill's fear of death and worrying about what Ford had said about not giving Bill a second chance, and now Bill was being a jerk, and maybe he was just exhausted and upset too, but he was treating her like she was stupid—and there was that pathetic little waver.

But it made Bill pause in his onslaught; for a moment, he averted his gaze. Still, he said, "Maybe if you'd thought to ask—"

"You were asleep! I was being nice! And letting you sleep! In my bed!"

"But—"

"Just go away!" She pointed at the doorway.

Bill's face hardened again. "Fine!" He flung his hands in the air and stomped from the room. "Who wants to hang out with you when you're in such a bad mood, anyway."

Mabel glared at her stupid drawings so she didn't have to watch Bill's stupid back as he left.

Why had she bothered?

When Bill was out of sight, she dropped back onto her chair, pulled her sweater over her face, crossed her arms on the table, and buried her head in them.

####

Bill didn't think to smooth out the paper Mabel had flung at him until he was out of the room.

On one side she'd drawn Bill—properly triangular—with an expression that he thought was supposed to be fear and on the other side several angry-looking shapes, pentagons and hexagons, colored gray and black, being led by a pale figure shaped like a human skull and wielding a scythe; and between them, a bright pink heart, standing in front of Bill protectively, hands on its "hips," glaring down the would-be assailants.

The corners of Bill's mouth sagged down.

####

The bell rang and the shapes began filing out of class, muttering to each other about how they thought they'd done on the test. As the triangle cheerfully left the room, the teacher caught him by the arm again to pull him over. "Just a minute," she said. "I want a word with you."

Oh, he bet she did. Breezily, he said, "Sure thing! What is it?"

"Who was the first triangular president?"

"Wh— Th—" He spluttered indignantly. "There's been like—seven of them."

"Nine. And I'm only asking about the first one."

"How should I know!"

"You knew an hour ago."

He sputtered again. "That was— That was a multiple choice test! And it was an hour closer to when I'd studied! And I can focus better in the classroom! You can't expect me to remember anything in the hallway. You're using intimidation tactics. How could anyone focus under these conditions—"

"I don't know what you're doing," the teacher said, "or how you're doing it. Maybe I never will. But..." She sighed, and the anger seemed to leak out of her, and that only made him more nervous. "But whatever you're doing—you won't be able to do it forever. What will you do when you're out in the real world and you didn't learn anything in school?"

Her pity was worse than being hated had been. At least when he was hated, he knew she only looked down on him because she had something against him. What did he do with pity? With concerned warnings about the "real world"? He'd never heard anybody use the phrase "the real world" as anything but a threat. He hoped he was never out in the real world.

"Who cares! I'll never need any of this!" He should have shut up there. He didn't: "You're just jealous that me and my family make a million times more lying to everyone than you'll ever get trying to teach them the truth!"

His teacher gasped in shock; but before she could say anything, he was halfway down the hall with no intention of slowing down.

The next day, he stayed home, and his mom visited the principal. The day after that, he had a new teacher.

####

He was stupid. He knew that. He didn't know when he'd gotten stupid—if it was because he'd started touring so much and missing classes, or if he'd always been dumb and just didn't notice it before he registered just how often he was using his all-seeing eye to pick up answers that other kids couldn't see. It had crept up on him. But there it was. He was stupid, and he was too stupid to figure out what to do about it.

There was a big difference between being able to see everything, and actually knowing anything. And he might be all-seeing, but an idiot like him would never be all-knowing.

####

A trillion years later, he still didn't remember the name of the first triangular president. And look how far he'd gotten without it.

Lunch was toast and peanut butter. The toaster was the only source of heat he could use without having to ask his captors for access; and peanut butter and bread were the most nutritious foods he could reach without asking his captors to open a cabinet or fridge. He was sick of toast and peanut butter.

He wasn't about to ask Mabel to help him get lunch.

Well. He'd succeeded. He'd known just the right thing to say to get Mabel to lay off and drop the topic. Did he feel accomplished?

He stared out the window as he ate—there were hazy gray clouds on the horizon, beyond the trees, slowly inching closer—and he tried not to look at the picture Mabel had flung at him.

####

Mabel felt dumb about being upset that Bill thought she was dumb.

Because of course he did. Sure, he liked her art and he liked dance music and games without rules; sure, he was a willing student when it came to stuff like making friendship bracelets or artistically mixing sprinkles; sure, he was a weirdo fun guy; but he was also a Smarty McSmartypants, just like Dipper or Ford. And Mabel was the Girl Dipper who brought home C's. And even a weirdo fun Smarty wouldn't want to hang out for long with someone who couldn't keep up with nerd talk. He probably just... put up with her for as long as he could stand pretending he took her seriously, but he'd finally lost his patience...

And shown his true, jerky colors again.

Maybe Ford and Dipper were right about him; maybe he couldn't really change.

Except... there was something he'd said. And right after I trusted you yesterday. When he'd cried in front of her. When he'd told her about his fear of death.

He was being a jerk because he thought she'd betrayed him. But by reading a book?! Why couldn't he ever just explain himself? Did he think whatever was bothering him was obvious, and she was stupid for not figuring it out?

Something she almost but didn't quite remember thudded like a drum inside her brain. Dum-dum-dum. Dum-dum-dome.

From the entryway, Bill called, "Hey, star girl. I—"

He stopped in the doorway. Mabel had taped 28 pieces of paper together, drawn on a door knob, written "DOOR" at the top, and taped it across the doorway into the living room. Irritably, Bill said, "It doesn't work like that. This is obviously paper."

"Bill," Mabel grumbled. "Go away."

"No. I'm gonna say something to you."

He didn't phrase that like he was giving her a choice in the matter; but all the same, she said, "I don't wanna hear it."

"You know that horror story about a bride with a velvet ribbon tied around her neck, and her head falls off and rolls down the stairs when her husband unties it?"

She did. She and Dipper had read a book of scary stories to each other on Halloween a few years ago while waiting for it to be late enough to go trick-or-treating. In spite of herself, he'd piqued her curiosity. She reluctantly turned to look at him. "Yeah? So?"

Bill was leaning in the doorway, head tilted against the doorframe so he could see Mabel around the paper door curtain. "That's why I wear a bow tie."

Mabel blinked. "Wait—if you didn't, your head would fall off? What part of you is your head? How did it come off? Were you decapitated? Did you get decapitated for knowing about the third dimension—?"

"It doesn't keep my head on; it keeps my skin on."

Mabel's nose wrinkled. "Gross! How?"

"Remember how you said my outline is my skin and all my organs are inside the outline," Bill said. "That didn't change when we left the second dimension! We had to get exoskeletons on our top and bottom sides so solids like you can't stick you fingers in our guts. My bow tie keeps it tied in place."

"Whoa." So that was why they hadn't seen Bill's organs before. "Do you ever take it off?"

"Mostly when I'm eating!" He knocked on the doorframe. "So can I come in now?"

Of course. He'd been using information to buy his way back into her good graces. (No—that was what somebody who didn't think Bill deserved a second chance would think. He was making up for earlier by answering one of her questions about him.)

She took a deep breath, turned to face Bill, and said, "You didn't talk to me like a friend earlier."

"I—" Bill grimaced, looked at the ceiling for help, and conceded, "I mean—It's how I talk to my friends, but all right, I know you're not used to that—"

"Nobody should be used to that!" Mabel said. "What would Love Bunny say?"

"Wh—?! I— Th— You—" His voice cracked as it jumped higher, "What do I care what a cartoon rabbit thinks about—"

"What. Would. She. Say."

Bill's face screwed up in agony. He crossed his arms. "Ugh."

"Biiill?"

Eyes squeezed shut, Bill said, "She'd say my breath smells like I've been eating mean beans."

"Aaand?"

"I'm not going to say it. I won't say it."

"And you need to eat your nice rice!"

Bill let out a long, slow sigh.

"Say it!"

"This is my penance," Bill muttered toward his feet. "This is my penance. This is fair." He took a breath. "And... I need to eat my nice rice."

Mabel nodded. He'd confessed his sins.

"I think we're out of nice rice," Bill said, "but I've had the peanut butter of kindness and the toast of remorse. Good enough?"

She considered it. "Yeah. You can come in."

Bill batted aside the paper door curtain and ducked into the room. 

He sat across the table from Mabel and set down the paper she'd chucked at him amongst her others. Mabel glanced at the drawing, embarrassed of it now; but Bill didn't say anything about it.

He just propped his cheek against his hand and started looking over her other art.

Mabel sat there with her hands under her legs, watching his spotlight eyes rove over the table, feeling like she was waiting for a teacher to grade a poster she'd made for class. He saw a stop sign red octagon in sunglasses that was labeled "Bill's parole officer" and snorted. She wasn't sure if it was an amused snort or a derogatory snort. His gaze stopped on her attempt to figure out how Flatworlder anatomy worked, and didn't move farther. She'd probably gotten everything wrong, hadn't she?

She couldn't stand waiting for him to pass judgment on her art. "You think they look dumb, don't you."

Bill took a moment to reply. He didn't look up from her drawings. "I don't think you're dumb, Shooting Star."

"You think I'm dumber than Dipper and Grunkle Ford."

Bill winced. "I don't." At her dubious look, Bill amended, "Only Stanford! And that barely counts, all humans are dumber than Stanford. It doesn't mean I think you're dumb-dumb"

"Could've fooled me," Mabel muttered.

"You bet! I'm good at fooling people. All I have to do is say things I don't mean that make people feel the way I want." His voice was flat and matter-of-fact. "I wanted you to feel like the conversation wasn't worth it. That's all."

She stared at him. "By letting me know you think I'm stupid?!" She chucked a crayon at his face. "You could have just told me you didn't want to talk about Flatworld!" Her voice was getting that stupid waver again. "If I'd known, I would have dropped it! I didn't want to upset you!"

"I wasn't upset, it's just a stupid thing to complain about! It's just a dumb book! It'd—it'd take a real loser to be bothered by talking about a dumb book! I'm not..." He sighed harshly. "I know you weren't trying to get on my nerves, kid. It'd mess up your sticker chart." (Mabel hadn't even realized he knew about her sticker chart.) Almost inaudibly, he added, "M'sorry."

She'd never heard him apologize before.

She let out a slow breath. "Biiill. I don't think you're a loser."

He muttered something she couldn't make out as he flipped his hood on and pulled it down over his burning face. "Forget it. Move on. It's in the past!"

"If you're so embarrassed—"

"Not embarrassed!"

She chucked another crayon at his chest. "Then why are you telling me this now?"

Bill shut his eyes; took a deep breath; and, with a look of solemn dignity, and no small amount of pain, he said, "Because. Teddy Tender says. Our friends can't help us feel better if we don't tell them why we feel bad." He almost, almost managed to say it without sounding sarcastic.

Mabel burst out laughing. Bill pulled his hood lower.

Bill didn't even like Teddy Tender—he thought he was the stick in the mud of the Color Critters—and he certainly wasn't actually trying to follow Teddy's friendship lessons. He was just... saying something he didn't mean to make Mabel feel the way he wanted. And he wanted her to feel better.

No matter what anyone else said, he could change. And he was changing.

"Apology accepted," Mabel said. "Gold star!" She peeled one off a nearby sticker sheet and held it out.

Bill eyed it, like a man so hungry he was too nauseous to eat eyeing a pizza; and then snatched it from her and stuck it in the middle of his hoodie.

Mabel said, "And... I guess I'm sorry for getting all diggy about your home world." Even if she hadn't known it was bothering him, she probably should've guessed, shouldn't she? With how crabby he'd gotten. "I just got all excited and curious and... kinda worried about you after reading that book?" She sighed. "I understand if you don't wanna talk about it. You probably hated your dimension."

"What? He lurched forward with the vehemence of his denial—"Of course I don't hate my dimension!" Mabel leaned away at the sudden rage that had flared up in his eyes; but it died just as quickly and Bill immediately reeled himself back in, sitting back, crossing his arms: "I mean, come on, kid, use your head: you read a book about a culture. We're talking about an entire dimension. Would you hold a grudge against Jupiter if an ant bit you on Earth?"

Even as casually as he played it off, Mabel was sure he hadn't meant anything as calm and measured as claiming it was technically irrational to hate an entire dimension. He meant—emphatically, with his whole heart behind it—that he didn't hate his home dimension, at all.

Then why didn't he want to talk about it? (Then why had he destroyed it? Or was not hating it just another fiction he'd made up because he'd prefer that reality? Or was the destruction itself a lie? He hadn't mentioned it once since they'd started talking about Flatworld. Or did he think she didn't know about that and didn't want her to know? Or...)

Something had been churning in her subconscious since she woke up, and now—watching Bill ball up around himself as he squirmed around the things he didn't want to say—it finally dawned on her. Two words. Another piece of the Axolotl's poem. She tried to hold the words in her head until she could write them down, repeating them over and over—Misses home. Misses home.

Quietly, she asked, "Then... don't you want to remember it?"

His face spasmed, like it was nearly cracking in two—and then smoothed out. His face was blank. He didn't answer for a moment. "The last time I told a human more than two sentences about where I'm from... he gave me the universe's most depressing geometry textbook."

Oh. Maybe Bill was following Teddy Tender's friendship advice. "That's because you were talking to a boring old-timey math teacher, duh."

He laughed wryly. "You may have a point!"

If Bill assumed anybody prying into his history was either looking for the reason something was wrong with him, or publishing a whole book about the super bad parts... No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk to her. "So you didn't dislike Flatworld? You just dislike the book?"

Bill grimaced. "Did you read Eddie's biography?"

"No?"

####

As soon as he'd buckled himself into his seat for the drive to Northwest Manor, Dipper read the summary on the back cover of Flatworld, and then the paragraph-long author biography underneath it:

Edward B. Bishop, born in 1838 in England, was an accomplished mathematician, writer, theologian, and closet occultist, as well as a professor at the esteemed University of Fancyton. He published twelve books, the last of which was Flatworld in 1884. After sentencing his square protagonist to a two-dimensional asylum for preaching of the existence of the third dimension, he himself succumbed to an ironically similar fate: three months after publication, he was committed to an asylum for insisting that two-dimensional alien invaders intended to conquer the Earth and were persecuting him for revealing their existence, a delusion he maintained until his death from sleep deprivation in 1886. His most enduring legacy is inventing the margarita glass, which he claimed came to him in a dream. 

Dipper hissed between his teeth. "Ouch."

####

"Never mind, don't worry about it," Bill said. "But no. I didn't like the book."

"You poor thing! All this time you've been homesick for the second dimension, but the only things humans talk about is the bad stuff!"

"Don't call me that."

"Do you want to talk about the non-depressy stuff instead? Like..." Mabel wracked her brain for something nice she'd read in the book. She winced. "Uh... I'm sure there's something. You could choose the topic?"

Bill didn't look directly at her. He just looked over all her drawings again. "Tell me why you want to know so badly."

It was basically the same question he'd asked earlier—what's with the third degree—but his tone was different. Mabel swallowed hard and repeated, "Because... I'm your friend. It's crazy that we've been friends for like a month and I barely know a-ny-thing about who you are or how you grew up! By now, I'd usually know about a friend's family, favorite subject, favorite animal, opinion on glitter, and biggest life dream! Plus all the stuff humans have in common—like, 'do you breathe?'"

This time, Bill didn't argue with her answer. (He could have called her a liar. A month ago, she had just been trying to find out what was wrong with him. But this version of the truth she'd made up was better.) "You already know I'm pro-glitter in all contexts and my life's work is to throw an eternal party. What else really matters?"

"Those are the two most important questions," Mabel said seriously. Tentatively, she asked, "Did you have glitter in the second dimension?" He'd already reassured her that they'd had color, but it was hard to imagine glitter in such a bleak world.

"Sure."

Mabel heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness."

She looked around at the morning's art production, pulled over the first drawing she'd done of her shapesona, and grabbed a bottle of glue to draw a thin line around the heart.

Bill watched as Mabel carefully sprinkled several separate colors of glitter on the line of glue, like a master chef adding a precise amount of spice to a gourmet recipe, to create a glitter rainbow gradient; and then he slowly sat up and leaned toward the table again. "So, who's this freak?"

Mabel gave him an exasperated look. She decided he'd meant "freak" neutrally; but she'd clearly labeled the heart "ME IN FLATWORLD," she thought it was pretty obvious who this freak was.

But Bill cheerfully went on, "He's the most hideously disfigured shape I've ever seen."

"Hey!"

"I'm not joking, it hurts to look at this guy. At least he's symmetrical, but woof."

"She's not a guy! She's supposed to be me in Flatworld," Mabel insisted. "She's a powerful lady and I think she's beautiful." She paused. "Can a heart be a girl?" Lines looked boring, but Flatworld said that girls were all lines and all other shapes were boys. (Or were they? When they'd talked at the mall, Bill had been very clear that he considered himself a triangle instead of male or female, which scuttled the "all polygons are male" concept. Maybe Edward Bishop Bishop had made that part up?)

"She can be anything she wants," Bill said firmly. "I don't see any gender cops around here, do you?"

Good point. "And when there's no cops around, anything's legal."

Bill laughed. "Hey, I like that."

"Grunkle Stan says it!"

"Wise man." Bill leaned forward further across the table and tapped a finger on the deep cleft at the top of the heart. "Personally, I'm more worried about that agonizing-looking birth defect. I'm surprised she survived past infancy!"

Mabel glared at him, but she supposed she couldn't argue. A heart was a pretty irregular shape. And according to Flatworld, almost all irregular shapes were executed in childhood or else imprisoned in adulthood, since they thought irregular shapes would grow up to be depraved, imbecilic criminals—

"Wait," Mabel said. "Wait. Last year, when I called you an isosceles freak—"

Bill cut in, "It was 'monster,' but go on!"

"Was that, like..." Mabel's voice dropped to a whisper, "a slur on Flatworld?"

Bill fought to keep his face straight as he decided how to respond. He went for the funniest answer. "Yes."

Mabel clapped her hands over her mouth and squeaked, "Nooo!"

"It's actually pretty impressive a human managed to come up with it!"

"I'M SORRYYY, augh I didn't know!"

Over her anguished whines, Bill went on, "It's just a good thing you didn't say 'scalene'! I would've had to wash your mouth out with drain cleaner!"

Mabel had pulled the collar of her sweater over her face. From within Sweater Town, she asked, "Was that the first thing I ever said to you?"

Bill choked back a laugh. "Yeah, it was."

She squealed in embarrassment and slid under the table.

"Heck of a first impression, star girl!"

"i'm sorryyy."

Bill reached under the table to pat the top of her head. "Ahhh, it was funny. Get up here." 

As she climbed back into her seat, Bill added, "I'm getting back at you now, I'm not done making fun of your medical miracle yet. You know what she'd look like as a human? A headless, neckless body with an eyeball shoved six inches down her esophagus." He paused thoughtfully. "Actually... that sounds kinda cute."

"Eww, Bill."

"It is, it's cute. Like a clumsy puppy with a neurological disorder! I guess that's how the hideous Miss Heart here must look to humans!"

Mabel looked over her art again, wondering if she should change her shapesona, considering Bill's reaction to it. 

So, maybe she was creating a freak. She didn't see any shape cops around here. She kept drawing. "I'd be fine," she said. "You like weird freaks! You'd keep me safe."

A stricken look crossed his face. He was momentarily silent as he watched Mabel start another picture. And then, as though he were only considering it for the first time, he said, "Yeah. I guess I would."

His gaze drifted to the wrinkled picture of Mabel's shapesona standing protectively in front of Bill. "Freaks can't afford to tear each other down."

####

(THIS is the chapter that's been giving me hell the last few weeks. Months. Last few months. I'm so glad to finally have it out, and I hope y'all enjoyed!! This chapter probably brings up a lot more questions than it actually answers—and completely different questions based on whether or not you've read Flatland lol—so I can't wait to hear what y'all think.)

[evanchantingpeters]

How I met Evan Peters (Fanfic - Part 2)

Pairings ─ Evan Peters x Y/N (fem reader)

Genre ─ Smut/fluff, Romance

Summary ─ Y/N is fresh in East Hollywood, LA. After a major life overhaul, she’s ready to dive into a new chapter. So, when she hits the town for a night out with friends, she unexpectedly crosses paths with none other than actor Evan Peters. Y/N tries to keep her cool and act all nonchalant, but damn, Evan’s interest throws her for a loop. Their first meeting? Total tension and flirtation, hinting at an evening full of surprises.

Warnings ─ Obscene language, semi-public, dry humping, oral (both receiving), fingering, overstimulation, nipple teasing, spanking, vaginal sex, rough sex, extra smutty—you guys know the drill ;)

Read Part 1 here.

Word count ─ 4K

18+ This is ADULT content. I’m not your mummy to supervise your net access. If you’re a minor, do NOT read!

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

If you were told ten minutes ago that you’d be straddling Evan Peters, skin-on-skin in the driver’s seat of his car, grinding your soaked pussy against his solid rock hard-on while your tongues explore each other like it’s a competition until your lips get swollen, you’d be like, “Yeah, right, when pigs fly.”

But here you are, parked in some dark, secluded spot near the club you’ve just met. Your moans bounce off his car windows as he hungrily fondles handfuls of your body. You do love you some manhandling, truth be told.

You have your friends’ blessings about leaving with someone. Though, the chances of them believing you’ve pulled and bagged Evan Peters as your sneaky link for the night are slim to none, especially after you lecture Adria on the celebrities-normies combo being far-fetched. But it’s fair to say you didn’t choose the night with Evan Peters; the night with Evan Peters chose you.

His veiny hands on you and his gravelly voice against your ear trigger a muscle memory, recalling the heat you felt—but never vocalised—during Murphy’s close-ups on Evan’s hands in the Dahmer series and his viral ‘Relax, I just wanna take some pictures’ line. His baritone in that unsettling scene still gives you chills.

“Damn, miss...you’re something else,” he rasps out with a sly smile. You become his Roman Empire as he worships the sight of all of you on top of him, eyes devouring your entire body as you move gracefully, biting your bottom lip.

He groans deeply as his hands knead your tits and waist all the way down your thighs. With a cheeky squeeze of your ass, he draws you closer, a little squeal escaping you as his raging erection rubs harsher against your wet centre.

“I’m dying to fuck you,” he huffs after your lips meet again, his eyes imploring as he buckles his hips against yours. The friction sends your arousal flying. You just know he’s the type who promises to rail you until your guts rearrange and actually delivers. Better hold on tight.

With a coy grin, you reach down and caress his bulge straining under his jeans. “I can tell,” you whisper, your hot breath making him shudder as you mischievously trace his upper lip with your tongue.

Evan sucks in a sharp breath and bucks against your touch with a choked grunt. You can feel his length convulsing beneath you, your wetness still squishing against him.

“No...for real, Y/N. You’re insanely hot...and while I wanna bang your brains out right now, I don’t wanna objectify you. I respect you an—”

You cut him off mid-sentence with another steamy kiss. The urge to sit him in front of a mirror as he unravels his feminist, anti-alpha male stance, all while you jerk him off before riding the shit out of him, is stronger than ever.

“Aren’t you a sweetheart, Evan? So virtuous with your strong values and morals,” you praise his ‘golden-retriever’ and ‘husband material’ nature, delicately caressing his cheek. “But let’s cut to the chase—I’m here to hook up.”

With newfound energy, you attack his neck with eager kisses as you roll your hips against him more vigorously. Your fingertips roam over his sculpted Greek-God chest, travelling down to the contours of his divinely marbled abs.

Body is damn bodying.

You go on full “pick-me girl” mode as you purr, “I’m thirsty” and playfully toy with the buckle of his belt, hinting at your intentions. You can’t let that mound on his jeans go unnoticed; it’s practically screaming for your attention and attentive care.

He lets out a dark chuckle against the crook of your neck as he nibbles his way up to your jawline. “How can I quench your thirst?” he murmurs, now nipping at your pouty lips.

“You’re the best refreshment around,” you hush before swiftly shifting to the passenger seat and bending over, knees near your head and ass pointed skywards in a tantalising display he can’t resist.

You begin to pepper mouth-watering kisses along his chest, sliding down to his boner. Your tongue stumbles over the ridges of his abs as you venture lower, your moaning mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

He cocks his head to the side with a knowing smirk, admiring the view that the curve of your ass provides, smacking it along the way.

With practised ease, you undo his jeans, palming the damp patch of pre-cum on his boxers. Glancing up at him with a crooked smile, you coo, “Eager, are we?” before sliding down his boxers.

His head lolls back, muffled moans escaping him as you swipe your tongue along the underside ridge of his hard, red-tipped cock. His breath rushes out in laboured, choppy huffs like his life depends on you. The way you take him deeper, double-fisting him, becomes his lifeline.

“Holy shit, Y/N,” he manages to utter under his breath as he tenses in your grasp. You mewl softly around his cock, sending vibrations rippling through his body like shockwaves.

You’re insatiable, sucking him up from taint to balls, coating him in your saliva as you pump him harder in your mouth. Your swollen cunt is aching for him as you feel his head harden and twitch in your mouth with building pressure, forcing gagging moans out of you.

Gripping your hair in a messy ponytail, he watches intently as he fucks your mouth with increasing intensity. His free hand brushes along your clothed slit, his sturdy fingers running up and down your soaked panties. You gasp at the stimulus, clinging to the door handle for support.

“E-Evan,” you slur out as he applies more pressure on your throbbing heat, your words faltering as ragged breaths escape you.

“Yes?” He whispers, feigning innocence, though his arched brow and smirk betray his true intentions. He knows he can edge you with minimal effort, making you cum in his hands on the spot.

“Don’t stop,” you plead through your desire, your hips swaying in harmony with his rhythmic in-out motion.

“Keep sucking, baby girl. You drive me nuts, but I wanna see you multitask,” he challenges, no pun intended with his nuts reference.

As he tucks aside your lacy panties, he begins to circle your arousal, teasing your slopping folds. A low grunt slips off him as he feels how wet and ready you are for him. “Jeez, I need to take a dive in those Niagara Falls,” he chuckles and keeps fiddling around your throbbing clit.

Before you know it, he plunges two fingers in your begging entrance, eliciting a whimper from your lips that’s louder than you expect. The way he expertly curls his fingers inside you, hitting all the right spots, sends bolts of pleasure through your core.

Soon, the sound of your moans blends with the wet squelching of your pussy, echoing throughout the car.

The faster his fingers pop in and out, the louder you moan in delight as you suck his dick relentlessly. When his thumb joins in, smoothly rubbing against your clit with no mercy, your thighs begin to wobble.

His fingering inevitably loses momentum as he tightens his grip on your hair. You giggle quietly as you realise he’s about to hit his climax, his head striking against the back of your throat, causing your eyes to well up with tears.

“Fuuuck, I’m gonna burst, Y/N,” he growls, delivering a sharp slap to your ass. His fingers dig into the sensitive flesh of your thighs, leaving faint red marks on them. He lets out the cutest, most contrasting sounds—something between a low groan and a high-pitched whimper—as his hips thrust harder each time.

With a wicked grin, you intensify your suction on his tip, sending him over the edge with a primal groan. His hot cum spurts into your mouth, filling it with its salty sweetness, before trickling down your chin. You eagerly lick his shaft clean and swallow his juices with greedy gulps, savouring his taste with a satisfied hum.

“Told you, you’ve freshened me up,” you chirp, playfully wiping him off your face. “You’re okay?” you ask with a bashful smile, reaching out to brush back the sweaty curls that have clung to his forehead.

He throws his head back, his chest still heaving with shallow pants as he stares at you with hooded eyes. “Damn, you’re good...I’m wrecked,” he breathes out.

Grinning lazily at you, he buries your face in his hands and grazes your cheeks with his thumbs.

“If you need a dopamine boost, I’ve got just the cure for you,” you coo and lean in close, twirling a strand of hair around your finger.

“Oh, yeah? What’s the prescription, doc?” he teases, his eyes dark with lust as he bites his lip, his hands massaging your ass cheeks. It’s a silent prompt for you to climb back over him as his mouth desperately fumbles your skin.

You peer into his lustrous eyes with a sly smirk. “Sure, I can give you a ride, sir,” you purr, your fingers tracing tantalising patterns through his locks.

His grin widens as your sex alights on his crotch that’s twitching eagerly at the prospect. “I’m all for it,” he murmurs, pulling you close for another heated kiss.

His arms envelop you as you bend together towards the compartment by the passenger’s seat with shared anticipation. Your hands remain entwined around the back of his neck as you sprinkle kisses across his flushed face.

He delves into the container, rifling through its contents. “Shit,” he hisses, clicking his tongue in annoyance.

“Houston, we have a problem?” you ask, your voice deep with desire.

“Mission abort...out of condoms,” he admits, his eyes meeting yours with regret.

“Consider it solved, let’s head to mine.”

You fling open the door to your apartment, ushering Evan inside with a goofy grin. “Come on in and behold the fortress of fun!” you announce, gesturing grandly to the vibrant interior.

He giggles and steps inside, taking in the cosy yet funky vibe of your place. “Dang, this place’s dope,” he compliments, nodding approvingly at the eclectic mix of pop art and rococo décor.

You beam proudly. “Thanks! Gotta give props to my housemate, Mayra. She’s the mastermind behind all this coolness,” you explain as you lead him down the hall towards the living room, giving him a quick peek into your room.

“Ah, gotcha. She’s got skills,” Evan comments appreciatively as you both shuffle back to the living room, clearly digging the ambiance.

He scans the space more thoroughly this time before turning back to you. “Is your housemate around?” he inquires casually, hands in pockets.

You shake your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Nah, she’s living it up in NYC for work. Won’t be back for a while,” you reply with a shrug, not missing the mischievous shine in Evan’s eyes as he looks you up and down.

His gaze darkens slightly as he inches closer with a smug smile that grows with every step, pinning you against the wall next to a small table stand. “Just you and me, then, huh?” he murmurs, his voice coarse and velvety just like it turns you on.

You affirm him with a smirk. Your fingers tangle in the soft strands of his hair as he closes the distance between you with a soft kiss that rapidly turns into a full-blown makeout session. What begins as sensual brushstrokes—your lips caressing softly—soon morphs into a heated exchange, your tongues kicking off a seductive twirl.

With a breathy moan, you shed his jacket and tug at his shirt, balling it up with a scrunch as you press his chiselled body firmer against yours.

“I like your lips,” he rasps out between kisses, a broad smile etched on his lips.

“My horizontal or vertical lips?” you toss out nonchalantly with a smirk, seemingly unfazed by any potential consequences. As if that isn’t daring enough, your gaze pierces into his eyes, radiating a sexual intensity that tips him off the edge.

He reciprocates your challenge with a devilish grin, as it’s his turn to strip you off your jacket and dress. His gaze is hungry as he takes you in. “Let me do an audit down there first, assess the vertical ones, and I’ll come back to you,” he mumbles as he drags sensual kisses down your boobs.

You moan softly as he latches onto your perky nipples, giving them a tantalising pull that only worsens your wetness down there.

His mouth trails down your body and sucks onto your hip bones until it finally presses against the fabric of your thong, right on your clit. You instinctively arch your back and grip the edges of the table as he kisses and inhales against you with a hum of delight.

“Where’s my boy dinner?” he teases, staring up at you. He stretches your panties down and leaves a kiss on the peak of the mound between your legs, causing you to squirm in his firm hold.

You shoot him a sultry grin, your voice tinged with desire. “Where do you want it served?”

With a swift movement, he flips you over, offering deliciously tingling love bites on your ass cheeks. As he rises to his full height, his lips shower your neck with fervent kisses.

You instinctively rest your head onto his shoulders, granting him easier access, and you can’t help but moan lightly as you feel the firm press of his hardness against your lower back.

“You see that couch over there?” he coos. You’re quick to grab onto his belt and tug him over there without breaking the kiss. You both let out muffled moans and smile-kiss as Evan finds his leg ensnared in the folds of a blanket, miserably fighting to wiggle himself free.

You slump down on the couch together, him on top, and instantly dive into a deeper kiss. His groans fill your mouth, assaulting your senses. You playfully suck on the tip of his tongue as you feel his stiff cock on your stomach, eager to set free.

“I’ll lick my plate clean, I promise. I just want you to feed me,” he begs, flashing you an imploring look.

“How do you want it?”

“On my face...only for me to feast,” he grins, pulling you in for another sloppy kiss while groping around your thighs all the way up your tits.

Lying on your back, you watch as he stands beside you and slowly chucks your thong away. His eyes fixate on your slick sex with a mix of awe and hunger, his fingers itching to dig in and explore.

You spread your thighs wider, inviting him closer between your legs, hands on his chest. He positions his head under you, his warm breath tingling your skin. His mouth brushes along your inner thighs, leaving tender kisses as he moves closer to where you want him to be.

And then, without warning, he savagely stretches apart your dripping pussy and licks a long stripe along your slick folds, making you squeak with pleasure. Groaning with delight at your taste and the slimy texture, his lips begin to suck on your clit.

You gasp and instinctively clutch his biceps as his tongue starts to glide against your slit, forcing choked whines from deep within you.

“Fuck, I could eat you out all day long,” he moans against you, his hands gripping your ass tightly as his licking becomes harsher and more aggressive. Damn, even his voice alone can make you squirt in an instant. There’s nothing about him that can give you the ick.

Your mind goes all foggy as his nose lightly nuzzles your clit. His tongue tirelessly laps back and forth against your sobbing red pussy, twirling along your gummy walls. He lifts you up by the hips, his tongue sinking deeper each time as he pulls you down onto his face. You drop your head back, a string of moans spilling from your lips.

Your toxic trait is believing that this is just a hook-up, and you won’t catch any feelings. Even when you’re riding Evan Peters’ face, receiving head so good your coochie can explode.

Well, why toxic? E v a n P e t e r s has you seeing stars as he works his magic on your clit and jams his tongue inside you like there’s no tomorrow. And there may not be a tomorrow, so why not just enjoy him on you, next to you, under you, or in you while it lasts? He makes you feel like the hottest and luckiest chick on earth (sorry, fandom), that’s just straight facts.

Reconsidering, you set off a swirling dance on his face to keep up with his pace, your legs getting all quivery. The knot in your stomach stiffens as your high builds, hitting you like a train wreck.

“Evan, fucking hell... I’m finishiiing,” you almost scream shakily as you fight for breath, your vision getting hazy. Your legs involuntarily tense around his head, and your knees tremble, while small, punchy sobs slip off your lips.

You catch him staring at you, a triumphant smile spreading on his lips as you writhe and wriggle back and forth under him, the throes of your orgasm in full glory.

He draws comforting circles on your stomach and plants sweet pecks on your thighs, giving you space to catch your breath. Your hand cradles his face as your vagina keeps throbbing, making you giggle from the tingly sensation.

“I want more,” he cries out, his lips curving downwards in a mock frown as he presses a few more gentle kisses on your heat before you climb off his face, your steps unsteady.

“Then, make sure you tone down your clit game. Most men act like it doesn’t even exist,” you scoff as you throw shade, shooting him a teasing grin as you clean his chin from your juices and his saliva.

“How can you take away the tomato from tomato juice? Same goes for Evan and a woman’s climax when I eat pussy,” he retorts, flexing his muscles with an arrogant smirk.

You playfully roll your eyes, ready for a comeback. “Sorry to humble you, but for us ladies, it’s mostly a mental process. Too many tricks won’t cut it,” you counter, picking up your underwear from the floor.

He raises a sceptical brow and narrows his eyes at you, his tongue sliding against his side teeth. “Oh, really? Care to see my tactic and put that theory to the test?”

“Be my guest,” you smirk with a provocative flair, motioning towards your bedroom with a sweep of your arm.

He seizes your arm, pulling you close, and melds his lips with yours in a fiery kiss. As his tongue enters your mouth, you can still taste yourself on him, making your cunt pulsate for him tenfold. You’re so turned on that you’d fold no matter what he asks you to do.

“Challenge accepted, you’ve been warned,” he quips, wagging a finger at you before scooping you up his arms and carrying you to the bedroom.

There you are, sprawled out in the middle of your bed, all bare and irresistible, sensually touching your body as your eyes lock onto his.

His imposing figure looms over you as he unzips his jeans, instantly giving you heart palpitations. With a lustful half-smile, he tilts his head and lets his eyes linger at your legs, testing his rizz.

Realising he’s only zeroing in your glistening cunt, you deliberately part your legs, granting him a sneak peak into your “inner world” up to his appetite. “Here it is, baby Ev, all yours and ready,” you grumble, a bright grin stretching across his face as he observes your marvellous pussy.

Talk about a man who sticks to his promises! He said he’d take on your “inside work” while chatting you up at the bar, and here he comes, offering in-house service.

With ease, he sheaths himself in a condom, his gaze never leaving yours as he crouches down on you, propped up on his toned forearms (veins popping all over, goodness me). Pressed flush against you, he peppers eager kisses along your face, neck, and tits, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine.

“I wanna take good care of you,” he whispers, his hands travelling on your body.

Wrapping your legs around him, you let out a needy moan in a desperate attempt to get him inside. Your tongue pushes feverishly into his warm mouth, and he sucks on it gently, eliciting more soft whines from you.

He pulls away, tut-tutting softly against your lips. “Not yet, baby girl. First, tell me how much you want it.”

“Like mad,” you reply with a fervent nod. “And give it to me hard.”

With his throbbing length poised at your drenched entrance, a shared gasp brings smiles to your faces before turning into exhilarating groans. His eye contact never wavers, and from that missionary angle, he looks so Lana Del Rey “West Coast” coded, goddammit.

Your bodies mesh and merge together quicker than a click. Each thrust is a slow and agonising burn, as if he does it on purpose for you to beg him for more. You ache to explore every inch of him, but he just prolongs his torture by leaving only his tip nested inside you.

That’s until his gaze sears into your soul, and you feel him plunge back deep in with a force that sends you reeling, flooding you with ecstasy.

Your body jolts at the abrupt fullness, a raw wail of satisfaction ripping out of your lips as you dig your nails into his shoulder blades.

Taking the reins, he captures your hands above your head, lacing your fingers with his as he sets a relentless pace. He shoves his tongue into your mouth, and before you know it, the room reverberates the sound of skin slapping mingled with your mutual moans.

He releases one of your hands, fingers tracing patterns of comfort on your wrist as he slams in you faster and rougher. “Fuck, you feel amazing, Y/N,” he grunts hoarsely as he watches his cock disappearing into your dripping heat, a satisfied grin plastered on his lips.

Your body responds eagerly to his rough ministrations, hips rising to meet his with a desperate need to go harder. The rush of your pleasure overwhelms you as you yelp his name.

He meets your gaze with a cocky smile as his hand brushes along your lips, his hot breath a tempting tease on your face. Driven by your unhinged horny ass, you delicately snatch his ring finger into your mouth, licking and sucking on it as he grumbles joyfully, driving deeper into me.

“Evan...” you whimper, momentarily squeezing your eyes shut to handle his magnitude.

“You like it rough, baby girl?” he asks in a raspy tone, and his throaty chuckle rings in your ear, sending bolts of electricity down your spine.

“I do,” you gasp chokingly as you look up at him with imploring eyes. “Just right there.”

With a gleam in his eyes, he lifts your legs, draping them loose over his shoulders to penetrate even deeper. The slimy walls of your cunt grip onto his dick like they’re about to devour it, throwing him to the edge.

Your foreheads press together in a feverish intimacy as he pushes you closer to release. His hungry eyes fixate on the jingle of your boobs, his groans of delight mixing with the frantic rhythm of your heartbeats.

“Let me cum inside, Y/N, please. I need to feel you around me,” he begs, his voice strained with desire. His words hang heavy in the air, laden with raw desire as he gazes at you with an intensity that makes your heart race. Your lips meet in a fiery kiss, your tongues moving in sync.

Just as you’re about to cave, a sudden loud crash echoes from the hallway and shatters the air, causing both of you to freeze in place.

His eyes widen with alarm, mirroring your dread, and you instinctively cling to his arm for support.

Wide-eyed and tense, you exchange worried glances, his typically zen demeanour replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. “What was that?” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

“I-I... I don’t know,” you stutter as you smooth out your hair.

A second loud thud breaks out, and it’s louder than the last, making your shrill in terror. Sensing your tremor and the urgency of the situation, Evan scoots closer to you and muffles any incoming outcry by gently covering your mouth with his hand.

“Shh.. easy... I’m with you, Y/N,” he mumbles, kissing the crown of your head. “Okay, let me throw on my clothes and go check. You stay here,” he instructs in a hushed tone, giving you a soft peck as he scrambles near him to pick up his scattered shirt and boxers.

Still nestled in his embrace, your grip tightens on his arm as he makes a move to stand up. “No, Evan,” you protest whisper-shouting. “Let’s go together.”

He hesitates and sighs in exasperation at your refusal to stay in safely. But, ultimately, he nods, his jaw set with determination.

You hastily slip into your satin robe, ready to face whatever danger lurks in the shadows. Hand in hand, you both venture cautiously into the dimly lit corridor as you stand behind him, your senses heightened in anticipation of what you might find.

The tension is palpable as you switch on more lights, illuminating your path as you dive deeper into the unknown.

After scouring every room, you return to the living room, puzzled. “There’s no one in, so we can rule out a break-in or th—” Evan’s words are cut short by a series of loud bangs resounding from the balcony, forcibly pulling your focus to the final frontier in your quest for answers.

“Promise me you’ll stay in. I got this,” he mumbles with a determined gaze. You nod silently with a bated breath, unable to utter a single syllable.

With resolve, he steps outside, the night air is thick with suspense as you watch him while biting your cuticles. Meanwhile, you pace nervously, your mind spiralling through disaster scenarios.

Suddenly, his voice pierces the silence as he calls out your name, giving you the jump scare.

“Evaaan?” you howl frantically as you sprint to the balcony, your heart racing and your hair whipping in the wind. 

Relief washes over you as you spot him pointing to a twisted chunk of neon metal lying on the ground, bathed in the moon’s glow. The gusty wind continues to slam the panel against the sliding door, confirming your suspicions.

You lean over the balcony, verifying that the fallen piece has flown from the drugstore sign banner next to your apartment—just a harmless casualty of the night. “I’ll drop it off for repairs tomorrow,” you mindlessly assure Evan as you share a chuckle that mixes nerves with relief.

His grip tightens around your waist as he suggests heading back inside. You both retreat indoors, leaving the metal piece by the balcony door.

“Water?” you offer, and he accepts with a grateful nod, his gaze softening in appreciation.

As you saunter to the kitchen together, you catch him checking you out as you bend over the counter and reach up on your tippy toes to grab a glass.

Just as you’re about to stride out of the room, your cleavage skimming his chest a bit too long, he swiftly corners you against the glass kitchen door.

“Where you think you’re sneaking off to?” he whispers, a smirk playing on his lips as his hands wander over your upper half.

Your eyes flicker across his face as you struggle to draw a breath, your heart pounding with anticipation. “Out?” you manage to squeak.

He inches closer, his voice dripping with suggestion, “We’ve got some unfinished business, don’t we?” he murmurs as his stubble grazes against your jaw, intensifying the pool between your thighs.

“Remind me?” you tease, your lips curving mischievously. You’re in your villain era; if not Evan Peters fucking you, why even bother?

He slides a hand under your loose robe and tenderly tweaks your nipples, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. A gasp escapes you at the sensation as his fingers find their way to your clit, setting off a relentless rub that brings a buzzing on your sensitive bundle of nerves. It’s like with each stroke, he’s hitting the pleasure jackpot.

Panting, you sway your hips to match his rhythm, lost in sensation. The play of his thumb on your clit drives you wild, leaving you craving more.

“Bring me a condom, and I’ll give you a reminder,” he chuckles, and in an erratic heartbeat, his lips crash onto yours, warm and demanding. You melt into the kiss as the room spins around you. He kisses you harshly, nearly biting you with a reckless passion, desire raging like a tempest.

With this move, things accelerate viciously. Gone is the playful banter; now it’s all primal need, Evan turning animalistic towards you. In a blur of motion, your body ends up pressed into the cold surface of the glass door; his hands firmly cupping your breasts from behind; his cock throbbing and pounding inside your slippery centre; raw horniness bursting forth through loud moans and grunts.

He’s so damn big, stretching your pussy to the point it stings. He doesn’t give you much time to adjust before he pulls out and jams back in you with primitive force. The door lock rattles incessantly as he pounds into you hard, his lips embellishing your soft skin with red, soon-to-be purple marks, his hot breath making you shiver.

He clings to you, his stomach against your lower back, hips still snapping into your soaked cunt. Together, you set a rhythm, rocking in and out with a measured tempo and sensual grace.

The pain blends divinely with euphoria in your body, leaving your mind foggy and dizzy as he continues to jab in and out of you despite your whimpers. His balls slap against your clit, making your climax hurtle towards you like a tidal wave. Salty tears of pleasure prickle at the corners of your eyes. “I’m close, Evan,” you yelp, your knees beginning to fail you.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he praises out of breath as he smacks your ass, kneading all the way down your clit. “Let go, give it to me,” he urges, punctuating his last word with a particularly deep thrust, jerking inside you and causing your screams to spill out.

Pleasure shoots you like an electric shock, and soon, liquid dribbles down your legs. As the tension in your lower belly finally cracks, you feel him buckle as well, his hips stuttering. Letting out a guttural groan, he gushes out inside of you, followed by small whines of your name.

You urgently ask him to peel the condom away and spill his cum all over your ass and back. Soon, white, sticky cum from both of you mingles and trickles around you until you become a leaky, sticky mess.

His arms band around your waist, your fingers intertwined, his smiling eyes drowning in yours.

“Fuck, what did you do to me, Y/N?” he sighs, and you both giggle, your sweaty lips meeting again in a passionate kiss.

After a mutual clean-up, you slide into a fresh nightgown and return to your room, only to find Evan rummaging under your bed, his firm backside an enticing sight.

“What are you looking for?” you ask, enjoying the view as you lean against the doorframe.

“My car keys,” he growls, his brows furrowed in concentration as he takes a glimpse behind the curtains. “Must’ve fallen out when I took my pants off,” he infers with a low and husky voice as he glances back at you.

You nod sympathetically, folding your bed throw neatly on the corner armchair. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he resumes his search, the tension between you growing thicker by the second.

“It’s late already. You can crash here tonight, and we’ll track down your stuff in the morning,” you suggest, settling onto the bed.

He looks up, relief sets on his handsome features as he creeps back towards you. “You sure?” he murmurs, his arms encircling your waist, his touch igniting sparks of arousal.

“Never been surer,” you breathe, leaning in for a kiss, unable to resist the pull between you.

But just as your lips meet, the jingle of keys shatter the moment, and you feel something sharp lightly nudging your lower waist. Pulling back, you shoot Evan a knowing smirk, your pulse racing with excitement.

With a nonchalant shrug and a wink, he tosses the keys onto the bedside table before pulling you under the covers and into a heated kiss.

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

Taglist: sillysillygyal, junkie4weezer, frankiesweird, divinerulerz, nickrhodeslittledarling

@evanchantingpeters — All rights reserved. Please do not modify, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[prythianpages]

Too Good To Be True | Lucien x Reader

...you're just too good to be true...can't take my eyes off of you...

summary: in which your newest muse catches you red handed.

word count: 1,600

a/n: I do struggle writing Lucien but I had seen this tiktok and wanted to write a meet-cute over it and when I saw this fanart above made by IG user kri_stasss_, I took this as a sign lol. I also listened to the song can't take my eyes off of you like 100x while writing this.

With a sigh, you lean back into your seat, allowing your eyes a break. You had been sitting at the corner of the bustling cafe for over an hour, choosing to surround yourself with Velaris’s warmth and the smell of coffee in the hopes to finally draw something.  But your sketchbook is spread open on the table with a half-finished drawing.

You look at the view before you, the Sidra River shimmering like pure sapphire under the sun’s gaze. The leaves of surrounding trees rustling gently in the soft spring breeze and flowers vibrant hues adorn the riverwalk. It’s a beautiful sight–one that many stop and admire. Yet, it is not enough to fuel the inspiration you so desperately need.

The flowing water and distant laughter of children blend into a soothing symphony as you absentmindedly twirl your pencil between your fingers, thoughts drifting. Send me a muse, you plead to the Cauldron, yearning to feel that thrill again.That spark that ignites your passion of drawing. The very one that moves your hand effortlessly across the paper.

The sound of iron against pavement startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. You blink your eyes back into focus and instinctively, they land on the source of the noise. The table diagonal from you, that had been vacant for the past hour, now has an occupant. An occupant who is blocking your view of the Sidra River, the very one that is half drawn across your sketchbook.

But you can’t bring yourself to complain.

Not when there is a man of striking beauty seated there. 

His mere presence commands your attention, his red hair catching the sunlight and gleaming like fire. You feel your breath catch in your throat as your eyes trace the elegant lines of his face. Brutal scars mar the left side of his face–from his brow all the way down to his jaw. 

Despite this, the male is devastatingly handsome. Ethereal. 

Too good to be true, you think, finding yourself captivated by his eyes. His right eye, whole and russet-colored, holds a depth that draws you in. But his left eye…His left eye is a mechanical marvel, golden and intricate, and gleaming with an otherworldly light.  

And suddenly, you’re overwhelmed with an urge to touch him. To reassure yourself that he is real and not just a figment of your imagination. Gods, with a face and built body like his, he’d be heaven to touch…

A rush of excitement floods your veins and you feel a familiar thrill coursing through you. Your hands are turning the pages of your sketchbook until a blank page sits before you. And before you know it, you’re pouring your awe and fascination into each stroke of your pencil. Your eyes flicker up and down as you commit the details to mind, heart pounding every time with the fear of being caught. 

Though you're cautious about it, you’re too lost in his eyes to catch the way the male’s lips curve slightly upwards.

**

Lucien takes the last sip of his coffee, admiring the sight before him. The sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in twilight hues and dancing across the Sidra River. Along the riverwalk, Fae stroll leisurely. Couples walk hand in hand, children skipping along the cobblestone path, pausing to catch the fireflies that are now visible in the dimming light.

Velaris was proving to be more beautiful with each passing day—a sight he’d never expected from a place like the Night Court. All his life, he had only come to know the Court of Nightmares. A place that truly lived up to his name. And though there were children laughing and running freely, he couldn’t help but still be wary of the City of Starlight. It was still part of the Night Court, after all.

His eyes scan along the riverwalk, golden eye making a soft sound as it moves, in search of something. Or rather, someone. Just as a frown is about to settle on his face, he finds what he was searching for. The reason why he was at this cafe…despite the fact that the best espresso in town was at a little coffee shop in the Rainbow of Velaris.

You.

You are sitting at a bench, knees drawn up and a sketchbook nestled onto your lap. As the sun continues to make its descent, the street lamp near you croaks to life. It bathes you in its soft glow and he is able to appreciate the slight furrow of your brow, the slight way your lips purse in concentration. He wants to know what you're drawing.

Ever since he caught you staring at him at this very cafe, he had an inkling as to what may be hidden within those pages of your sketchbook. He had meant to approach you about it but you had been so into your sketch, he found the sight endearing and feared disrupting you. 

So he had left you to it and showed up to the cafe the next day at the same time in the hopes of seeing you again and he did. That time, your gazes had met and though it had been brief, it felt everlasting. He remembers the way your cheeks tinted with blush before you turned your head away, flustered at being caught. If only you had seen the way he had smiled softly to himself afterwards.

It’s been days since that incident. Though he didn’t find you in that same spot the day after, he came to the conclusion that this was your favorite area to frequent in Velaris. It slowly became his too, his eyes always finding you amongst the busy riverwalk. 

Lucien had never been the shy type–at least, not when it came to pursuing people he was interested in. He had just been waiting for the right time–for the right moment to talk to you. And as you closed your sketchbook with a light exhale, his heart fluttered as he realized what better time than now.

**

Calling it a night, you close your sketchbook with a soft sigh. The sun had been replaced by the moon and the street lamp’s light was too dim for your liking to continue you drawing. You feared messing up what you had meticulously spent hours on. As you rise from the bench and turn to make your way back home, you bump into a smaller frame than yours, the sketchbook in your hold falling from your grasp.

“Sorry, miss!” A lively voice chirps and when you look toward the source, the small child is already far away from you. Kids, you muse to yourself as you turn back around.

Your breath catches in your throat. Standing right in front of you is the male who has become your muse.

But he’s not looking at you.

No, he’s looking at the sketchbook on the ground. Your heart skips a beat, heat rising to your face. The sketchbook had opened to the pages you've been working on—the ones with multiple sketches of his eyes.

You’re frozen in horror, watching as he studies your work. None of you say anything for a moment. It’s when his gaze lifts to yours that you spring into action. “Oh,” you gasp, beginning to bend your knees to gather your belongings. You're absolutely mortified, praying to the Cauldron he can’t hear how fast your heart is racing.

“I’m so sorry.”

Before your hand can reach for your sketchbook, another hand beats you to it.

“Don’t be,” he says, his voice deep and enchanting, causing your hand to freeze in midair. There seems to be a magnetic pull in his words, a sincerity that makes your heart flutter. Is there anything about this male that is not attractive?

“I’ve never seen the beauty of my eyes until now.”

The words are spilling from your mouth before you can stop them. “You’re joking, right?”

He’s knelt before you, his hand hovering over your book. But instead of picking it up for you, he grasps for your hand instead. It’s warm and calloused yet feels so good against yours. Like heaven. His eyes finally meet yours, holding you captive. He slowly brings your hand to his lips, and you don’t think you’re breathing as he presses his lips against your skin.

“No,” he grins as he rises to his full height, using his free hand to grab your sketchbook before bringing you with him. “I’m Lucien.”

It takes you a moment to realize he is waiting for you to speak, his presence overwhelming but exhilarating.

“I’m—” you clear your throat to steady your voice. “I’m y/n.”

“y/n,” Lucien repeats with a smile, finally handing you over your sketchbook.

You take it, immediately clutching the book tightly to your chest and avert your gaze, casting it downwards. “I promise I’m not a creep. I was drawing the Sidra–well, attempting to, anyway. But then you came along, blocking my view and something came over me. You see, I’ve been struggling with artist block and your eyes–your eyes are so pretty”--and under your breath, you mutter–” All of you is, if I’m going to be honest…”–Lucien’s smile widens at that–”and I finally felt inspired–oh gods, I’m rambling. I should just shut my mouth.”

Lucien’s russet eye twinkles with amusement. “I inspired you?”

“Yes,” you answer quietly and bashfully.

“Then perhaps,” he says, his voice low and intimate. “I should let you inspire me as well.”

Slowly, you lift your head back up, meeting his eyes once more. A wave of relief surges through you as you find nothing but sincerity and shared interest in his gentle gaze. You find yourself mirroring his smile, and something warm blossoms in Lucien’s chest—the start of something beautiful.

And he can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the Night Court isn’t so bad after all.

a/n: okay, that's enough Lucien for now. Can't keep letting him distract me because I need to focus back on the other Vanserra *cough* Eris *cough*

general tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen

[dollwrites]

WAAAAAAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT! You write Tokyo ghoul???? I NEED to be aware when you open requests again, I crave anything with my favorite Uta 😍🥰 I don’t see enough of him and I think you’d write him really really well!!!

ᴡɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ᴜᴛᴀ

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!ghoul!reader, oral fixation ( fingers ), masturbation ( her! ), reader’s nonverbal, very very subtle pet play ( just the vibes i feel ), finger sucking, all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟰 ∣ intermission [ oral fixation ]

“Gently,” Uta reminded you, without so much as looking up from his work. with his right hand steadily swirling obsidian spirals over his newest creation, his left had been outstretched for you, willowy digits tracing the shape of your parted lips before slipping past the threshold, only to be welcomed by your eager tongue. upon tasting the pads of his fingertips, you have the sudden urge to clamp your lips down around the extremities, to suck on them, and relish the flavor of your lover, but you heed his warning and simply stroke each digit from knuckle to nail with your tongue, mouth hanging agape.

“Still quite a feral, little thing, but mind those teeth this time.” his pointer finger twisted slightly, to tap against the shape of your canines, and test their sharp edges, but you had no real intention of biting him. of course, that didn’t mean that you wouldn’t do it by accident— which has happened before. you get a little too eager, a little too excited, and you snap your jaws shut like a hungry pup.

usually, you would grip his wrist with both hands, a silent plea not to take the taste of his fingers from your mouth, but right now yours were busy, too. they had both been occupied beneath the loose fabric of the oversized nightshirt you wore, one palming your breast, squeezing and pinching at your own nipple, whilst the other was shoved hastily into your panties, strumming your greedy pussy. you had become accustomed to Uta’s doting ever since he took you in; his constant touching on you, his affectionate lips and tongue seeking out your most sensitive parts, but when he worked you were utterly neglected.

so, you would find yourself in such a position, panting like a happy bitch on your knees at his feet, sucking and licking on his fingers as you tried to mimic the pleasure he could give you with your own hands. your skill paled in comparison to his, but it was all you could do to keep from interrupting him.

Uta knows this, which is why there’s a subtle tickle of pride in the way his lips creeped up, even as his crimson gaze remains fixed on the mask before him, at every sound you make. every heavy breath, every moan of his name. he knows that you’re needy, that your desperate for him, and he knows that to make you wait was probably a cruel punishment for a sweet, but ravenous little thing like you.

“Naughty, messy little girl.” he offers in a soothing tone, feeling webs of sticky drool tether his fingers to your tongue as you lick and suck on each one. the excess dribbles down your chin, either soaking into the fabric of your shirt or leaving a small puddle on the floor between your knees. “You can pet and pet that pretty pussy of yours, but you still can’t make yourself cum like I can, hm?” there’s a hint of arrogance in his soft chuckle, but it’s one well warranted. you shake your head, your tongue too busy to answer by forming words— drawing loops against the base of each finger, allowing the tips to reach deep into your mouth as they could, nearly gagging you as they prodded at your gullet. you rubbed your own fingers against your clit faster, pressing harder until you were squirming on your knees, scooting right up to his leg to press your whole body into it. your own, deep ruby stare flickered up to him, piercing… begging.

“That’s quite alright, I like being the only one that can tame you,” he offers, retracting his digits from your mouth. you let out a soft, disgruntled huff, attempting to follow them, to pull them back in, and worship them again with your tongue, but he doesn’t allow it. they travel downwards, and you watch as strings of saliva sever and drip from them and your own lips. grabbing the fabric of your nightshirt, he gives it a tug, pulling you upright, balancing tall on your knees, so that he can reach between your thighs without bending too far away from his mask in progress. your head swims, and you let out a little whimper as slick, svelte pads push your own away and tap against your puffy button, teasing you further, assessing your sticky sex. Uta lets out a soft, fond sigh, “There she is. Throbbing and swollen for me.” your tongue flicks and rolls impatiently just behind the seal of your couplet, desperate to be occupied, too, so your own fingers pry beyond the barrier created by your lips, leaving the scent and taste of your own cunt on them. you suck on them, purring in pure ecstasy at the sensation of Uta teasing your clit. it wasn’t enough to make you cum, but it was plenty to keep you right on the edge you’d led yourself to, so as not to sully your hard work with a ruined orgasm.

“But you’ll have to occupy yourself for a bit longer, little thing.” he said, resolved, gently pulling his hand back, sitting upright in his seat again. you whine, and -to keep from losing that built up tension- slam yourself down against his foot, grinding your damp panty-clad pussy against his shoe as you lean against his leg. he gives the top of your head an affectionate pat, before he immersing himself in his art. “I’m still busy, you know.”

[ceilidho]

prompt: IKEA soap/reader fic. PART 3. (read 1, 2) tags: dubcon

-

The Christmas party presents a whole new challenge in trying to ward Johnny off.

It’s hard because at first you almost gravitate towards him, weirdly enchanted by his ugly sweater with red reindeer on the sleeves. It’s only when he finally spots you—and you shudder when you notice the way his eyes scan across the crowd of other employees, seeking you out—and he practically lights up that you snap back to reality.

He blazes a path towards you like a heat seeking missile, dodging around your other coworkers. You stand there awkwardly as he cuts across the room, wondering if maybe you should’ve just texted your manager some excuse about feeling sick and stayed home. Too late now though. 

Fortunately for you, the assistant manager intercepts before Johnny’s able to make it halfway across the room, stepping between the two of you like they don’t even realize they’ve interrupted anything. There’s a split second where you can see Johnny wrestle with the urge to push them aside, fury clear in his eyes. Maybe only to you. The assistant manager opens their mouth and talks like nothing’s amiss, like it isn’t clear that Johnny is only a handful of seconds away from causing serious harm.

Then it passes; recedes into the dark. Johnny’s blue eyes go pellucid again, unbothered by the real world. The smile that spreads across his face seems sincere; if you hadn’t been watching him that entire time, you might not have even thought that he’d harboured any violence inside of him. 

You saw it though. You saw it.

It makes sense in the context of his background. You’d never given the ex-military thing much thought, but every so often you can almost feel the ghost of its presence in the back of your mind. When his reflexes kick in or the gleam in his eyes grows dark. He doesn’t ever talk about his past life in specifics, only grand overtures meant to distract anyone listening, but what he does reveal sometimes makes your stomach clench. 

You swallow and turn back to the conversation with your other coworkers, steadfastly avoiding Johnny’s eyes peeking over the assistant manager’s head. 

The breakroom is decked out in cheap Christmas decorations, a fiber-optic tree set up in the corner, iridescent bristles shifting colours with every blink. Someone passes you a vaguely alcoholic drink and you sip at it nervously, reaching the bottom of your first cup faster than you anticipated. 

Your secret Santa gift is on a table just outside the breakroom in the hall, along with all the other gifts. Something about it draws your eyes several times throughout the evening. Maybe something you saw but didn’t register. It’s hard to keep focused on the conversation happening around you when your attention oscillates between Johnny and the gift table, but you respond hastily when someone prompts you to answer. 

It comes to light when someone clinks a spoon against their glass and directs everyone to gather in the middle of the room. Two of the warehouse guys awkwardly try to bring the table into the room without knocking any of the gifts onto the floor. There are a few casualties, but when they manage to twist it enough to get it through the door, someone pulls up a chair to stand on and read off all of the names to hand out the gifts. 

Several people coo when you’re revealed as the recipient of Johnny’s gift. There’s no reason for it to come as a shock, but your stomach clenches anyway.

He stands practically right up against you when you open it. You know the second you unwrap it that the delicate bottle of perfume in your hands must have been in the three figures. All you did was get someone a handmade mug from a local craft fair. He stares at you when you unwrap it, beaming when you give him a very controlled thank you because the alternative is screaming that this is way too expensive for you to keep. 

“Ye should put it on,” he tells you, breathing just a little heavier. “Really want ta smell it on ye.”

You don’t know what possesses you to give it a spritz on your wrist, letting him guide your hand to dab it against the base of your throat. It’s intimate enough that his eyes follow the movement of your throat when you swallow, mouth going dry. They drag up to your lips when they part, a hesitant thanks hanging off your tongue.

“Jesus Christ, get a room already,” someone near you murmurs, but it doesn’t take long for their attention to slip off you as the next gift recipient is announced. Not Johnny though. 

Your mouth snaps shut.

He hovers at your back for the rest of the gift handouts, so close that you can feel the heat radiating off him. You flinch at his bitten off groans whenever you so much as fidget, rubbing against him. Shaking him off seems like a hopeless task until someone asks if you have a lozenge, giving you an excuse to take them to your locker. 

You can feel him stalking you like a shark around the breakroom when you chat with some of your other coworkers, the smile on your face becoming forced. 

“Did’ya know Johnny actually—oh, sorry, burped—he actually paid me…to get your name?” your coworker giggles, absolutely sloshed. You’re tipsy too, but her words make you go a bit cold.

“Pardon?” you ask. The red cup crackles when your fingers tighten around it.

“He paid me. Fifty dollars. Jus’ to get your name for the…for the stupid Santa thing. The secret Santa.”

You can feel the way your mouth hangs open, just a bit. Her words echo in your head, the conversation long over. You let her prattle on, still stuck on the thought of Johnny paying someone off just for the opportunity to give you a gift. The longer you stand there and chat with your coworkers, the more difficult it gets to look normal. 

“Isn’t that something?” she prompts, nudging you with an elbow. Even the slightest touch hits you like a battering ram. 

“Yeah,” you parrot back, “it’s something.”

Perhaps you’re overdue for a conversation with Johnny about boundaries. More than overdue. The package has been signed, sealed, and delivered. It was overdue months ago, the day you started working at the same store as him. By now, you should’ve quit or transferred, hell you should’ve yelled at him that one time he stopped you in the garden section to apply his own personal Chapstick to your lips (you don’t think about how you’d bitten them raw from staring across the row of potted flowers as he stacked bag after bag of fertilizer onto a customer’s pallet before pushing it to their car, his sleeves rolled up and thick biceps on display the whole time). 

Can anyone blame you for being confused? It’s obvious what he’s offering. He does nothing to hide it. It’s also obvious that it would be, unequivocally, a terrible idea to take him up on it. 

Maybe you just need some fresh air. You make an excuse and peel off from the rest of the group, heading for the door. Someone lurches out of the shadows in the corner before you can make it out. 

“Look, bonnie—mistletoe,” Johnny teases, not letting you so much as glance up before snatching you by the hips and reeling you into him. 

The kiss he plants on you is filthy and wet. Open-mouthed too so he can slip you his tongue, licking over the roof of your mouth. Sucking your bottom lip when you can’t help the whimper that slips out and he breaks away for only a split second to whisper oh fuck under his breath. Your mind reels when he dives back in for another kiss. He’s as good of a kisser as you might have expected, messy but forceful, threading a hand into your hair to hold you in place. The way he roots you in place licks at something delicious inside of you, a secret, buried urge.

Johnny finally pulls away when he can no longer convincingly ignore the way you push on his shoulders and squirm in his arms. His lips are wet when he pulls back, a thin strand of saliva clinging between your lips. It breaks when he runs his tongue across the wetness. 

Someone whistles and Johnny grins from ear to ear, bashful under the joy brimming out of him. You stumble away the second his hands loosen on your hips, wiping a hand across your mouth.

“Good for you, John!” someone shouts through cupped hands and several of your coworkers cackle. 

This time you actually manage to make it out the door and down the hall to the employee restroom. You spend the next few minutes washing your hands until your fingertips go pruney under the warm water and you try to think of anything except the texture of Johnny’s lips. 

You touch your lips no less than three times. Each time, your fingers come back trembling. It’s what you’d long expected from Johnny, from someone that looks like him, like the physical embodiment of ‘for a good time, call…’ written in lipstick on the back of a gas station bathroom door. 

The last thing you want to do is give him an inch, throw him a bone—actually lead him on, as your coworker might say. Still, your finger trembles on your lip. You know he’d make it good. Even if he didn’t, looking like that, who could blame you? The thought makes you wince, conscience of objectifying him, but haven’t you been subject to worse by now? You’re due far more than some measly peck for how many times he’s slapped your ass, stolen your scrunchie (two so far), or said something nasty to you.

It’s not hard to track him down when he’s always hovering nearby, this time just off by the watercooler with your manager and a few other coworkers. The hand not holding a drink is buried deep in his pocket, the smile on his face strained by a mask of politeness; you can tell at a glance that he’s only playing at civility, that he’d rather be anywhere else but chatting with his boss and colleagues at the office party.

When he spots you approaching the group of them, his eyes widen, excitement bleeding back into them. It takes your breath away.

“Ah, there’s your other half, Johnny,” your manager says and you freeze. 

“Aye, so she is. She’s a good little kisser, did’ye see?” Johnny gushes, pulling you in by the waistband of your pants. You’re a bit too tipsy to protest when he slips his hand around your waist. 

It clicks into place. When he pulls you into his side, it feels like slotting into a space made just for you, unwelcome or not. You don’t even notice if your other coworkers laugh or not, fixated on his eyes. He can hardly pull them away from you. Every long shift waking up on the sofa in the breakroom with Johnny standing over you, eyes glinting like a predator’s in the woods, and every coworker’s joke about being Johnny’s girl feels like it’s been leading to this. You have to know what it’d be like. 

“Um…Johnny?” you start, tugging on his shirt gently.

“Yeah, hen? What’s it?”

“Can we…um…do you wanna go somewhere more private?”

His breathing stops, body frozen against yours. “Ye serious, kitty? You’re not joking?”

You shake your head. “Just…just one time? Maybe?”

The first sign of movement from him is a full body shudder that nearly makes you step back. The frazzled look in his eyes borders on manic, flitting around the room looking for the nearest exit. Johnny tosses the group some hasty, poorly worded goodbye (you think he even flubs your manager’s name) and tears away from them, you still glued to his side. Someone giggles as you leave. You can’t pay them any mind though, not with how frantically Johnny pulls you out of the breakroom and down the hall, his long strides nearly making you trip over your feet.

“Johnny—slow down—”

“Hen, I’ll carry ye over my shoulder to the closet, I swear.”

He nearly barrels you over with how forcefully he pushes you into the closet, hot mouth latched onto the side of your throat. You hear the sound of the lock clicking behind him. The closet is swathed in darkness, only the barest hint of light bleeding through from underneath the doorway. It’s hardly enough for you to see anything in front of you, but that almost doesn’t matter with how Johnny curls around you, his body caging you in against the shelving behind you. 

“Please, please, fuck, I cannae believe it, fuck—” Johnny groans into your neck, a pathetic desperate sound that you’ve never heard from him before. He even keens a bit. “Oh Jesus, baby, I’ve been—dinnae if ye knew or not, but I’ve been fuckin’ obsessed with ye for ages, Christ.”

You let out a laugh in disbelief, embarrassed by how breathless it sounds. “I—oh—I f-figured.”

His hands drag up and down your back, tugging at the fabric of your shirt and practically ripping it out of where it’s been tucked into your pants. If you had buttons, you think you’d burst straight off, zip off the walls and roll under one of the shelves. Johnny’s eagerness bleeds through—months of barely concealed lust unravelling right in front of you, his hands practically shaking when they grope along your sides and under your breasts. His fingers dig almost painfully into your flesh until you whimper and he murmurs a broken apology into your neck.

“Wha’d’ye want, baby? I can—fuck, anything ye want, I promise—” Johnny begs, the sound almost pitiful. It makes your pussy ache.

“Your—your mouth—” 

The speed with which he drops to his knees almost makes you flinch. His kneecaps are only saved by the carpeted floor, present nowhere else in the employee section apart from the supply closets. His hands go to the zipper and button on your jeans, yanking viciously, almost snarling when they don’t immediately come undone. When you try to help him, he bares his teeth, more animalistic than you’ve ever seen him before.

“Do these fuckin’ pants even come off?” Johnny growls, giving another yank. You hear something rip and wince.

He manages to wrench your pants down until they pool around your ankles, only enough concentration left in him to pull one leg out and drape it over his shoulder. 

“Johnny—my underwear—holy shit—” you gasp when he mashes his face into the crotch of your panties, laving his tongue over the fabric. You can feel the heat of it through the gusset of your underwear, each desperate lick trying unsuccessfully to pull them to the side. 

“Fuck, s’ry, baby, I’ll take ‘em off,” he apologizes, voice muffled where his mouth is still pressed to your pussy. Reluctant to move even an inch away from you. 

It takes him a couple more seconds before he’s able to move away just long enough to pull your underwear down as well, struggling with getting it over the leg still draped over his shoulder and nearly losing his patience twice over. 

He takes to eating you out like something he’s done for years—naturally. Crudely. Eyes fluttering shut when he drags his tongue from your slit to your clit, unabashedly enjoying himself. His moans drag through you, making you nearly shake right out of your skin. His chin is already wet when you glance down. He spreads your inner lips with two fingers to open you fully to his gaze, lapping at your clit until he can hardly pull his mouth away from your cunt. 

Johnny drags one of your hands from his hair to cradle the side of his face, turning into your palm to take a deep inhale. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, eyes several degrees hotter when they meet yours through the curtain of his lashes.

“Fuckin’ smell like mine too,” he growls. You jolt at his words. He draws a finger into his mouth and gives it a suck, making you trill. 

“D-don’t get any ideas,” you gasp, other hand threading through his hair now, turnabout fair play. “S’just a—ah, ah—a one-time t-thing.”

“Aye, one time, one time,” he repeats. “Gonna make it so good f’r ye, baby.”

The two fingers spreading you open push against your entrance insistently. The initial stretch makes you tug at his hair, flushing when all that does is make him moan, mouth hung open sluttily. He looks even more strung out than you, eyes dark and heady. He’s also never looked more attractive.

Shelves jab into the small of your back, the ache growing the longer he keeps you like that with one leg slung over his shoulder, your knees almost buckling. Impossible to concentrate on the voice in your head screaming that this is a bad idea, not when he runs his tongue over your clit and sucks. Not when you’re forced to clamp a palm over your mouth to drown out your sounds. 

The press of a third finger into you makes you flinch and yank at his hair, harder this time. Hard enough for Johnny to back off, an apology muttered into your wetness. The two splitting you are more than enough, you think, a bit wildly. He shouldn’t be prepping you for anything more. There’s a furrow to his brows though, a bit of frustration wedged in there. Like putting up with your complaints annoys him just a bit.

“John—c’mon, please, not so loud,” you beg.

He pumps his fingers into you, eyes trained on the spot where they disappear. The look in his eyes borders on reverent. “Always mouthin’ off, huh? Even when I’m getting ye off? On my knees ‘n everything?”

“There are p-people outside,” you hiss, clamping your hand back down over your mouth when he curls his fingers and presses up into you. 

“Yeah?” The question sounds rhetorically, almost a challenge. The smile on his lips goes wicked sharp. “God, we wouldnae want ‘em ta hear, huh? What ye pulled me away from the party for?”

You don’t know why that’s what sets you off, but it does, eyes watering with the force of your orgasm. Back arched. Your head aches from where you knocked it back into the shelf behind you. Johnny groans when you clench around his fingers.

It’s a few seconds before you feel like you can speak again. The first thing you can utter is a hiss when Johnny laps at your slit again, far too sensitive for him to still be touching you.

“You can, ah…you can let me go now,” you pant. Coming back to your body takes an age, legs still trembling, held up by Johnny’s hands alone.

His fingers grip harder into your flesh. You stare down at him. 

“Oh, pretty baby,” Johnny coos, eyes black with desire, “we’re jus’ gettin’ started.”