#w/w fiction

[badolmen]

They don’t even attempt to assassinate US politicians anymore. You notice that? Not since the anthrax scare back for… who was it, Barack? And even that… pathetic. This new generation has no respect for an honest hitman. I’m not sure this new generation has any honest hitman - you see that shit with Boeing? Sloppy, fucking disgraceful - you kill the whistleblowers before they get halfway to a lawsuit. What kind of fucking amateur is doing faked suicides the night before testimony? Goddamn greenhorns. Back in my day someone tried to shoot Ronald Reagan in broad daylight. There used to be bomb threats to Congress. I took out a few union leaders in the utilities sector myself. Today’s generation? Won’t even threaten to throw a punch - not even over on that - what’s it now, ‘X’? They got no guts. None! And they don’t even have poor impulse control to boot! Too much of that - that panopticon anxiety bullshit. “Oh what if I get a called out post???” People used to send the president letters full of bioweapons. In the mail! Today’s generation? Not a chance. All because of woke.

[bivampir]

must representation be “good”? is it not enough to watch two men destroy each other's lives

[seraphicsentences]

you told me your new man don’t make you nut, that’s a damn shame.

closeted/in denial abby anderson x reader

pt.2 here: all mine

tags: internalized homophobia, smut, cheating, tw:owen, fingering (aa!receiving), lowkey sub!aa

A/N: we do not condone cheating here! unless it’s on owen fuck that asshole. sorry i disappeared for 100 years!! hope this is half-decent enough to make up for it. working on reqs i promise!!!! i love you all my sweet angels <333

please click me!!!

it was undeniable— the tension, between you and abby anderson. your queer sexuality was common knowledge amongst the WLF base, and your reputation as a womanizer quite contributory to the hot topic. on the complete opposite of the spectrum stood abby: top soldier, with the highest leading score in kills, and most importantly, dutiful girlfriend to owen moore.

where she stood on the line of homosexuality was made evidently clear. from the way she scoffed under her breath at the sight of your marked-up one night stands, to her weekly mornings at the base’s sunday service, you had found an almost masochistic pleasure in ticking her off to your best efforts.

you would catch yourself throwing offhand comments towards your latest hookups when she was in ears range. “my dick’s better than any man’s, isn’t that right, baby?”

in the mere corner of your peripheral vision you would see abby’s jaw tighten, gaze hard as she refused to look your way— her own sort of defiance to your antics. a haughty smirk threatened to break across your face. you couldn’t exactly place your finger on as to why you were so enamored with her understated reactions, rather than focused on the pretty, blushing girl in front of you. it became a thrill you craved insatiably, and built up as a wall between you two over the years, bound to come tumbling sooner or later.

~

mid-summer now, the longer days and better hunt called for a compulsory celebration. wlf’s central lounge was buzzing with drunken chatter and alight with the golden hue of mini lamp lights.

your childish bickering with abby hadn’t lessened up any bit, and to much of your delight, had begun to stir up more volatile reactions of hers as they’ve persisted.

you sat across her now, separated by only a couple foot’s distance and a beer bottle, which lay empty and flat on its side.

“spin the bottle? what are we, twelve?” abby scoffed at the idea.

she sat crisscrossed, forearms resting atop her legs, muscles straining against her tight grey shirt, and you couldn’t help but wonder how she, the very picture of masc, was so adamantly straight.

“aw, scared, anderson?” you grinned devilishly.

she physically recoiled, as if the very thought of being intimidated by someone like you burned her mind. haughty self satisfaction coursed through your veins, sick pleasure in knowing you could get under her skin so easily. running your eyes salaciously down her figure, you watched as she shifted nervously. cute.

“es solo un juego, abby,” manny says, shrugging.

“whatever,” she replies, “just get on with it.”

as the rounds go by, you can’t help but take note of the way abby awkwardly averts her gaze from whichever two lucky partakers kiss, no matter the duo. scoffing, she teasingly mouths ‘pendejo’ after manny stupidly grins into his third kiss of the night. you watch her smile disappear in a brief second when the your turn arises.

eye contact unwavering, you stare down abby as the bottle whirls around, waiting for it to select its next target. you can’t quite understand why your heart feels like it’s racing out of your chest the closer the bottlehead gets to nodding the blonde’s direction.

it inches closer. slower now.

a person away— and it stops.

…on the pretty girl next to abby.

abby releases a harsh breath you didn’t realize she was holding, chest rising slowly as she catches some air. you blink.

you cross the short distance between the two of you crawling, abby eyeing you down, before swerving your course of action in the last moment to land yourself in front of the girl next to her. without a moment’s hesitation you tug her in for a kiss, or no, multiple kisses as you tongue the girl down hungrily. she groans into it with a matched eagerness, desperate to get a dose of your infamous mouth.

your eyes flicker open between kisses, expecting to get an eyeful of the top of the blonde’s head, but you’re met with quite the opposite. the piercing stare of none other than abby anderson sends a chill down your spine. her breath hitches— she looks like she’s been fucking caught. and as tempting as the girl in front of you is, you can’t tear your gaze away from her.

you begin to dominate what is now a full-blown makeout session, eyes darkened, breaths unsteady, hands pulling. she just watches, bound to the floor. you watch her watch. and you want her to want it.

you pull away with a final tug on the girl’s bottom lip, feeding off the way abby’s eyes follow the action. someone wolf-whistles in the background, but, even flustered now, you can’t shake the undeniable tension between yourself and abby.

the rhythmic thumping of blood rushing through your skull acted rather as a barrier between your awareness and the continuing rounds. thankfully, you were left as a mere onlooker, free of any further unwanted attention.

abby had gone back to staring at her lap, you discovered, watching intently as she picked a stray hair off her jeans.

“hey anderson,” you called over, her reaction immediate— head jolting up.

her eyes relaxed to a glare once she realized you were the one addressing her, raising an eyebrow in question.

“i think it’s ‘bout your turn, yeah?”

“you fu-“

“solo un juego, abby,” manny cuts in.

with a huff, abby begrudgingly leans over to give the bottle a spin, tapping her fingers against the floor in anticipation.

the bottle stops. so does your heart, for just a second.

you look up. abby looks to owen. the fucking son of a bitch lends no help, smirking, excited that his perverted fantasies have come to life before his eyes.

“c’mon then,” you nod at her, leaning back on your wrists, almost in invitation.

she moves slowly, braid dangling by her shoulder as she scooches towards you, hands coming to a stop on the floor in front of you.

closer now, you can feel the heat radiating off her large figure onto your own, the light brush of her breaths intermingling with your own. yet— she makes no move to get any closer.

you loop a finger around her neckline and drag her in, teeth clashing from the aggression, noses bumping; it’s no fairytale kiss. but then your tongue licks into her open mouth, perhaps merely by muscle memory, or maybe because you secretly want a taste of more, and she fucking whimpers. so quiet, strangled, from the back of her throat, but you hear it nonetheless, and god, you feel it.

the switch up is almost immediate: abby pulling away faster than you can blink, back in her original spot before you know it, wiping at her mouth. but she was too late. you knew what she craved, and you were going to make sure she’d have to beg for it.

~

the party was in full swing now, majority of the room drunk off of wlf’s own brew, which meant everyone was completely fucked up.

you stumbled over to the serving area, leaning haphazardly over the bar to scan the room without falling over. your eyes caught onto a familiar blonde, seated quietly with a group composed of what you assumed to be her usual patrol friends. she’s seated next to owen, the fucker, who has his arm lazily swung around the skank sprawled on the other side of him. your eyes are glued to the visible scrunch between abby’s eyebrows, fingers itching to reach out and press it away.

“who’s the lucky girl you’re sinking your claws into tonight?”

your head swivels towards the voice, met with a concerned look from alex, wlf’s residential mixologist.

“…you good, babe?”

“fuck— yeah, just got a lit, a little dizzy for sec. the answer to, uh- to, your question is no one,” you hiccuped, grinning up at alex as you rested your head against the cold counter.

“uh-huh, sure. i’ll let you have your secrets. i won’t pry,” she quips.

you laugh, miming an imaginary lock over your lips before tossing the ‘key’ away. “what can i say? i’m a gentleman, alex, no, gentlewoman. i don’t kiss and te-“

you’re cut off by another voice approaching the counter, low and slurring, asking for a glass of straight whiskey.

you roll your head over, faced with the towering frame of none other than abby anderson. she’s closer than you expected her to be, causing you to stumble back a step, and then laugh at yourself, muttering under your breath, straight whiskey for the straight girl.

“i think you’ve had well enough, anderson. even with all the muscle on you, man, i don’t know how you got this hammered. i’ll get you some water, honey,” alex jokes.

abby sulks, spacing out as she begrudgingly sips on her water. you doubt she even notices your presence, using the accidental peace as time to really take in her side profile. she’s stunning, in her own, amazonian sort of way. especially now in the hazy golden light of the lounge, the sweaty blonde strands framing her face made her appear in rather close resemblance to a goddess of some type. and all you wanted was to worship her in that manner, treat her body as your temple and such. perhaps the alcohol really was getting to you.

“what’s got you all pouty, anderson? your little boyfriend not doing you any good?”

it’s so comical, the effect your presence has on abby. her head jerks your way at the first breath of your words, and her pinning gaze blows away any of the fog clouding either of your minds.

her demeanor hardens instantly, as she crosses her arms defensively. “fuck off,” is all she manages to spit out.

you take it as an invitation to continue. “like,” you scoff, “there’s no way he knows how to hit all the right spots. does he even try to? how’s his head game, abs?”

her look away speaks volumes.

“oh? god, what a dick.”

“he-“ she tries.

“-i could show you a good time,” you ramble, “i can assure you that i know how to hit all the right spots. your spots— i mean, only if you want me to.”

she gawks at you, her look half full of disbelief and half full of curiosity. and you can tell that you’ve got her hooked.

“i don’t need you,” she mutters, but a glance at her thighs pressed tight together says otherwise.

you smirk, placing your hand down that just so happens to land on her mid-thigh. her muscle jolts at your contact.

tentatively dragging your fingers higher, you speak lowly, stare locked, “you sure, baby?”

the wall comes crashing.

abby’s snatching your hand off her leg in a heartbeat and dragging you into the closest bathroom, shoving you against the door and pushing her lips against yours.

your tongue is dipping into her open mouth almost immediately, desperate to pull another one of her addicting whimpers out.

“shit,” abby curses in between gasps, before leaning back in to just consume more of you. her hands are searching for any part of you she can reach, grabbing at the meat at your hips, thighs, pressing your waist against hers with a groan.

the feel of your body against her own is so different from owens’, but so satisfying in a way she can’t wrap her head around. you fit into her frame like a puzzle piece, and your touches are needy and selfish, but they don’t feel offensive in the way that owen’s do.

you venture a hand under her shirt, tracing along the ridges of her toned stomach, and abby shudders, breaking your kiss to look down at your moving hand. she’s panting against your neck, heavier now, as you slide your hand up under her bra to cup her chest softly, rolling her hardened nipple between your fingers and watching hypnotically as she gasps into your skin.

with her head down at this angle, her neck is perfectly bared, and you can’t deny yourself a taste, can you? you’re sinking your teeth in before you realize it, soothing the marks with a wet lick over, only to tug the skin in between your teeth to suck at.

the quiet noises abby’s trying to muffle against your shoulder now are sending you into a frenzy, your hands now abandoning her breasts to pull her hips closer against yours.

abby nearly cries at the loss of your direct touches, but stops when your fingers return a place far more rewarding. you’ve unbuttoned her jeans now, your hand cupping her over her boxers teasingly, digits pressing over the damp spot in the fabric.

“bet you’ve never been this wet for owen,” you laugh, running a finger over her soaked core.

“don’t bring him up right now,” she pants in return, hips keening to your touch as she grabs your face to press into a sloppy kiss.

you push her boxers down eagerly, teasing two fingers by her leaking entrance to gather her slick.

god, abby gasps, and it seems to be the winning word of the night when she repeats it as she watches you stuff those same two fingers into your own mouth, and again when you stuff them straight into her pussy.

her pretty eyes are rolling back into her skull farther with every thrust against her gummy walls. “look at me while i fuck you dumb on my fingers, abs, look at me,” you beg.

“i c-can’t,” she whines, blushing a deep red and burrowing her face into your shoulder.

you slow your pumps, using your free hand to grab her by the braid and force her look at you. “awh,” you coo, pouting mockingly at her gaped mouth, “cute.”

your fingers buried as deep into her as physically possible, you curl them to hit that sensitive spot you genuinely believe has never even been touched once. and with the way abby lets out her loudest moan yet, you cannot believe otherwise.

“there it is,” you murmur, massaging your fingertips agonizingly slow inside of her, “see what you’re missing out on?”

her only response is a strangled whimper. baby blue eyes big and pleading as they threaten to roll back with every slight movement.

mhm, you goad her on, “that’s your g-spot, baby, feels real good, huh?”

she nods her head vigorously, quiet mhmmhmhm’s trailing out from her bitten lips.

“now if your little boyfriend’s dick is too small to reach it, i guess he can’t help it,” you laugh. “shame, you make such pretty noises when i touch you here,” you let out an exaggerated sigh, picking up your pace abruptly to slam into her spot over and over.

abby’s nearly gone cross-eyed, tossing her head back now as her pussy throbs almost rhythmically with every thrust. she’s never felt so filled to the brim, so overwhelmed with pleasure, and she’s too blissed out to even care about the stupid fucking smirk you’ve got plastered on your face.

“but his mini- dick is no excuse for not touching you here,” you continue, letting loose of her hair to finally touch her poor, neglected, pink clit, rubbing circles harshly into the button.

abby’s heart nearly jumps out of her chest. she’s moaning nonstop and swearing like a fucking sailor, the combination of your actions almost too much for her to physically bear. after a particularly loud oh god, fuck-please, you have no choice but to stuff abby’s mouth full with the bottom of her shirt. and fuck, was that the right move; the way her ab muscles flex and tighten as she nears her release, glistening with sweat, is enough to make you let out a groan of your own.

“‘m- close,” abby cries around the fabric, hips rocking with your motions as she begins to ride out her high.

“there you go anderson, you got it,” you mutter, circling her swollen clit faster now as you fuck into her g-spot repeatedly.

mmmmph is all you can make out, as abby’s walls clamp down around your curled fingers and she digs her nails into your sides, eyes squeezing shut.

her jerking movements eventually slow along with your own, half lidded eyes staring as you slip your cum-coated fingers into your mouth, sucking them clean. the moistened fabric falls from abby’s open jaw as she attempts to catch her breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

before you know it, she’s tugging up her soaked boxers and jeans, shoving past you as she buttons them up and promptly bolts out of that bathroom.

well, that was one way to deal with the tension.

she’ll come running back to you before she knows it.

yikes! i just read that over and yikes! lol uh! sorry guys i’m out of practice!! we love abby anderson though and pray that she gets over her internalized homophobia. she’s too sexy for allat.

send me more reqs!! not that i need any more but send ‘em!

[childrenofcain-if]

THE UPDATE FOR THE DEMO IS NOW LIVE!

what you can expect in this update comprising both chapter two and three:

get an exclusive invite to the illustrious house of styx.

meet the ROs.

try not to burn down the kitchenette with V.

share a tension-filled dance with C.

go on a swim with D.

do some outfit picking with your chosen RO.

who is that blond(e) stranger in the RE4 costume, and why do they look so familiar?

get choked by an RO for all the wrong reasons (and no, it won’t be kinky. repent for your sins!).

get a glimpse into what exactly is... w̵̢͈̱̻͋̔̾̎͌̋̓̏̚͝r̶̭͈̯͊͛̂̕o̷̧̝̤͇͚͚̓͌̒̈́̏̕̕ņ̴̨̬͚͓̫̱̞̘̰͊́̓̅̈̋͠͝ġ̵̨̺̪̳̘̠ up with you.

there may be some errors with pronouns and other stuff popping up, but you can send them to me on discord so we can promptly correct them. beta testers will be desperately needed for the next update so i’ll open the volunteering forms once chapter four is complete! also, it’s important that you start a new game because new variables has been added which might cause you to get stuck in certain areas!

huge shout-out to my talented big sib, @albywritesfiction, for the massive help in coding everything!

PLAY IT HERE!

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

A guy doing marine research into phytoplankton is far out to sea and waiting for the samples to be ready when he spots a fast-moving ripple in the water up ahead.

Fully aware that this spot is home to a migratory orca pod, he assumes he's stumbled across an orca hunting a seal and settles against the railing to watch, because it's not every day you get to see that.

The ripples get closer, the shadows in the water more defined, the water choppier, and suddenly the orca and its unfortunate prey are zooming directly towards the boat and he's waiting, breath held, for them to duck right underneath--

When the water breaks, the ocean sprays, and he's suddenly smacked fully in the face by a very wet, very confused, and very pretty merman, throwing them both down onto the deck while the boat rocks as a confused and now quite hungry orca dives beneath it.

The merman, it turns out, thought that the boat was an ice float and didn't realise his mistake until it was too late. But he's very thankful for the impromptu rescue, and wow don't you have nice arms, and holy shit you've got legs, can I touch them? Is that weird? Can I touch them anyway? And your hair--

So of course they get to talking because they're both utterly fascinated with the other, and soon the sun has set and the samples are long-since ready and the moonlight is making the ocean look black and they part with the knowledge that they'll never meet again, and a kiss, and a lingering look over the shoulder for all the things that can't be...

And the researcher gets back to land, moors his boat, readies his samples. He packs up his things, shoves them into his bags, and prepares to go home. He steps onto the jetty boards and thinks of the merman and the solid wood beneath his feet seems to sway for more than one reason.

There's a splash. He turns, pulled as if by the tide, and there's a ripple in the water. A face. A pair of eyes made black by the moonlight.

And this is how the researcher acquires a merman boyfriend who helps him find samples and the merman acquires a human boyfriend who rescues him from whales.

[vergils-beloved]

[quixoticanarchy]

being touch starved: bad

being touch starved but also you don’t actually like physical affection from other people: worse

being touched starved but you don’t like physical affection except from a specific person who is Not Here: hell

[ramdom-stupid-sketches-of-mine]

'Is that what you ...' ---------------------------- Local man found part of his dead wife diary on his co-worker desk.

I'm unwell and not normal about this. This scenario rent free in my head a big while since I had this durgetash ship. But patch 6 additional dialog push me to draw it.

[cupcakeinat0r]

Thinkin' abt DadBod!Miguel at the gym <3

You'd been going to the gym routinely, or at least trying to. You decided to go after working up the courage and convincing yourself that this was just for fun. That your body was your temple, and you were tending to it, no matter how it looked <3

The first week wasn't so bad. After embarrassingly tripping on equipment or accidentally dropping weights here and there, it was alright! Though at times, it was still difficult to stay consistent, until one day, you saw him.

Over on the other side of the gym, curling some dumbbells (100s, mind you), was a total 6-foot, thick, hairy dream of a man. You first noticed his chiseled face adorned by fine lines, locks of black hair framing it. With each draw of the weights, his biceps bulged. Beads of sweat trickled down his bulky chest and wide shoulders. When your eyes wander downward, you're surprised to not find washboard abs.

Oh no, what you find instead excites you even more than any pack of abs could offer you.

Your mouth waters slightly to find that his tank top has ridden up slightly over his hefty belly, graciously allowing a peek at a happy trail, its path sadly blocked by some basketball shorts (his cute bubble butt and giant dick print made up for it tho).

Despite his low, breathy grunts and intense crimson gaze towards his own reflection, he was making it look easy. You thought about how easy it'd probably be for him to carry you bride-style and throw you onto a bed before spreading your legs with those enormous hands so he could feast until your eyes crossed. Or how it'd be effortless for him to hold you tightly with your legs wrapped around that stocky midsection of his while he bullied his-

"'scuse me, you waiting for this bench?" a deep voice snaps you out of a daydream. You see the man is now looking at you with what looks like a knowing smirk. Fuck, he noticed you staring.

"Oh! N-no, was just looking for the 10s!" You blurt, evoking a velvety chuckle and dashing smile from him.

"Right over there." He motions with his chin toward the weight rack where the 10s are obviously displayed. After you thanked him, He smiled and nodded back to you, turning back toward the mirror to do his last set.

The second week felt like no problem. Instead of dragging yourself to the gym, you looked forward to it, scanning for your new gym crush every time you entered.

You'd feel a lil surge of happiness when you do find him there, feeling brave enough to exchange smiles and sometimes even little waves from across the gym. One time, the older man made you swoon when he winked at you upon entering the gym. After seeing your cute reaction, this would be how he greeted you every time.

The third week came You're at the squat rack, feeling stronger than usual, so you opt to go the heaviest you've ever gone. Big mistake. By the third rep, you fail to get back up, panicking and legs shaking. Just when you feel yourself start to fall, you see a pair of hands dart toward the bar from behind you, lifting it with ease and allowing you to stand back up. The bar is re-racked and you turn to find gym bae.

"You okay?" he gently prompts, a worried look on his face.

"Yes, thank you... think I might've gone too heavy." you nervously chuckle. He does as well, seeing that you're alright.

"Next time you go for a PR, you need to ask for a spotter, hun." He gives you that dashing smile again, his hands on his love handles.

"Yeah, I probably should've," you lower your head in defeat, "I didn't bring anyone with me though."

"You could've asked me," He says matter of factly as if it should've been obvious that he should be the one to spot you. "I would've done it with no problem, mama." His pet names make your womanhood pulse.

You look back up at him, your lips curled into a shy smile.

"C'mon, let's try again." "No, no, mama, I got that, I'll put it away for you." "Keep your knees like this-theeeere you go. "Gimme one more, mama, just one more, you can do it." "Atta girl! Good job, mamita."

You learned that his name is Miguel. He'd become your designated spotter on leg days, the sensation of his larger frame against yours making you nervous in the best way.

Your favorite is when his tummy accidentally brushes against your back, and borderline, your ass, and if not his tummy, it'd be his prominent bulge (which isn't there bc he gets to spot the adorable girl with an amazing ass from the gym... totally not that).

On the Fourth week, Miguel would ask you if you wanted to be workout buddies altogether. Of course, you accept, in which he asks for your number so like that, he can text you when he's going and vice versa.

It's the fifth week, and you both have worked out together a couple times already. Miguel texted you in the morning asking if you'd like to join him, which you were totally down for.

You two started with lateral pull-downs. Once it was your turn, you sat on the machine and reached for the handle, pulling it as you began your set.

Anytime you felt like you wanted advice or correction, Miguel eagerly helped you.

His hands would stay on your waist, his warm breath tickling your ear. "Mhm, there you go, you're doin' so good, mama." He praises in almost a whisper.

If only he knew he was making the exercise only harder. As if that weren't enough, his finger would occasionally message your hip. Your bodies were so close that you were able to hear each satisfied hum from his lips, suggesting you were doing the exercise right.

"Good girl, that was better. You feel it now?" He says, letting go to let you off the machine.

"Yeah, thank you! When it comes to upper body, I'll need all the help I can get. I'm just glad I’m getting it from an upper-body master." You flirtatiously add, playfully poking at one of his biceps.

This makes him blush, but only for a moment before he returns with a cocky response, "Thanks, hun. I'm glad to be working out with a leg-day goddess."

Now it was your turn to blush, except you didn't have any smart comeback, boosting Miguel's ego.

"Listen, let me treat you to smoothie after this, yeah?" He says it more like a statement than a request, and you happily oblige.

What you were expecting was a simple, cheap smoothie from a spot you usually go to, but instead, you're met with a drive-thru menu listing shakes from $20 and up. Oh he got moneyyyy.

Miguel tells you to pick any that looks good to you. He orders for himself and you as well, parking the car once the two of you get the smoothies.

As he sips from the cup, you take the opportunity to subtly glance at his figure, his muscles, how his pecs sit beautifully on top of his soft belly, his thighs constrained by the confines of his gym shorts. You think how badly you wanna sit there, grinding on the print 'til there was a wet spot-

"Something on your mind, mama?" You look back at him, taking a few seconds to register his words.

You hastily look back down at your drink and shake your head, “Nothing… thank you so much for this, it’s delicious!”

then he grabs the shoulder of your chair to lean toward you, “Of course, mama, but I don’t think you’re being completely truthful with me, hm?”

You look at him, playfully shaking your head again, knowing full well you’ve been caught.

“What’s in that pretty lil head of yours, hm? dime.” He puts the smoothie into the cup holder to free his other hand, placing it on your thigh, and softly squeezes it. “Just say the word, and you’ll get anything you want.”

Your lips curl slyly as you think of a response.

“Well… we never did cardio.”

Now you were here in his car, being bounced on his fat dick on the passenger seat, holding onto his his big shoulders for dear life. You were basically his fleshlight at this point… with those big hands.

You could feel his body now taut against yours, your tits bouncing relentlessly, his muscled, thick thighs below your ass, his balls slapping against your pussy lips, his bush tickling your clit, his pelvis pushing your ass up and his curved belly against your front side. It all was sending you into euphoria.

With you vigorously bouncing on his cock and his beautiful moaning, you fully let go. “Aw yes, Daddy,“ you mumbled without thinking.

In fact, you couldn’t think at all. All you knew was this fat cock and your pussy was memorizing all its veins and curves.

“Mmfuck baby, yea, say that again f’me”, he groaned through gritted teeth as he mercilessly bounced you down his painfully hard shaft.

“Please, Daddy, please!” You whined with your hands desperately seeking support on his big shoulders.

You can feel the sheet of sweat on his belly and on his thighs, which turned the smacking of your ass sound even more lewd.

“Fuck, say it again.” He growled, getting faster now.

“Mmmm, Daddy— Daddy, pleaseeee.”

“Louder, baby, c’mon—“

“UNGH DADDYYYY”

“Oh FUCK… you wanted cardio, baby, I’ll give you cardio… fuckin’ take it… coño.” Your panting became synchronized with every pound of his cock into your abused and bruised cunt, getting higher and higher in pitch, firing him up to go faster and harder.

“Gonna cum on this fat cock, right? Gonna cum f’me, mami?” He ordered, dropping octaves from his usual gentle tone with you.

“Mmmnn, Nnyesyyesyesyes—“ you babbled, the shakiness of your voice the result of the aggressive bouncing.

“Ah… carajo…” his cock accidentally slips out from your cunt, making you wince from the sudden empty sensation.

Holding up your ass, he takes a moment to admire the view, hissing from the sight of his angrily red cock and veins pulsing from your cunt sucking him in so deliciously. A ring of your cream erotically placed at the base of his length, just above his perfect bush. He guides his fat tip back to your dripping cunt using his thumb, pushing it back into your swollen folds.

He was back to ramming into your abused cunt in no time, chasing each others high’s.

“C’mon…fuck, c’mon, mama, you’re almost there…. Aw f-fuck… almost there…” he moans with his brows knitted and through a clenched jaw.

“Daddy I’m g’na— I’m cummingimcummingimcumming—“

“Aw, fuck, asi— asi mami— ah, ah…” Miguel holds back choked whines as he get closer, not allowing himself to let go until he knew you came first.

You speak in gibberish before crying into your climax, Miguel letting out a long, exasperated groan when he reaches his. You can feel his hot cum overfilling you, making you whine as it leaks down your thigh.

After draining himself completely, making sure every drop was in you, he gently pulls out, “Fuck… you did so good for me, mama… so good.”

Miguel lets you rest against his heaving chest and soft belly, rubbing your back as you caught your breath. You smiled a tired smile when you notice how hard Miguel is breathing as well, knowing you worked him out, too.

“You ok, mamita?” He plants a tender kiss on your shoulder, making a trail up your neck and finally to your forehead.

“Mhm,” you hum, you look up at him and are met with his plump, wet lips, tongues becoming entangled with each other as he groans into your mouth.

“I say… we do cardio like this every day.”

A/n: Haiii, I hope u liked it <3 Love my man sm <3 None of my gym baes could ever compare to himmmmm😭😭😭

@angel-of-the-moons Ty Ty Ty my luv for planting the seed in my head <3

Want more DadBod!Miguel ? Here’s my master list, bae!!

[obsob]

happy and proud!!

✷(print shop)✷

[the-modern-typewriter]

"Has anyone ever told you that your evil lair is like really inaccessible?" The protagonist asked, looking around them. "What are you going to do if I break your leg? Float? And dont get me started on the font choice for this list of demands... " They clicked their tongue. "I know you're going for menacing, but DUDE. Basic inclusive design."

The villain gawped at them.

[erabu-san]

Tighnari doodles (that's surprising)

And sethos wip

[fictionallawyersmackdown]

Round 3A: Poll 2

[childrenofcain-if]

Picture this: ROs showing up to their morning classes looking slightly disheveled and quickly taking a seat. Little do they know that their necks are covered with hickeys left by MC the night before. Their reactions when people point it out should be priceless 😂😂

C LACROIX

C barely made it out of bed that morning, the remnants of the night still clinging to them like a warm, invisible string. they hadn’t even looked in the mirror beyond a quick pass of the toothbrush and mouthwash, hadn’t registered the faint bruises blooming like dark smudges on their fair neck.

it was an unusually rushed morning—coffee sloshing in its cup, a blazer haphazardly pulled on over yesterday’s rumpled button-up shirt, and the quiet contentment that still lingered under their skin from the night before.

the lecture hall was in that strange, early-morning lull, with only the few dedicated souls filtering in. C took a seat near the front of the lecture room, slouching down and letting their eyes drift, half-focused on the professor setting up for the day. the room filled up slowly, a dozen students murmuring, flipping open their notebooks, the usual dull hum of university mornings. C felt halfway to a daydream.

it wasn’t until ten minutes into class that the girl sitting directly behind them leaned in with a conspiratorial grin.

“hey, C,” she whispered, her gaze flicking from their bored green eyes to somewhere just below their jaw, amusement dancing in her expression. “had a busy night?”

C looked at her, eyes narrowing in confusion, and she just giggled, clearly finding some private delight in whatever she was looking at. the professor’s voice was droning on in the background about economic indicators, but C’s attention had slipped, irritation prickling.

“what are you talking about?” they muttered back, still bleary with early-morning fatigue. “your neck,” she said with a little wave of her hand, as if that explained everything. “care to explain what that is?”

C’s hand shot to their neck, feeling the skin warm under their touch. they hadn’t given it much thought, hadn’t even realized—last night’s memory a blur of laughter, close warmth, the heady closeness of you, but now it crystallized sharply in their mind. they could feel the heat creeping up their neck, but the words came out automatically, with practiced precision.

“this is a sign,” C said, raising an eyebrow and giving her a look that could have frozen rivers, “for you to mind your own business.”

the girl laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender. “all right, all right,” she said, but her smirk didn’t fade, and C could feel other eyes turning in their direction, whispers curling through the air like smoke. they slouched further in their seat, wishing they could disappear entirely and regretting the decision to sit on the front.

as the professor rambled on, C sat there fuming, each murmured glance another spark on an already frayed wick. what had you been thinking, they found themself wondering, though they knew perfectly well that you’d been thinking of nothing but the electric thrill of the moment, your hands in their hair, the quiet gasps and the blurred edges of night.

the guy two seats behind caught C’s eye and smirked.

“didn’t know you were the type,” he said, barely containing his laughter.

“what type?” C snapped, keeping their tone flat but seething inside.

“the type to walk around like a billboard,” he replied, nodding toward C’s neck. “seriously, you might want to invest in a scarf.”

C shot him an unimpressed look. “thanks for the suggestion, but i’m not taking fashion advice from poor people.”

the guy frowned in disbelief before huffing and muttering, “whatever, rich prick.”

class dragged on, the ticking of the clock like nails on a chalkboard. C tried to keep their head down, but the whispers and glances only seemed to get louder. every time they caught someone’s eye, there was that same smirk, that same knowing look that made C want to snap, to tell everyone to go back to their notes and leave them the hell alone. but of course, that would only make things worse.

by the time class ended, C was practically out of their seat before the professor had even finished dismissing them. they strode out of the room, head down, hoping to avoid any more looks or comments, but of course, luck wasn’t on their side. just as they stepped out into the hallway, someone else called out.

“nice look, C,” a girl from one of their other classes teased, looking far too pleased with herself.

C sighed, letting out a sharp breath. “you know, there are more interesting things in this world than staring at my neck.”

“oh, but it’s the most interesting thing we’ve seen all semester,” she shot back, laughing, her friends joining in.

C rolled their eyes and kept walking, feeling the last shreds of their patience fraying. they practically stormed down the college halls, footsteps echoing, each step a reminder of the mess they’d somehow gotten themself into. and all because of you, they thought, though they couldn’t bring themselves to be truly angry. there was a part of them—a very small, very hidden part—that was secretly pleased, that liked the quiet claim your marks had left on their skin.

finally, they found a quiet corner, pulling out their phone with a sigh. it only took a second to find your name, to start typing a message they hadn’t planned to send but couldn’t hold back any longer.

they kept it short, precise: “i hope you’re happy with the unwanted attention i’ve been getting today.”

your reply came almost immediately, as if you’d been waiting for it.

“oh, i am,” you texted back, and C could almost picture the smirk on your face, the gleam in your eyes. “plus, it’s not like you’re complaining.”

they scoffed, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of their mouth despite themselves: “you’re an idiot, starkid.”

“you still didn’t deny it though,” came your reply, and C shook their head, slipping their phone back into their pocket.

they straightened up, brushing a hand over their neck as if that could somehow erase the marks before walking back to their dorm to do something about it.

V NÆSHOLM

V was already late, stumbling out of their dorm with a heavy book clutched against their chest, their fingers pressed tight to the leather cover like it was a lifeline. they’d overslept, an unusual occurrence, the morning alarm buried somewhere under last night’s fog of dreams and restless shuffles in bed. their curls were a bit of a mess, the hem of their shirt tugged half-untucked in their rush to get dressed. V didn’t bother with a mirror—they rarely did—just shoved their notebook into a worn leather bag and hurried out into the crisp morning.

the classics lecture room was already half-full when they slipped in, doing their best to keep their head down as they found an empty seat by the window. they fumbled with the zipper of their bag, pulling out pens, notes, the creased corner of an assignment they’d meant to retype. a couple of glances flitted their way, but V paid them no mind, assuming it was just the consequence of arriving late—not their usual style, but excusable, they supposed. they hadn’t quite noticed the warmth still lingering on their neck, hadn’t registered the faint marks, those tiny bruises left by your lips in the hazy hours of last night, each one like a dark cherry painted on their skin.

professor caldwell’s voice began to drone on from the front, and V dropped their gaze to the desk, willing themselves to focus, to let the rhythm of greek declensions and conjugations drown out the lingering warmth that tingled through them. you had laughed about their major, half-joking about the language of romance and poetry while your mouth traced along the curve of their neck, each word becoming something soft, quiet, reverent in the dark. they thought they could still feel it, could still remember the press of your hands against their shoulders, the unguarded look in your eyes that made V feel both completely exposed and utterly safe.

across the room, someone leaned over to their friend, whispering something with a smirk, and V felt the faint prickling sensation of being watched. they glanced up, catching the raised eyebrows, the conspiratorial gleam in their classmates’ eyes. V’s face warmed instantly, but they managed a small, polite smile before dropping their gaze back to their notebook, convinced that if they focused hard enough, they could make themself invisible.

it wasn’t long before someone inched closer, a girl from their study group, flashing them a look that was equal parts amused and intrigued.

“V,” she whispered, leaning in, “looks like you had an eventful night.”

V blinked, taken aback. “an eventful night?”

she gave them a playful grin, tilting her head just enough for her eyes to drift to the side of their neck, and suddenly, V felt the weight of her gaze as if it were a burning mark itself. they pressed a hand self-consciously to their skin, realizing with a jolt what she must be seeing—the faint outline of each mark you’d left, the soft purples and blues etched into their dusky skin.

the girl’s grin widened, and V could practically feel the heat creeping up their neck, staining their cheeks.

“i– it’s not–” they stammered, words tumbling over themselves in a futile attempt to explain something that needed no explanation. “it’s just… nothing!”

she laughed, a soft, knowing sound that made V feel like every inch of them was under a spotlight.

“sure,” she replied, her tone teasing. “nothing at all.”

another voice piped up from across the room, this time one of the guys they vaguely recognized from last semester, watching them with a smirk. “get it, V!”

V felt their heart sink, the warmth on their cheeks intensifying as they desperately tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone. they wanted to disappear, to melt into the seat and let the floor swallow them whole. this wasn’t like them—V, quiet and unassuming, the one who read too many old texts and held onto thoughts like secrets. they could hardly bear the thought of all these eyes on them now, each one reading the evidence of last night like an open book.

professor caldwell finally took note of the murmuring, glancing up from his notes with a frown. “is there something particularly fascinating happening in the back of the room that i should know about?”

silence fell, and V took the opportunity to bury themselves deeper in their notes, trying to will away the warmth in their cheeks and the prickling awareness that your mark on them had become the morning’s unspoken headline. they could feel every sideways glance, every whispered comment, as though it were written in neon across their skin.

when class finally ended, V was the first out of the room, slipping through the hallways as quickly as they could, every step carrying them further from the embarrassment of those lingering glances and raised eyebrows. they found a quiet alcove near the library, leaning against the cool stone wall, finally able to breathe.

V closed their eyes, a quiet, helpless laugh slipping out as they leaned back against the wall, feeling every inch the awkward, bashful mess you somehow adored.

W OSTENDORF

W stumbled into their morning cinematography lecture, barely awake. they hadn’t even glanced in the mirror before dashing out of their room, their shirt collar slightly askew, blonde hair tousled in a way that looked less artful and more accidental. their eyes were ringed with the faint shadows of sleep deprivation, deep-set from too many late nights and one too many bad dreams. they’d long accepted that sleep, for them, was like an old friend gone missing.

W slipped into a chair near the back of the room, hoping to fade into the background. but, almost immediately, they felt a tap on their shoulder. they turned, meeting the curious gaze of bailey, one of the classmates they usually talked to. they were already leaning in, their eyes bright with mischief.

“W…” bailey said, a sly smile creeping up their face, “so how was it?”

W blinked, looking back at them with a blank expression. “what?”

bailey stifled a laugh, glancing pointedly at W’s neck. “i’d be more concerned about covering those up if i were you.”

confused, W’s hand drifted to the side of their neck, their fingers brushing over what felt like faint ridges in the skin—tender and, unmistakably, hickey-shaped. last night came back to them in fragments: the soft press of your lips against their skin, the warmth of your hands, and the way W’s heart had beat so fast it was like it was learning to keep time for the first time. they could still feel it—the gentleness of you, the careful way you’d mapped out their skin, the way you had filled the empty spaces in them like sunlight spilling into shadows.

“oh,” they mumbled, barely audible, color rising in their fair cheeks as they finally understood what bailey was implying. they fumbled with their winter coat, as though it could somehow cover up the evidence. but it was too late; bailey had already seen, and so had half the classroom, if the muffled snickers and side-glances were any indication.

W swallowed hard, trying to suppress the urge to shrink into themself. it was one thing to carry the memory of last night like a secret tucked close to their chest, but it was another to have it branded on their skin, visible for everyone to see. “with a reaction like that, i’m curious now,” bailey whispered conspiratorially. “who was it?”

W was too flustered to answer, too aware of the heat creeping up their neck. they just shook their head, mumbling something incoherent under their breath.

they could practically feel the weight of everyone’s attention pressing down on them, and it was unbearable. the classroom had never felt so small. they wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the air and float away. their fingers tightened around the edge of their desk, knuckles white.

just as they were beginning to think they might actually combust under the weight of it all, professor shah finally started the lecture, mercifully redirecting everyone’s attention to the topic of 60s cinematography. W tried to focus, to let the professor’s voice anchor them, but they kept getting distracted by the faint brush of their own fingertips against their neck, as though they were reassuring themself that last night had been real.

but the worst part, the part W couldn’t admit even to themself, was that somewhere beneath all the embarrassment, there was a strange, inexplicable warmth in their chest. it wasn’t just the memory of you; it was the fact that, for once, they felt like someone who mattered. you had looked at them like they were more than a bundle of nerves, more than a collection of protruding ribs and insecurities. you had wanted them, had left marks on them like an artist signing their work, as though to say, “this precious one belongs to me.”

W kept their head down for the rest of class, pretending to take notes while their mind wandered. they thought about your laugh, the way it filled up the quiet spaces between words; they thought about the constellations embedded in your eyes, a collection of universes unknown. and even as their skin burned under the scrutiny of their classmates, they couldn’t help but feel a kind of ridiculous, unsteady happiness, as though they were holding a fragile piece of you.

after class, as W gathered their things, bailey caught up with them again, their eyes dancing with barely-contained laughter.

“whoever they are,” they said, leaning in with a grin, “they did a number on you. you look like a jackson pollock painting.”

W managed a small, awkward smile, brushing them off with a half-hearted shrug. “i… thank you? i think?”

but bailey just laughed, giving them a pat on the shoulder before they sauntered off. W watched them go, exhaling a long, shaky breath. the hallway stretched out in front of them, crowded with students milling about, voices echoing in the familiar buzz of conversation. they felt oddly detached from it all, like they were drifting, the world around them softened by the memory of you.

when they finally stepped outside, the winter air was like an ice pack against their flushed cheeks. they pulled their coat tighter around them, but they couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at the corners of their mouth. even in their embarrassment, they felt lighter, their heart buoyed by the quiet assurance that they had been seen, and known, and wanted.

for a brief, foolish moment, W wished you were there beside them, walking through the crowded hallway, your shoulder brushing against theirs. they imagined the feel of your hand slipping into theirs, the easy way you would laugh at their embarrassment, and they felt a surge of something that was both longing and contentment.

D DIACONU

D showed up to their morning music class like they did every day: with a sort of effortless swagger, their bag slung over one shoulder, hair messier than usual, and the faintest grin ghosting their mouth as though they were carrying a secret joke. they slipped into their seat near the back, collapsing into it with the practiced nonchalance of someone who had perfected the art of looking utterly unfazed.

to D, mornings meant more than just a groggy start; they were an opportunity to blend their night life into the mundane day, to turn the hours of dawn into some blurry prequel that nobody else needed to understand.

what D didn’t realize, though, was that last night had left its mark in more ways than one.

the professor was droning on about music theory, the class settling into its familiar rhythm, when senne, a friend sitting beside D, leaned over, his eyebrows quirked, mischief lighting up his eyes.

“good morning to you,” he murmured, his voice low, his smile mischievous. “do you, perchance, have a good mirror at your dorm? you can borrow mine if that’s not the case.”

D glanced at him, half-interested, arching an eyebrow. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

senne snickered, nudging his chin toward D’s neck, gesturing without making a scene but just enough to catch D’s attention.

D frowned, hands drifting to their collarbone almost instinctively, fingers brushing over their neck. the memory of last night washed over them—your lips, your hands, the way you laughed softly against their skin as if every touch could be a confession. in the hazy, half-lit memory, the feel of your warmth and weight lingered as though it had seeped into them. but that feeling, that heated moment, had seemed so ephemeral, so fleeting, something to fold up and pocket away by morning.

D’s fingers brushed over the skin—the sensitive spots, the small, faint bruises where you had left traces. hickeys. and not just one.

a dozen memories flashed in their mind. the way you had leaned in, your mouth grazing the edge of their collarbone, the laughter that bubbled up in between breaths, a hand gripping their shoulder. D’s smile faltered, turning instead into a half-smirk as they let their fingers drop, trying to play it cool even as their face warmed.

senne whistled quietly, leaning back with a knowing look that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go. “you lucky dog.”

D shrugged, attempting to look bored but failing to disguise the slight, pleased flicker in their eyes. “well, i’m not going to deny that.”

at that, senne’s eyebrows went up. “oh, believe me, it shows. whoever they are, they really… left their mark, huh? quite a possessive one you got there.”

D rolled their eyes, feeling strangely irritated under the scrutiny of both Sam and a few other classmates who had caught on, now sneaking glances and stifling laughs. the professor continued to lecture in the background, blissfully unaware of the scandalous distraction sitting right in front of him. metronomes would wait; apparently, D’s love life was more important.

“i didn’t ask for you to take a guess,” D murmured, voice low and defiant, as if the room wasn’t filled with people trying to catch a glimpse of the faint marks you’d left on them. they tilted their head, defiant as ever, lips pulled into a smirk that only grew when senne laughed.

“not my fault you’re wearing your social life like a badge of honor,” senne retorted, giving them a playful nudge. “i don’t think i’ve ever seen you be okay with people giving you hickeys.”

“maybe this person’s special,” D shot back, pulling the collar of their leather jacket up just a bit. “or maybe i don’t particularly care about it anymore.”

as the professor continued to lecture on how music was seen as a blessing from the gods, it struck D as amusingly fitting. aphrodite would have approved, they thought with a sly grin, leaning back in their chair with a certain satisfaction, a sense of belonging to a story larger than themself, even if just for a night.

the professor’s voice carried on, explaining some about some more old instruments. D tried to focus on the words, on the way they wove together in that heavy, ancient way, but every phrase seemed to loop back to you. your eyes. your teeth against their skin. the way you’d whispered things that only mattered in the small hours, words that vanished with the dawn but left their mark all the same.

senne leaned over once more, whispering, “so, is it, y’know?”

D smirked, tilting their head as though considering it, as though they didn’t already know the answer.

“maybe,” they said casually, but there was a knowing glint in their gray eyes. “i’d prefer not to reveal anything yet.”

senne chuckled, rolling his eyes, but there was a part of him that seemed genuinely curious, almost as if he wanted to know what it was like to be seen the way D was seen last night—to be held and marked and claimed, even if just for a moment. of course, he was thinking about emerson again.

when class ended, D stood up, brushing off senne’s continued teasing, rolling their eyes with a smirk that was equal parts cocky and lazy. they didn’t bother to fix their collar again, didn’t try to hide the hickeys. Instead, they let them be—little maroon trails of a night well-spent, reminders of a heat they’d carry with them through the rest of the day, a secret in plain sight.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

M slipped into their philosophy class with the quiet poise of someone determined to avoid attention, a little bleary-eyed from the night before. they moved with the precision of a dancer, even half-awake, shoulders straight and head held just high enough to nod politely to the few classmates they recognized.

it had been one of those endless nights, where time seemed to slip in and out of itself, conversations trailing into dawn without ever quite stopping, hours blending until they felt like one long and breathless moment. M had walked to class still caught in the residue of that night, smiling privately, replaying your smile, the warmth of your hand, the way you’d leaned in close with that unmistakably needy glint in your eye.

they slid into their seat, adjusting their collar out of habit, but the faint ache at their neck went unnoticed in their early morning haze. they didn’t see the subtle bruises—purple shadows kissed onto their skin like reminders of you. but someone else did.

“morning, M,” murmured eli, who sat next to them, their tone riddled with a soft irish accent. they eyed M’s neck for a second too long, their gaze slipping toward the faint trail of hickeys there before they looked away, poorly disguised laughter on their lips.

“good morning, eli,” M replied, their usual courtesy unfazed by the glances and whispered chuckles around the room. they didn’t catch the murmurs, or the sneaky glances, still thinking of last night—how you’d wrapped them in your laughter, how you’d left them breathless with the reckless ease that only you had.

it wasn’t until professor dunbar, a tall and somewhat intimidating figure with a penchant for socratic questioning, entered and began the lecture that M started to catch on. he looked right at the royal, paused, and then coughed, almost as if trying to conceal a smirk.

the entire class seemed to ripple with an electric, almost surreptitious amusement.

finally, one of the other students, a lanky guy named oliver who was known for his bluntness, leaned over. he barely whispered, though, letting his voice carry to others seated nearby. “your highness, didn’t know you were the type to show up to class wearing your nightlife around your neck.”

M blinked, feeling the words settle before they fully registered. “i beg your pardon?”

they touched their neck absentmindedly, but as they felt the faint bruises beneath their fingers, realization spread across their face. the warmth of last night’s memory filled them again, and there was a warmth in their cheeks that couldn’t quite be disguised.

oliver grinned, looking far too pleased. “you’ve got souvenirs, nice.”

M’s hand dropped, and they straightened, composure slipping for just a heartbeat. a rush of images flooded their mind—you, under the dim lights, your lips lingering on their neck, the world a comfortable blur around you both. they felt exposed in a way that was unfamiliar, like someone had opened a book they’d meant to keep closed.

eli leaned over, their voice gentle with a thread of teasing. “they suit you, actually. just… remember to cover it before class next time”

M managed a demure smile, lifting their chin slightly. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

eli’s smile widened, but they said nothing, only gave a small shrug as if to say no worries.

M could feel their heart thundering under the calm mask they usually wore, wondering how they could possibly explain to these people how it felt to be with you. how every touch had felt both wild and intimate, like a shared whisper that neither of you could ever forget. there was no explaining to eli or oliver or anyone here how your presence lingered, how it was both comforting and thrilling, how you’d looked at them like they were someone worth keeping close.

the professor’s lecture drifted on, dissecting concepts of ethics and purpose, but M’s mind wandered. they half-listened, still feeling the ghost of your touch, remembering the twinkling of your eyes in the small hours of the night. when the lecture ended, and they were finally free to leave, they lingered, half-expecting another comment, another nudge from a classmate.

instead, it was eli who sidled up to them, his tone light but laced with curiosity. “so… who was it, mate? don’t be shy now.”

M raised an eyebrow, almost amused by their persistence. “i’m afraid i can’t disclose that, eli.”

eli shrugged, undeterred. “fine, keep your secrets. but hey,” he added with a knowing smirk, “they must be something else if you’re willing to come here wearing their love bites.”

for a second, M considered dismissing eli with their usual reserve, but something in them softened. they allowed a faint smile, a rare and almost too-open thing, as they looked toward the door, already picturing you there. “yes,” M said, their voice a quiet warmth that made eli blink, momentarily thrown by the softness in their tone. “they really are something else.”

[nedlittle]

apropos of nothing, here are some gay historical fiction novels that engage with historical queerness in thoughtful, complex, and interesting ways (organized chronologically)

hild by nicola griffith ↪ early 7th century england

a tip for the hangman by alison epstein ↪ 1585-1593 england

confessions of the fox by jordy rosenberg ↪ 1702-1724* england

the confessions of frannie langton by sara collins ↪ 1812-1826 jamaica to england

patience and sarah by isabel miller ↪ 1816 america

devotion by hannah kent ↪ 1830s prussia to australia

the sweetness of water by nathan harris ↪ 1865 america

whiskey when we're dry by john larison ↪ 1885 america

the city of palaces by michael nava ↪ 1897-1913 mexico

tipping the velvet by sarah waters ↪ 1890s england

at swim, two boys by jamie o'neill ↪ 1915-1916 ireland

the gods of tango by caro de robertis ↪ 1913-1920s argentina

uncommon charm by emily bergslien and kat weaver ↪ 1920s america

the book of salt by monique truong ↪ 1930s vietnam to paris

the amazing adventures of kavalier and clay by michael chabon ↪ 1939-1954 america and beyond

the flight portfolio by julie orringer ↪ 1940 france

the savage kind by john copenhaver ↪ 1940s america

a thin bright line by lucy jane bledsoe ↪ 1950s america

*this one has a framing device and footnotes from the present day but the bulk of the story is set in the early 1700s

[tomfrogisblue]

thinking about how ever since their qsmp characters finally admitted their feelings, cc!Fit and cc!Pac's way in which they treat the fictional relationship has done a complete 180

Now the huevitos cannot relax because at any second FitMC might declare HIS BRAZILIAN BOYFRIEND to anyone in his general vicinity and my poor ratinho ass was just chilling when Pactw pulls up his desktop for a split second to reveal ONE OF FIT'S PICS AS HIS DESKTOP BACKGROUND