#webbo0

[webbo0]

Prodigal Doll

Goose Boys Mafia AU

AO3 Link

Length: 753 words (short and not sweet)

Summary: Nobody ever expected Ken to join the family business, but when he's caught in the middle of a war he knows nothing about, the other boys have to pick up the pieces.

Content/Warning: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Hurt/barely comfort

Authors Note: I don't even remember how this started lol

I think I saw those Tag Heuer photoshoot pics that look like Ken but as Six?

Anyways I have a LOT of lore ideas and a whole arc for Ken in this, but god only knows if I can actually write it ugh

Also I'm not sorry lmao

“He’s… changed”

“ Don’t say that”

“Look at him!”

“Shut the fuck up, Richard”

Gathered, the men stare at Ken.

Whenever he used to be scared, he was loud (it was a liability sometimes, all the shrieking and sobbing). But now, he’s silent. Tear stains cut clean lines through the filth and gore on his cheeks, but none fall from his eyes. Not anymore.

He’s… vacant. Not like Driver, his stare always intense, or like Julian, always lost in thought. No. He’s just. Empty.

Six and Lars are sanitizing and bandaging his wounds. Slashes on his chest, burns on his limbs, bruises scattered on every inch of available skin like a fucking Jackson Pollock, and blood from god knows who and god knows where drenching his scarily pale skin and platinum blonde hair. He doesn’t flinch, doesn't move at all, even when Six gently murmurs that he needs to reset his shoulder. The bone grinding into place would have even the toughest of men gritting their teeth in pain, but Ken just sits there. Disconnected from the world. Lars is delicately cleaning the blood off of him, swallowing tears of his own while dabbing a warm cloth over his exposed skin. 

Ken wears nothing but a ragged pair of boxers stained with fluids nobody wants to think too hard about (just like they found him). He hasn’t said a word since they found him, but Lars finally gets a reaction out of him. He’s shakingly whispering to Ken that they need to remove his old shorts to wash him off and get him into something clean, but when his hand goes towards the waistband an explosion of movement happens. Ken bolts away from the men, scrambling to the closest wall and pressing his back to it. His voice is raw and venomous as he roars at the surrounding men.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” 

Everyone in the room freezes because Ken never curses. All eyes are on him, the torn and bloodied nails on his hands scratching at the brick wall, the bloody trail of footprints he makes, his heaving chest, and his frantic, darting, unseeing eyes. Blood drips down his inner thigh.

“I think I’m gonna be sick” 

“He needs a professional, guys, we can only do so much”

“Oh yeah, get the cops involved that’s smart”

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck-”

“Everybody out.”

The room silences once again, save for some muffled sobs and Ken's rapid breath. All eyes now turn to the man who spoke, the man in charge . His white jacket is splattered with blood, and a fire rages behind his cold, blue gaze.

“... are you sure we should leave him like this?”

“Six stays, the rest of you leave. He’s in no state for visitors. Every man is allowed some dignity.”

The room empties without protest, save for Ken, Six, Driver, and Julian. Julian didn’t need to ask to stay (not that he would have). Wherever Driver goes, he goes.

“Why am I staying?”

“You have the most combat-medic training. And. You can… restrain him if you need to.”

The rage in Driver’s eyes slips, showing for a brief moment deep, soul-wrenching anguish before he clenches his gloved fists and returns to his default neutral, intense stare. 

“I expect a complete injury report once he’s patched up. Ask Julian if you need any extra supplies. I have to go deal with the rest of this shit storm.”

He turns to leave, but pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And Six?”

Six stands at attention, ready to receive orders.

“...be gentle.”

Six nods once in affirmation and Driver lets his head hang down, taking a deep breath before straightening his spine and closing the door quietly behind him. The room was now solely occupied by the three men left there.

Julian, standing and waiting by the door. Both ready to retrieve any necessary items and guarding against any poor fool that might try and interrupt them.

Six, shoulders sagged and ruffling through a medkit.

And Ken, who had slid to the floor, legs finally giving out, but the wild look in his eye still shining.

And it wasn’t until Six slowly approaches (the same way he did when he freed a wild deer from a beartrap as a kid), sinking to his knees, gently carding his hands through his blood-matted platinum hair and softly reassuring him that you’re safe now, you’re safe, we got you back that Ken starts trembling, a tear finally slipping from his eye.

[sandpapersnowman]

@webbo0 and @hollandstrophyhusband have the same ideas about the fall guy trailer

[ken-f-cker]

@webbo0 oh welcome home, I just watched drive for the third time in two weeks and I'm ready to explode about them, Hello

[webbo0artblog]

Silly little doodle of Julian and @frecklystars bc 1. They're Adorable and 2. I can't get him out of my head AUGH

Anyways ignore how sketchy and rushed this is (it's Very late at night lol)

[heresthestorymorningglory]

Put Your Finger On It

Summary: Fingering is a pianist term...right?

A/N: I finally watched La La Land and well, Seb is loud...very loud.

As per usual, it's NSFW 18+ @ken-dom I blame you with the utmost love for this one, however you're not 100% to blame, late night chats with @webbo0 in the Goosecord also sparked the idea for this one. Figured our favourite man's birthday is as good a day as any to drop a double feature.

Enjoy my loves <3

You leaned over the small table, gently blowing out the last of the candles in the centre. Seb sat at the piano on the stage lost in his own world bathed in a blue light. You set your tray and bar rag on the bartop watching him intently.

He lost himself so easily in music it almost made you jealous; you had never been so passionate about anything. 

You had sent the last of the waitresses home for the night; it was just the two of you left in the club.

You watched his elegant fingers slide effortlessly over the keys, tie loosely hanging on his neck, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. You ran your tongue between your lips, teeth gently sinking into your bottom lip as you stood leaning against the bar, transfixed God he was something else. 

This caught his attention, pulling him out of his thoughts. He looked up from the keys with a raised eyebrow. “What are you doing?” 

You climbed the tiny steps to the stage; Seb’s back to you, completely oblivious to your presence.

Your heels clicked across the hard floor as you stepped up on the bench, perching yourself on the corner of the piano top, legs crossed at the ankles, feet resting on the piano bench. 

“I was listening to you play” you sighed, stretching back over the glossy top “Oh wait, would you like this better?” 

You scooted back on the smooth top, swinging your legs around behind you as you laid flat on your stomach, feet kicked in the air as you leaned forward with your elbows up, your chin in your hands. He just rolled his eyes. “Is there no one left for you to annoy?” 

You hummed pretending to consider his question before scrunching your nose with a shake of your head “No” 

You grunted sitting back up, swinging your legs back over in front of the keys directly in front of where Seb sat. “I don’t know how Lucy does that, it isn’t comfortable” 

“Lucy also laid on the floor” Seb sighed obviously irritated with your antics “Not on top of the piano” 

You laughed lightly with a small squeak “You did not watch Charlie Brown” 

“Everyone watched Charlie Brown” he muttered not paying you any attention “Now, get off my piano” 

Again, you pretended to consider his request before you shook your head “Nah” Instead crossing your ankles, resting your still heel clad feet in his lap. 

He picked up both your legs, his hands warm on your bare skin, moving them to the side out of his immediate way. 

You sighed, lifting one leg, bracing it on his knee as you lifted the other to unbuckle your shoe before dropping it to the stage floor with a loud clatter. Intentionally sliding your now bare foot up his thigh as he sat on the small bench, you did the same with the other shoe, dropping it next to the first. 

“Heels hurt” you said simply, watching him press his lips together in irritation as your now bare feet rested on his thighs, your position still impeding his ability to actually play. “It’s getting late”

He didn’t answer, but you watched as his eyes traveled up your bare legs, the hem of your blue cocktail dress coming to rest just above your knees. 

You slid your foot slowly along his thigh, gently biting your lip watching him, his head dropped, a chunk of his blonde hair falling across his forehead. You jumped a little when his large hand closed over your foot, stopping it from moving. 

Finally, he looked up, making eye contact, but still not speaking, his long slender fingers wrapped loosely around your ankle. 

Your eyes stayed locked on his as you bit your lip gently, his fingers flexing against your achilles tendon before his hand started to slide slowly up your leg, his eyes never leaving yours. 

Your heart fluttered in your chest, beating a little harder under his blue eyed scrutiny, but you kept your composure; even after his other hand slid over your knee mirroring its partner on the other side, his fingers dangerously close to creeping up under the hem of your dress. You sat silent, in a battle of wills. Your bare feet resting on his thighs, his impossibly warm hands resting on your bare knees. The room was so silent you could have heard a pin drop. 

You purposely dug your heel a little harder into the top of his thigh, pushing you foot closer to his mid section, in turn forcing his hand to push further up your thigh and off your knee, fingertips disappearing under the fabric of your dress. This was torture. 

As if he’d read your mind or the thought was written clear as day on your face, Seb slid his hand up your thigh; dress bunching at your hip as his fingers teased the sensitive skin finally causing you to break eye contact, closing your eyes as you tipped your head back taking in a deep breath, fingers curling around the edge of the piano top. 

Seb’s other hand sliding tantalizingly slowly up your other thigh, your dress now sat evenly bunched across your middle. 

You looked back at him, both hands sliding up either side of your hips, fingers curling around the elastic of the waist of your panties before he stopped. 

Your core throbbed with anticipation. His movements were so fluid, every touch seemed intentional, like he had planned for this all along even though it had been you who had invaded his personal space first. 

You shifted your feet from his thighs to the more stable bench, not missing the hard on now concealed under his suit pants, giving yourself a little more stability to lift your hips in a silent invitation for him to continue.

He tugged the lacy fabric off your hips before you settled back on the piano top, lifting your feet as he slid them over your ankles before stuffing them into his pants pocket. 

His hands take a firm grip of your hips, pulling you to the very edge of the piano before pushing your knees apart, putting you on full view from his vantage point. 

He hummed with approval and you felt your stomach clench, every inch of your body suddenly aching with desire, aching to be touched. 

“Seb…” you whispered  

“Shhh” he shushed softly, putting a finger to his lips as he looked up at you “Let me work”

If you could find your voice, you would have laughed in disbelief; instead, your mouth just hung open silently before you closed it again. 

“Holy fuck” you breathed, a hand pushing your hair back off your face as Seb stood from the bench, fingers still moving. 

Seb’s fingers ghosted up the inside of your thigh playing some melody only he could hear causing you to let out a shaky breath as they crept closer to your core.

His featherlight touch made you gasp, arching back; making you moan louder as he immediately plunged two fingers deep inside you.

You thrust your hips forward shamelessly, forcing him deeper, his fingers curling in just the right way, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut and lay back across the glassy top you were sitting on. 

He had positioned himself between your legs, reaching to bend one knee, your heel coming to rest on the slick keys, the mangled noise mixing with your moans. 

The hand not between your thighs pinning your hip to the piano as you tried desperately to roll into his touch. 

“Seb, please” you begged, swallowing hard. 

He leaned over you, tie still hanging loosely from around his neck as he shook his head. “No”

You frowned slightly, looking up at him “What?” you breathed hard 

“I said, no” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying hard to make sense of his words in your blissed out haze. “What do you mean n-” 

You were cut off by your own strangled cry as he thrust his fingers harder, hooking them hard against your g spot. Then it dawned on you what he had meant. 

“N-no, don’t” you pleaded, thighs squeezing hard around the hand between your legs. Still his hand moved with ease. 

“You’ll cum when I tell you to,” he thrust his fingers hard, making you cry out, “And not before” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing hard as you leaned back 

The hand on your hip moving to your jaw as he leaned over the piano “Look at me” 

You gasped, his unrelenting fingers still thrusting as he spoke, the hand on your jaw squeezing tighter, you conceded, opening your eyes. 

His breath was warm on your already overheated skin as he spoke “When I’m up here, I’m working; is that clear?” 

You nodded as much as his grip would allow, as a violent twitch shook your body. His grip became a little firmer when you didn’t answer. “Yes,” you managed a whisper, but that hadn’t been to Seb’s satisfaction. 

“I’m sorry I can’t hear you; is that clear?” he repeated

“Yes!” you cried out; fighting to keep your orgasm at bay 

“Yes what?!” his volume matching yours, his voice booming around the empty stage. 

“Seb, please” you almost wailed, fingers now gripping the edge of the piano painfully. 

“I can go all night,” he threatened “Although I doubt even you have that kind of restraint” 

“No, no, no, p-please” the foot you had resting on the keys, slipping from its place, kicking the empty bench hard, knocking it askew on the stage.. 

No longer caring how desperate you sounded he had taken the upper hand, assuming you had ever had it at all. 

“Yes, what?” he repeated, his voice had dropped to a menacing whisper; his fingers sliding from inside you with a lewd squish.

Your breath caught in your throat as your body relaxed slightly and he let go of your jaw “Yes, sir” you whispered, swallowing hard. Heart pounding in your chest as you tried to even your breathing.

Fingers curled around your wrist as Seb righted the bench in front of the piano, pulling you up into a sitting position; your core throbbing painfully, begging you to find release. 

You watched as Seb unbuttoned his fly, just enough to free his throbbing cock before he sat on the bench. 

He pulled you into his lap, you immediately collapsed against him, moaning into his neck as he buried himself inside you with a grunt as your warm heat enveloped his length. 

His hands on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. Your entire form shook with anticipation, ankles hooked around Seb’s back, clinging to him, desperate for release. 

“S-Seb please” you whispered, shuddering against him 

The slow roll of his hips was agonizing; you had resorted to whimpering, on the verge of crying you were almost certain. 

“Not yet, Darling” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his hands sliding up your back, opening the zipper of your dress before pulling it over your head, dropping it on your shoes. 

He stood, leaning you against the piano, you flinched, the surface cold on your bare back fingers instantly curling against his back as a powerful thrust forced you backward. 

“Not yet” he whispered, answering your silent plea as the edge of the piano bit into your bare skin; Seb braced against it, giving himself leverage. 

His thrusts were already erratic, watching you fall to pieces in his skilled hands, unable to do much else had been enough to almost drive him mad.

Less than half a dozen hard, determined thrusts, each one making you cry out louder than the last, His weight pinning you exactly where he wanted. “Now”

“Christ” he breathed, bending slightly to kiss you gently before leaning his forehead against yours. “That’s one hell of a birthday present” 

You never knew a single word could hold so much power; voice cracking with relief as you wrapped your arms around him tightly, legs dropping from around his waist, thankful for his weight pinning you in place as your orgasm finally reached its peak. A loud grunt against your shoulder as he slipped from inside you, his release coating your entire front.

He collapsed catching himself on the edge of the piano with both hands. 

You smiled, draping your arms around his neck kissing him again “You’re welcome”

[ken-dom]

Possession

Lars Lindstrom x afab!reader

2.8k words

Summary: Lars is struggles to contain the feelings he has for you when he sees you chatting to a colleague. It’s overwhelming, but instead of running, he needs you to become entirely his. Immediately.

Author’s notes: With endless encouragement from @purpletrophyhusband @silverlynx87 @webbo0 and @heresthestorymorningglory (🫶) I bring you this unusual (for him) Lars fic. If you can’t imagine Lars like this, it’s definitely not for you so please read the warnings 🩷 hopefully he’s still in character even though he’s behaving in a way we might never expect… Set post-Bianca.

Warnings/content: nsfw, dom!Lars, fingering, rough sex, biting/bruising, grabbing, restraining, mention of spanking, possessive behaviour, jealousy, cream pie, mention of his relationship with Bianca

Lars was twitchy. Maybe it was the unremarkable fact that you were sitting on his bed. Unremarkable for most maybe, but this was even giving you butterflies. You supposed it was the excitement of being closer with him than you’d ever been, and how he seemed to want to rush you home far sooner than you’d expected him to. Or that he’d taken you home at all. And if you felt like this, you couldn’t imagine what it was doing to him.

It had only been a boring work party with people he spent most days around. Nothing out of his comfort zone. It was when you finished your last job for the day and joined in the tame festivities that you noticed Lars becoming uncomfortable. As you chatted to a colleague you could sense you were being watched and turned to see his eyes burning into you, dark and brooding. Another ten minutes, and he had dragged you away to his garage so fast that you’d been quite literally swept off your feet.

So here you found yourself. In the place you’d daydreamed about kissing him endlessly, despite never having been inside. You hoped he wanted to kiss you tonight. Your heart raced at the thought, butterflies exploding in your stomach when he led you to the bed.

Beside you, Lars’s trembling fingers ran through his soft, dirty blond hair as a shaky breath pushed through his lips. That same shaky hand landed abruptly on yours then, and you jumped a little, eyes widening as his handsomely huge hand and long elegant fingers covered yours. His touch was delightfully warm and his skin felt as soft as his hair looked. You bit your lip, wanting to close the gap between you but you managed to restrain yourself. Just.

His fingers threaded through yours quite forcefully and squeezed, and you swallowed hard, finally catching on to why he was so jittery. He really did want to kiss you… or so you hoped.

Then it finally happened.

It started out sweetly enough, his lips brushing softly against yours as you held hands, cautious, heavy breaths mingling as your eyes fluttered shut and you toyed with the idea of deepening the kiss. But you weren’t sure if he’d be ready for that yet, so it was probably better to let him take this at his own pace.

As if he read your mind, Lars forced his tongue into your mouth in a way that seemed so unlike him. You had wondered if Lars had ever even kissed anyone before you (other than Bianca of course). And more than wondering, you highly doubted it; yet here he was taking the lead. And doing incredibly well at it. There had been no fumbling, no nervous laughter, no running in the opposite direction. Just his lips closing over yours and his tongue sliding roughly into your mouth for dominance. You shivered.

You were more surprised, and pleasantly so, when his free hand found its way to your knee and pushed daringly up your thigh.

‘Lars-’ you breathed, muffled by his mouth, an exclamation filled with anticipation and longing.

He pulled back, breathing heavily, eyes wild, alight with a flame you’d never seen in them before.

‘Hey, I… I want to show you something.’

You weren’t sure how the next part happened. His hands were still on you, they never left, but they weren’t touching any more, they weren’t ghosting over your clothed legs in a soft glide, or caressing your palm, they were handling. Grabbing.

Lars was stronger than he looked you realised as you found yourself pinned to the mattress beneath him. You weren’t sure he even realised his own strength. His fingers slid around your wrists to position you how he wanted, sliding up to your shoulders and pushing down, letting you know you weren’t to budge.

There were so many conflicting thoughts swirling around Lars’s head, and suddenly they had all seemed to arrive at the same point. Everything he’d ever heard about sex was at the forefront of his mind and all at once he couldn’t seem to control his appetite for you. He needed you, and more, he needed to make you his. Only his.

You could barely breathe, the questions rushing through your dazed mind too hurried and hazy to translate into anything verbal, but the imagery of him furiously chopping wood flashed through your memory and you somehow managed to link that to how you should have known he could be this commanding. This possessive. You knew now why your core had ached when you’d seen him wielding that axe with furious abandon, why you’d wanted to explore that part of him.

You might have already known somewhere deep down, if it wasn’t for the one small technicality that he simply didn’t seem the type. Far from it. You’d expected Lars to be quiet, nervous, probably to cum before you even really touched him. Not this. Not dominating and forceful and commanding. But then, you supposed, it was always the quiet ones.

Heat rushed to your core and you clenched your thighs together instinctively. Whatever it was he was planning to give you, you needed it now.

Thankfully, he didn’t make you wait, far too caught up in the moment to play games like that. He just wanted you full of him, physically and mentally.

Lars dropped lower, his kiss swollen lips brushing against your ear and his raging erection nestling against your core through the layers of clothes you still wore.

Too many clothes, you mentally cursed.

‘Are you ok with this?’ he whispered, low and seductive, his breath shaking with arousal. ‘I need to know before I- before-’

You nodded desperately, pushing your hips up to grind against him.

‘Need to hear you.’ His whispered voice cracked as pleasure sparked though him at your heat pressing up against him.

‘Yes, Lars, please-’

He practically tore the clothes from your body then, clumsy and desperate, and forced his own trousers down, freeing his cock and immediately sliding it through your slick, using his knees to nudge your legs further apart so he could see you properly.

‘You’re so wet,’ he whined, rolling his hips to drag his length through your silky folds over and over. ‘Feels so- mmh!- so good-’

Fingertips found your hips, kneading roughly into the flesh, no doubt leaving bruises. You hoped they would. So did he.

As he gripped hard, he could feel you trembling each time he rocked back, every time his cock slid against your clit just right and you shuddered, and he grunted as a thick bead of precum leaked from his tip.

He smiled for the briefest of moments then, thrilled to be the one making you feel good, lost in how good it was making him feel — and then his thoughts snapped back to the point of all this.

‘Do you ever think about me?’ he asked plainly. It was a direct question, his voice dark, but somehow laced with a weakness you couldn’t place. ‘You know, in ways you shouldn’t. Like when you feel… too hot and tingly… like this-’

You felt the absence of his needy hands then, and a careful fingertip appeared between your legs instead, tracing your entrance, collecting your juices and gently exploring through your folds before slipping in so tantalisingly slowly that you couldn’t help but push your hips down for more.

He pumped slowly, feeling for the spot inside you that he knew he needed to find to keep this up, not realising he was already brushing against it with every thrust, making you tremble all the more.

‘Do you?’ he repeated the question, gaze so intense on you that you felt you might burn up beneath it.

You nodded. ‘Yes- I- I know I shouldn’t but, oh Lars, I imagine you touching me… just like that… yes! That’s it- oh!’

‘And it’s always me?’

That dark look in his eyes again.

You nodded, whining as his finger sped up. It was a reward for your earlier answer. He didn’t mean it to be, but your words pleased him and filled him with confidence.

‘Oh… uhm… good.’ Lars’s voice was still soft and gentle despite the way he was speaking to you. There was hesitancy now too, as he realised he didn’t really know where to take his line of questioning.

He just knew there was a burning sensation in his gut that had been quenched just a little when you’d admitted your desire for him, and when you’d moaned his name. And he craved more of that feeling. He needed to chase it.

He whisked his hand away and you whined in disappointment at how empty you suddenly felt. His fingers were thick, thicker than your own. And long. You vaguely wondered, going by the size of his hands, whether he’d actually be able to fit if he was going to fuck you.

You didn’t need to wonder for long. He lined himself up at your entrance, taking a steadying but shaky breath before slamming his cock into you, stretching you open with a burn that made your walls clench and your toes curl. The heavenly pleasure-pain made you cry out, grabbing fistfuls of the hair at the nape of his neck in an attempt to stay grounded while you adjusted to his size. You’d never felt so full, or so desperate.

The noise Lars made as he entered you in that one swift, rough thrust was one of utter relief; high pitched, whiny, breathy. Like he’d needed to claim you immediately or he’d simply perish, but once he was buried to the hilt in you, he was safe.

As he blinked open his eyes and slowly moved past the overwhelming and unimaginable sensation of your warmth enveloping him, his hips automatically began to snap hard, fast and unrelenting, and you could just about make out his heavy breathing over the rapid slapping of skin against skin.

The bed began to creak with the force of his thrusts, never having been subjected to such a strain. You were lost in him, filled, as he had wanted you to be, in every way, mind and body enveloped in his touch, his weight, his scent.

Lars needed something more. A burst of confidence had bloomed in his chest and he needed to act while it was present. His hand hovered by your hip, thoughts of rolling your bodies enough to spank you tearing through his overwhelmed mind. How would it feel? How would you sound? — but he wasn’t confident enough, not this time, and his fingers closed in a tight ring around your wrist instead, pinning it to the pillow above your head while his thrusts turned somehow rougher.

‘You’re mine,’ he growled quietly, his low voice vibrating through your body and settling at your twitching, overheated core. He paused his statement only to catch a breath and whine at how frustratingly close he was already before reaffirming, louder, ‘MINE- mmh!- Say it. Say it!’

‘I-I’m yours,’ you breathed weakly, ‘I’m- ah!- I’m all yours!’

Lars groaned, low and drawn out at your words. It was like music to his ears. He was finally satisfied, he thought, but needed you to cum first. He couldn’t do all of this only to finish early and disappoint you. That would do nothing at all to prove his point.

His free hand slipped between your flush bodies, over your belly and lower, to the apex of your thighs, where he fumbled for a moment before finding that sweet spot he’d heard more than enough about from his desk neighbour at work, stroking a finger over it so slowly that the contrast with his rough thrusts was deliciously jarring and you shuddered under him, sparks of pleasure and melting into a coil tightening in your belly. You sighed at how incredible it felt, back arching as you tried to chase the sensation.

Your fingernails scraped along his back, and he hissed. A thrill at your reaction spread through Lars and he dipped forward, lips ghosting against the crook of your neck. But not to kiss you. No. He was there to bite. Hard. Sharp, clean teeth close to piercing the skin. To mark you. To praise you for being so receptive to him. For giving him what he needed. He needed to consume you now. He sucked so hard that you yelped, the pleasure-pain mingling and coursing through your body, pooling at your core once again, and Lars’s cock throbbed inside you.

‘N-no one else c-can do this to you… oouuhhgh- do you- ahh- do you understand?’

‘Yes! N-no one else!’ you cried, strangled and desperate.

The finger massaging your throbbing clit so softly was about to tip you over the edge, but then he pressed it firmly to your nub, rubbing furiously, and you couldn’t hold off a second longer.

Your walls contracted, squeezing tight around him, and his hips stuttered wildly as you cried his name. He spilled inside you as you milked him of every last drop he had to offer.

A roar ripped from his chest as his release shook his entire body, a sensation he now understood was the reason people went nuts for sex. What could compare to this after years of excruciating pain at a simple brush of flesh against his own?

For the first time in his life, he didn’t even worry about the consequences. He just needed to fill you up, the ultimate way to make you his. He felt like a man alright. He felt like a god.

As the last of his release pumped from his tip in a thick, satisfying spurt, he collapsed on top of you, weight soothing yet almost unbearable as you tried desperately to catch your breath beneath him.

‘Lars… wow…’ you wheezed, daring to slide an arm around his back, soothing the scratches you’d left.

He snapped up then, realising that his twitching, softening cock was still buried inside you, and bit his lips together, wincing as he slowly pulled out and hovered above you, eyes wide, darting over every inch of your body.

‘Are you alright? Did I hurt you? Oh, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry- are you-’

‘I’m alright, Lars, really,’ you breathed, cupping his soft cheek in your palm.

His eyes drifted closed at the tender touch; another sensation he’d discovered felt good with the right person at the right time, but he shook his head as he remembered himself.

‘No, I was too rough, I shouldn’t have… oh your neck, I’m so sorry-’ his fingers traced delicately over the purpling bruise on at the side of your throat.

‘No, Lars, that was so hot. I loved what you did,’ you gushed, pushing at him gently, encouraging him to lay beside you and relax.

He settled there, panting wildly, shaking, and suddenly very aware that his trousers were still pushed down around his knees. He scrambled almost comically to pull them up and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought that he felt 2 need to preserve a semblance of decency after what he’d just done.

When he laid back down he slipped the duvet up around your body carefully, pulling you to his chest and stroking your hair with tender fingertips.

‘You’re really ok?’

‘Lars, I promise, I'm more than ok. In fact, if you don’t do that to me again I’d be disappointed. Where did it all come from?’

‘I saw you talking to Tim and… I… I-’

‘Tim?! Lars really, he’s nothing to worry about. It’s alright, though,’ you soothed, ‘I get it.’

‘You do?’

‘As much as we all loved Bianca, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of her. Getting to be so close to you all the time, loved by you, cared for. I would have done anything to be in her shoes back in the day.’

Lars’s eyes widened again, glossy this time, as you continued, conflicting emotions swirling in his gut and his mind.

‘Bianca was a very lucky lady. And, sorry to be crude, but she certainly taught you well…’

‘Oh! No! No, we never- no! I only ever kissed her. We didn’t even use tongues!’

You smiled, half relieved, half sad, and a touch happy for him. Had this really been his first time? ‘Well then I’m very lucky.’

You shifted up to face him properly then, extremely aware that you were naked and filled to the brim with his seed beneath his thick duvet while he was still fully dressed, but you supposed with Lars nothing was ever quite conventional.

‘Kiss me again,’ you asked simply. ‘You’re the only one I ever want to kiss, if I didn’t already make that clear, by the way. I am yours.’

Lars’s lips pulled into a warm, broad smile and his cheeks turned crimson.

‘And I, yours,’ he beamed, voice cracking with joy.

With that, his lips met yours, soft and chaste and just a touch possessive.

[gcslingss]

coffee? | colt seavers.

summary: colt finally gets his coffee :)

pairing: no pairing, just colt - ig colt x jody?

warnings/content: lots of coffee mentions, author is uneducated when it comes to coffee, colt likes more milk, jody loves colt and his antics sm

word count: 619

notes: thanks to @dontglimpse for asking for this cuz bro this man needs his caffeine so bad- poor fucking dude

“Wh— Colt?”

“Just a second, babe, I’ll, uh, be right back.”

Colt gave a confused Jody a smile and wave before heading towards to little cafe on the side of the road.

He and Jody had just returned from the Metalstorm screening in Hall H, super cool, and everything had been spectacular, except for when Colt’s long needed coffee spilt before it even reached his hands because some dude loved Jason Momoa too much to give a shit about his surroundings. The poor stuntman would’ve asked for a replacement, but Dan was too keen on getting them out of the place before traffic amassed.

It really seemed like ever since the Ryder Messed Up incident, he and coffee had been destined to never cross paths again.

Ah, coffee. What an abstract concept.

Which was why, as he walked into the cafe, every bit of his body he could cross, he kept crossed.

When Colt breathed in the scent of roasted beans and cream and cookies, it hit him like drugs.

“Oh my god,” he mumbled under his breath, halting and closing his eyes for a second. He took a second to regain his composure, before walking up to the barista.

“Hi, sir! What would you like?” she asked, smiling wide, but Colt was too focused on the pretty paper coffee cups stacked behind her.

“You— your coffee machine works, right?”

The barista frowned. “Yes, of course.”

Still, Colt didn’t bring his hopes up.

“I’ll, uh..”

The man was more of a Latte lover, but unsurprisingly, he craved a little more decaf today.

“Hi, um, could I get a flat white?” he asked, fingers drumming on the inner lining of his jean pockets in utmost dread. “On the go, please— kinda in a hurry.”

“Sure, yeah.”

Colt went and stood at the other end of the counter, foot tapping aggressively. Please, coffee, come to me.

His phone rang. It was Jody.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said.

“Hey. I’m assuming you went to get coffee.”

Colt grimaced. “Just another minute, I’m so sorry-“

“Oh my god, don’t apologize. I know how bad you need it— I just hope nobody knocks it over or something again.”

“…Me too.” Colt meant that from the bottom of his heart. He’d missed far too many times.

It took a minute and 23 seconds (yeah, he counted) for the flat white to get to the counter. 

Colt grabbed it so quickly, paying the barista in less than a few seconds before rushing to his truck, both hands tenderly holding onto the cup.

“Hi,” Jody said, amused. “Got your coffee?”

“Got it, yes. Haven’t had it, though.”

Colt looked so tense, staring intensely at the cup. Nothing had gone wrong yet.

“Please drink that, Colt, I think I’m going to die out of anticipation,” Jody said, suddenly just as tense as her boyfriend. “Gosh.”

He looked at her, Adam’s Apple bobbing. 

“Yeah, okay.”

He brought the cup to his lips, and the absolutely intoxicating aroma of coffee rose to his nostrils.

Oh, dear.

Colt took a big gulp, and when the taste of perfectly brewed goodness washed over his taste buds, he could’ve sworn he ascended to another plane of existence for a bit.

He leaned against the seat, eyes closing and a relishing sigh leaving his lips.

Coffee.

“Good?” Jody asked.

Colt just nodded, still in ecstasy after that hit of delicious, delicious caffeine.

“I can tell you like it,” she said, lips pulled into an extremely amused smile. “Need a second to process it?”

“God, yeah.”

Despite the giggles, Colt didn't slow down, gulping down the coffee so quickly, but still savouring the taste.

He was carrying a flask with him everyday from now onwards.

taglist: @bisexualcoltseavers @hollandstrophyhusband @zsuo @flowersomgravee @webbo0 @officer-kd6 @dontglimpse @chihuahuamations

[stupidfuckingwindow]

Rain // Driver

Tw: mentions of murder, overall self doubt from Driver and his paranoia.

Word count: 1.2k

Notes: premarital hand holding. Thanks @webbo0 and @uncleclam, you FREAKS

It's you again.

Back in his car, seat belt strapping your figure to the passenger's seat. You're tired, obviously. Restless and eyes threatening to flutter shut. Your breathing is much steadier and calmer than his is, chest rising and falling at a slow pace.

You're soothed by the gentle raindrops on the windshield and windows. The passing streetlights whose brightness is captured in the dew clinging to glass. Outside, the sky is a deep blue, contrasting with the passing lights that are colored orange. The car's tires make a soft hissing sound as they travel over the wet road and stray gravel or sand. Faint music from the radio is at it's lowest setting, so as not to disturb the peace between you and Driver. He doesn't recognize the song, and he doubts you do as well.

Whenever you're in his life, everything comes to a sudden halt. The deeply-rooted violent urges take a backseat in his ever paranoid mind, and his itch to bolt is gone. He often follows you around in an attempt to understand why, to study your capabilities and test if you're someone who'd be brave enough to attempt his life.

Driver isn't sure he'd even want to fight back. To try to hurt you at all seems like an offense to him, even at his own expense.

You'd look beautiful while you did it, straddling his hips or his ribcage to threaten him with a weapon to his throat. He'd not want to kill you, no. Driver wants to trace your features with his hammer, run his gloves over your jaw and neck, feel you out for himself. Study you and pick apart your mind like a scientist.

Driver would not leave Los Angeles if it were you trying to kill him, he supposes. He knows he could. The few things he owns are just enough to toss in a suitcase or the back of his car and go. Every part of him is attached to you, no matter how much he wants to argue against it. It's then, he wonders, if a man like he could love a person like you. If it's just passion he's after. Can Driver even love in the first place, is the question?

He wouldn't die for you. He'll kill for you, again and again, and again. There's no way you'll be put at risk if he pulls the plug on anything that tries.

His jaw tightens at the thought, fingers gripping and flexing around the steering wheel. His eyes switch between you and the road, between his driving and the way you're falling asleep in his car. He hears your breath, sees your chest move. Driver watches the way passing street lights illuminate your face and bathe it in a golden-orange color.

His attention is captured at the sound of the rain beginning to pick up speed against the roof of his car. He flicks on the windshield wipers, turns up the heater slightly. He forces himself to focus back on driving, to trust you to not take advantage of his lack of focus on you.

When nothing happens after a minute, tension leaves him. He's still put on edge by your presence, by the way you were all too willing to trust him with your life. Every blink is usually backed by a glance towards you, as if simply shutting his eyes for half a second will get him killed. It's so bizarre to him that he can trust a person so little yet so much all at once. That he can even enjoy being around you at all.

Driver is so caught up in his mind that he doesn't see you moving towards him. His entire body jolts at the feeling of a hand on his body, blue eyes darting towards you to glare a hole into you. But your grasp isn't tight- it's firm. He's tempted to peel his arm away from your hand, but he doesn't. Driver intently watches you, feels the way your hand trails up his arm, past his wrist.

Your fingers slot themselves between his, squeezing gently at his palm. A shaky breath leaves Driver, and his brows furrow in bewilderment.

You're so fucking confusing.

He has to swallow his spit in order to avoid choking on it at the weight of your hand in his. The heat of your skin soaks through his gloves and warms him. It's comforting in a way that Driver couldn't have predicted, strangely familiar despite the fact he'd never held your hand before.

He hates touch, normally. His jacket is a second skin to him, a barrier from the outside world that keeps him warm and makes him feel protected. The gloves help him grip the wheel, but he doesn't have to struggle with sensory issues if nothing can get past his comforts. His car itself is an extension of himself, and his entire world revolves around it. The few people he lets inside of it have been strangers.

But you're not. He's been in your apartment, talks to you briefly and he thinks about you when he's alone.

..Thinks about you when he's alone, Driver remembers. When aren't you in his life, then? Christ, just how whipped for you is he? He's so fucked.. But he doesn't pull his hand away. He lets it rest against yours and lets you hold him while he drives.

A soft sigh leaves Driver, content.

He pulls his hand away from yours for a moment, fingers sliding out from between yours to peel his glove off. Catching one of the soft leather fingers between his teeth, he slowly slides it off. He tosses the item onto his dashboard, feeling the colder air on his skin. Driver's hand takes yours again, interlocking his digits with yours. His breath quivers at the feeling of his bare skin on yours- It's new. Not quite unfamiliar, but different.

The back of his head falls back onto the headrest, and he gently squeezes your hand. Your thumb rubs soothing circles into his knuckles, and a soft groan leaves Driver. The first he's made since you'd climbed into the seat next to him almost 30 minutes ago.

Driver has to pull the car over in order to calm himself, knowing it'll take a little longer than a few seconds to regain his composure. Once he's done so, it takes him a bit to finally turn and look at you.

You're looking at him with such an intense focus that it makes Driver bite his lip. 'Why are you looking at me like that,' he wants to ask you, to finally speak. He can't tell if he hates the attention or forever wants you to look at him. Again, you've made another change in him. He'd considered any attention on him in particular to be suspicious; a bad sign or red flag.

But this is you.

Driver draws his face closer to yours, leaning over the centre console. You do the same, face a few inches away from him and warm breath fanning over his lips. Both of you finally make more contact through a kiss that breaks the veil of tension between himself and you.

[confuzzled-crow77]

Project Hail Mary Reading Recording Thoughts Journal Thing!

(got this idea from @webbo0; go check out their whatever-this-thing-is)

SPOILERS

Chapter 1:

I already knew Ryan Gosling will be playing as the main character, and boy oh boy will a LOT of fan girls like this chapter. My dude is naked this entire chapter. Sci-fi Siri is haggling him: let him sleep! He’s already giving me Persassy vibes; I love his snarky humor. Wait no never mind on the Percy (he probs cant do this level of science); god this guy is too smart for my pea brain! He makes me actually wanna try at Honors Biology and that’s a PROBLEM.

[illegator]

dont look at me DONT LOOK AT ME!!!!!!!

idea from @webbo0 ‘s sketch of the same scenario. Stop Looking At Me.

[ken-f-cker]

@hollandstrophyhusband @webbo0 I love the conversations we have

[webbo0artblog]

Ryan Gosling as Luke Glanton in The Place Beyond the Pines

[honeycollectswhump]

I just want you to know that the whumperflies you are able to give me with Ashtray are so good!!!!

And i just read a recent post of yours and i would actually love to see Mireille consider drugging ashtray, if you fancy it :)

Thank you!!

- ☆

im so glad you enjoy my silly story!! i thought i'd mix your request with an event, i hope you don't mind

Augusnippets Day 13

drugging/poisoning/cannibalism

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, noncon drugging, noncon touch

Perhaps there was something in the water Mistress had given him. The fogginess was its only indication but the ash on his tongue hid any suspicious taste. And it wasn’t suspicious after all, of course he’d take anything given to him by his Mistress. Whatever was in the water, it did exactly what it was supposed to. 

Now Ashtray floats on a cloud made out of cotton, which is strange because his limbs are made out of lead and shouldn’t that be too heavy?

He is draped languidly on the couch cloud, an arm and a leg dangling down. There is a hand carding through his hair, caressing his bare skin, but perhaps it is just the wind. 

Ashtray purrs from deep within his chest, a sound that makes his body vibrate in waves. Fingers trace over his torso, circling each burn like constellations. If only he could lift his head to look at the night sky on his stomach.

Slowly, he can feel the fingers dip deeper, tugging at the covering fabric, and every moment makes his being become undone.

He whines uncomfortably, pushing his head into the cotton, as the hand in his hair grabs a fistful. Even on the cloud, somewhere high up, he understands the command. 

Be still. 

Ashtray swallows a second whine and instead looks up into the swirling night sky. Maybe, if he concentrates hard enough, he can leave his cloud and fly between the stars. 

Maybe, he can ignore the touch coming closer and closer, shooting him down. 

Maybe, he can delay his crash into earth a little bit longer.

@augusnippets

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox,

@sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood, @katwriteswhump

@opaldream16, @whumped-by-glitter, @whump-queen, @electrons2006, @vampirewhump

@saffitaffi let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[heresthestorymorningglory]

Under Your Spell - Part 1

A/N: Hi my darlings 🧡 Happy Spooky Day 👻 I've had Dead Man's Bones (iykyk) on a loop today; it is in fact my Christmas and my gift to you is a 4 part Driver series Approach with caution; as per usual it's an 18+ NSFW but on top of that this one has a stalker warning, some voyeurism and also got a tad violent. it's not TOTALLY Dead Dove, Don't Eat but it toes that line, so if that's not for you, just don't okay?

I can't post without giving credit where credit is due; this thing took on a life of it's own and if it weren't for @ken-dom and @travelerwashere it wouldn't be what it is; I can't thank you both enough for your constant support and inspiration (at all hours of the night) and keeping me from spiraling down the anxiety rabbit hole you both know I tend to lose myself in <3

Title credit goes to my fellow Goosecord compadre @webbo0, that tripped me up more than usual this go 'round

ANYWAY; Enjoy my loves 🧡👻

Edit: I also have to add (because I know you're here and the tag on a reblog made me howl)

If you know me irl and you saw this....No. You didn't. (You know who you are and I love you for your support ;) <3 but no you didn't)

Pairing: Driver x Reader (18+ NSFW)

He knew he shouldn't be, it was wrong, but you made it so easy….

You followed your routine like clockwork; you didn't live the most exciting life, work, home, and back again most nights. You lived alone, no boyfriend…a couple of friends, but even they seemed few and far in between. 

He tried not to pay you any mind….at first… 

But then he would catch glimpses of you late at night, a silhouette  against a curtain that almost gave away your secrets as you pulled your shirt over your head, stepped out of your pants, unhooking your bra…you tease. 

He bit down on his lip, cock twitching between his legs, threatening to make his already snug jeans unbearable. 

He stood cloaked in the darkness of his own house, not wanting to draw attention to himself so lights stayed out, watching as your shadow disappeared and reappeared in front of the window.  

The thought of you strutting around your house naked was enough to make him moan out loud. 

A gloved hand wandering to the front of his pants, popping the button open, giving him only the slightest bit of relief. 

You had moved back in front of the window…taunting him. 

Fingers curling around his hardening shaft, squeezing a little harder than intended, breathing hard through his nose. 

God, what he wouldn't give to just-

He groaned, bracing against the wall, fingers curling against the plaster as his other hand was coated in his release. 

He stood up straight mindful to peel off the soiled glove before tucking himself back in his jeans. 

A quick glance and your window was dark, you had gone to bed. 

He let out a sigh, alleviated but not satisfied. He wondered if he'd ever be satisfied and scoffed rolling his eyes. Of course he would be….one day…you would satisfy him…and even better, he would satisfy you.  

One day, soon; You would writhe under him, beg him for more, harder, faster. But until then…this would have to do. 

For weeks he watched you come and go. You were a vision, especially on the days when you didn't try at all…

Today you had dressed in a snug v neck sweater and an even more snug pair of jeans. He watched from the front window as you climbed in the passenger seat of a sleek red Cadillac; from his vantage point, he couldn't tell if the driver was a male or female but it didn't matter, he'd had other plans today…

As soon as the car disappeared around the corner he pulled on his gloves and slipped out the back door to avoid attention. 

Getting into your backyard was easy enough, there was a small gate that connected your house to his….a smart addition by the previous owner if he did say so…

Your back patio door wasn't exactly hidden from view of the neighbours, but the lock popped easier than the deadbolt on the front door. 

You didn't have an alarm system, this neighborhood had a reputation for being "safe". You had mentioned as much to him in passing once. He had told you he thought a security system would still be a good idea since you had lived alone, and you had just shrugged. 

You obviously hadn't taken his advice, so he had needed to protect you. Keep you safe. 

The door slid open with ease as he pushed around the curtain, sliding it closed again. 

The house was quiet. He glanced around, slowly making his way deeper into the living room. It was simple, but had your personal touches everywhere. Photos, books, knickknacks. 

Your laptop and a half eaten bagel sat on the coffee table next to what he assumed was a journal. 

The laptop would tell him things but a quick tap of the spacebar and it asked for a password. So you protected some things. The journal would surely be more telling anyway. 

He picked up the leatherbound book, flipping open the black cover and skimming the words…it was a gratitude journal and you wrote in it, every day, religiously.

Each page has relatively the same prompt for each day, forcing you to choose one thing you had been grateful for, what you were excited for on that particular day, a thought provoking prompt, sometimes two and an evening reflection section. 

Out of curiosity, he flipped to the page marked with a piece of ribbon and you had written today's date. 

Jesus…even your penmanship was beautiful. Meticulously crafted loops, one flowing seamlessly into the other. 

But the rest of the page was blank. 

He sat on your small couch, flipping through the pages, filled with your beautiful scrawls. Page after page letting him in on your most intimate details. 

Your favourite books, your favourite meal, your favourite time of year. Everything he ever needed to know was in the palm of his hands. 

Then something caught his attention "the neighbour" 

Did you mean him? No. You couldn't. 

His eyes scanned the page again and sure enough he hadn't read what he wanted to read, right there in ink were the words the hot neighbour

He stared at the words on the page waiting to wake up from the dream he was certain he had drifted off into. 

But he didn't wake up, he was awake. This was real. 

He cautioned flipping through a few more pages, looking for any mention of him. You couldn’t have meant him…that would just be too serendipitous. 

Something else caught his attention though. A prompt that read 'What is your favourite feeling'

You had written three simple words.  The pink panties

He was curious what this pair in particular felt like…

He put the journal back, pulling himself up from the couch and wandered through the kitchen and towards the front of your house where your bedroom would be.

You lived in a little bungalow, like the rest of the neighborhood, one of your bedroom windows faced out towards the road, the other….faced his house. 

You lived a simple life he’d noted, it seemed like you weren’t much for the flashy expensive things on the surface. Your bedroom was like you, elegant, soft, simple colours. Your vanity stood against one wall, your desk and bed against the other….made…you were neat…mostly. Your closet door had been left slid open; everything from dresses to sweaters hanging neatly, save for the top that had been thrown on your bed, he assumed you’d decided to change your wardrobe at the last minute. 

Next to your vanity stood a small chest of drawers, again, curiosity getting the better of him…and that journal entry fresh at the front of his mind, 

He pulled open the top drawer, as he suspected, much like the rest of western civilization, that’s where you kept your socks and underwear. 

Most of them were exactly what he expected, comfortable and classy, but you also had a few pairs he could only assume you didn’t wear on your Monday to Friday…at least not regularly. Then he saw them…the pink ones. The ones worthy of a journal entry.

He slipped a hand out of his leather driving glove, pulling them free from the pile; the fabric gliding smoothly between his bare fingers. 

The moan that had formed deep in the back of his throat seemed too loud in contrast to your quiet house. The thought of being in such close proximity to something that had touched you so intimately, the thought of holding it in his own hand, feeling it against his own skin.

He let out a slow breath as his cock quivered between his legs, he closed his eyes, trying to will the pressure to subside. 

When it became abundantly clear willpower wasn’t going to do it and this…issue…was something that was going to have to be dealt with and now, he opened his eyes, only to realize he had crumpled that buttery smooth pink piece of attire into a tight fist. 

He hadn’t really meant to, but he’d sat on the edge of your neatly made bed, fingers hastily working open a button and a zipper before his aching cock sprang free. 

He stopped, only briefly, examining the silky fabric as he moved it between his fingers; he wanted to know what it felt like. 

It must have been good, if it was worth writing about….

And before the rational part of his brain could make sense of the situation he’d suddenly found himself in, his hand had wrapped itself, and  your underwear around his hard shaft; they felt like heaven. 

He fucked his hand relentlessly, completely losing himself in the sensation of the almost too smooth garment that enveloped him. His breathing was short and ragged, as he pushed himself closer to the edge. Then, in what he could only assume was record time, he came; Hard, and fast, your underwear drenched in his release. 

His heartbeat thudding in his ears subsided as the rhythm returned to normal and reality filled in the haze around him. 

He tucked himself back into his pants and got to his feet fastening the button as he heard the unmistakable metallic clink of keys at your front door. Your keys. 

His heart skipped a beat as he dropped to the floor and slid under your bed just as the sunlight spilled into the hallway through the open door. 

His heart slammed in his chest against the floor as he watched the hallway intently, your leather clad boots appearing in the doorway. 

He slowed his breathing, convinced it wouldn't matter because you would hear his heart pounding against the floorboards 

The bed creaked over his head, sinking as you sat, unzipping your boots, dropping them on the floor. 

You were close enough to reach out and touch, he had to bite his bottom lip to keep from doing it. 

Then the open drawer on your dresser caught his attention. The drawer he had left open. Your damp underwear still balled in his fist. Maybe you wouldn't notice. 

He watched from his place under your bed as you went to the dresser, pushing the top drawer closed and pulling open the middle drawer, fishing out a t-shirt. You shed your sweater, dropping it to your feet, standing in your jeans and bra, barefoot. Your back was to him, but your reflection in your vanity showed off the soft pink lace cupping your soft supple breasts. God, what he wouldn't give to touch them, kiss them. 

He let out a slow breath trying to keep himself under control. You closed the drawer and pulled the t-shirt on before checking your reflection in the mirror and disappearing down the hall. 

He waited, until he was certain you weren't coming back, hearing you clink dishes in the kitchen. 

He slid out from under the bed and quickly got to his feet; he thought seriously about keeping those coveted pink panties…if only just to clean them. He didn’t have time to think about it, instead, he slipped them behind your pillows between the mattress and the wall. 

He tiptoed towards the door, listening intently to you at the other end of the house, for any indication you would find him in a very compromising position. A loud crash echoed from the kitchen and a frustrated “Fuck” drifted down the hallway. 

He wanted so badly to help, he hoped you hadn’t hurt yourself; but took advantage of the opportunity that had presented itself and slipped out the front door, pulling it closed as carefully and quietly as he could manage. 

The days that followed were near agonizing, it took everything in him not to rush back into your house every time you left to deal with what he had left behind in a rush. He wondered if you had noticed them missing…

Although, knowing he could, just made the temptation to do so that much worse. He watched you go to bed night after night and every cell in his body burned with desire, just at the thought that you hadn’t had any idea. 

Before the week was out, he found himself standing in your bedroom once again. Your journal sat on your nightstand, bed unmade this time; you had rearranged your furniture, your bed was in the same place, but your vanity and desk now sat on the same wall, facing out the window that looked into his bedroom. The chest of drawers you had moved to the opposite wall as your bed. 

If your bed hadn’t moved, that meant… moving swiftly across your room, right where he’d left them, still dirty, were your pink panties. 

He tucked them back safely, he wasn’t going to be caught off guard this time if you happened to come home early. Instead, he sat on your bed, and thumbed through your journal, learning everything he could about you that you’d shared.

He flipped the pages to the beginning of the week to see what you had filled in on that particular day. Nothing overly interesting unfortunately, but fortunately also no mention of him. He had gotten away with it. 

[ken-dom]

I Can Fix Him

Holland March x afab!reader

2.3k words

Summary: Holland is irresistibly pathetic. So of course you still want him after last nights mess. Or, how Holland ended up with ‘You will never be happy :)’ written on his hand and still managed to get some.

Part of a Pathetic Holland triple threat with;

A Night To Remember by @webbo0 and

Drunken Stranger by @hollandstrophyhusband

Author’s notes: we couldn’t help but obsess over why the novelisation of The Nice Guys says that the note on Holland’s hand is written in ‘unfamiliar, feminine’ handwriting, so we came up with a few ideas and wrote them all. It’s been so much fun working with you both 🩷

Warnings/content: NSFW, alcohol, somnophilia, wet dream, blow job, kind of premature ejaculation, fingering mention, sex mention, erectile dysfunction caused by too much alcohol (never thought I’d tag a fic with that) — it’s a whole mess, you get the picture

As you drifted awake, only one eye opened at first. The other was smushed against the back of Holland’s shoulder, your face sticky with sweat against his jacket. Apparently, he was a furnace in his sleep, unbearably hot to the touch, and you supposed the fact that you were both still half dressed did nothing to help that fact.

‘Holland?’ you whispered, peeling yourself off him and pulling your clothes back up to cover your chest whilst attempting to tidy your mussed hair.

A loud snore.

Ah. He was still dead to the world.

You sat up and checked the clock on his bedside. Ten am. You’d massively overslept, but suspected that for him, this was a regular occurrence.

Your eyes wandered over his snoring form and you wondered how he would feel if he knew you were still here this morning, and whether he would even remember you were here last night. Or who you are.

You reached out instinctively, without thinking, retracting your fingers for a moment when a brief glimmer of sense burst into your mind. He startled you with a surprisingly sweet sigh and at that point you just couldn’t help yourself. That thick strand of golden hair stuck to his sweaty forehead was calling, and you reached over to sweep it gently away from his eyes with tender fingertips.

As you brushed back down over his cheek, his lips pulled into a soft smile and he hummed.

Probably dreaming of his wife. Probably? Definitely.

You felt a pang of guilt and jealousy swirling in your gut. You were certain that you’d been a fool to stay after last night’s mess. And it was a mess, there really was no other word for it.

Holland had been too drunk to get his dick hard, called you by his dead wife’s name during a slurred apology for having a limp cock despite his face having been buried against your chest and his hands quite literally squeezing every inch of your body, and then cried for fifteen solid minutes while you consoled him, until he convinced you he was sober enough to eat you out instead. He proceeded to pass out on you with his fingers hooked beneath the elastic of your underwear, drooling sloppily onto your thigh as he snored loudly.

But there really had been something about the way he kissed you, and the way he looked at you before he was too far gone to recognise who you were that made you want to stick around. Something about the way he wanted you, but couldn’t move past the thought of his wife, or the amount of alcohol in his body, enough to do anything about it.

He had turned from fun and charming (and a little stupid) to sad and pathetic so quickly it was jarring, but still, it kind of turned you on? That very specific mixture of clashing traits painting a very sad picture of a very lonely man riddled with guilt. A handsome lonely man riddled with guilt who wanted to fuck you. And so despite the disappointment and disheartenment you’d felt, your ‘I can fix him’ mode kicked in and you found that you just couldn’t walk away.

And Jesus, he really was handsome. That certainly helped. You felt guilt rise in your gut again for thinking he looked hot while he was crying into your shoulder and sobbing some incomprehensible nonsense about his flaccid cock. How could that possibly be sexy? And yet…

You’d had a little moment of anger though, and left a message on his hand when he first passed out. Something for him to find in the morning. Grabbing a pen (engraved with his wife’s initials, you noticed) from the bedside table and carefully writing You will never be happy from the base of his forefinger across the top of his thumb. It was a drunken reaction you regretted now, but boy it felt good to fling that pen across the room with reckless abandon after you’d done it.

You could see your message now; displayed plainly on the huge hand placed beside his face, which was buried in the pillow you’d dragged him onto after he passed out between your legs, and your stomach churned. Even if he’d be pleased to see he hadn’t scared you off with his messy drunken behaviour, your note would surely scare him off. And you wouldn’t blame him.

Feeling uncomfortable with your bout of unkindness, you slipped off the bed to pick up the pen from where you’d thrown it and climbed back up to grab his hand again. He hummed quietly and rolled onto his back with a loud snore.

You added a little :) beneath your earlier message and held his hand up, reading and rereading it, trying to decide if the smiley face softened it at all. Barely. But surely it was better with a smile? Kind of jokey, right? Right.

You gently placed his hand down upon his slowly rising and falling chest and he stirred, fingers grasping for something. So you gently slid your own fingers in between his and he settled immediately.

God, he must have been a needy husband.

It felt nice though, the way his fingers squeezed weakly at yours, and that crooked smile appeared again, more mischievous this time.

Unconsciously, you smiled back. Then you closed your eyes, took a deep breath, slid your hand away from his and tried to climb off his bed again without waking him.

As you turned, your hand accidentally brushed against his trousers and…

Oh shit.

Holland’s cock was straining to stand to attention inside his tight pants. And you’d accidentally dragged your palm right against it. And he whined. Actually whined, high pitched and as needy as you’d imagined him sounding if he’d actually managed to fuck you last night.

‘Oh shit,’ you breathed, out loud this time.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away. Holland was big. Like, really big, and you suddenly felt disappointed again that he had been unable to perform.

As you fought to keep your mind on track, you also noticed the rather prominent patch of precum soaking through the fabric where his tip was tucked beneath the constraints of his belt.

So… he can get hard then? How long has he been hard? He looks so big… god, I want to touch him…

Holland muttered something under his breath then, snapping you out of your hazy thoughts, and bucked his hips, chasing the touch he’d felt from your hand.

‘Please…’ he uttered, whimpering weakly.

Even though you were sure he was dreaming of his wife, and would probably cry like a baby when he woke up, he was still somehow irresistible. In a pathetic sort of way. In an I can fix him sort of way. Fuck.

You were overcome with the need to give him a taste of what he was begging for within his unconscious mind, even if you couldn’t really be the person he wanted it from. Just to let him have his sad, horny wet dream and actually get to finish before harsh reality kicked back in…

‘Fuck it.’

You settled between his spread thighs (So slutty, you thought with delight) and carefully pushed your hand over the hard bulge in his pants, actually feeling his cock twitch against your palm through the fabric.

He cried out at your touch, surprisingly loud and strangled compared to his little whimpers, and still not waking himself up.

You rushed to unbuckle his belt, giving up on trying to be quiet, leaving the metal of the buckle to clink aside as your fingers worked fast over the buttons of his pants. As you pulled them down to his knees you noticed his underwear too was absolutely soaked through with precum.

Wow. Been a while? Or are you usually this messy?

You licked your lips, hungry to taste him, and peeled those boxer shorts down like you were unwrapping a present. The simple anticipation mixed with the scent of his aftershave and natural musk made your heart race.

When his cock had sprung free, slick with his seed and visibly throbbing, you dropped forward, hungrily licking him clean of his sticky mess, humming around him. He squirmed beneath you, the hand you’d laid on his chest now grasping loosely at your hair as the other balled the bedsheets him in a tight fist.

You wrapped your fingers around him, pumping steadily as you lifted your head to get a closer look at him.

His mouth had dropped open, his cheeks were pink, his back was already arching. Your mouth was already filling with generous drops of precum, making your movements all the more slick.

Jesus, Holland, when was the last time you came?

You sunk your whole mouth onto him then, taking as much of his length in as you could, your lips tight as you sucked and swirled your tongue, bobbing your head in time with the fist still eagerly massaging his base.

‘I’m- Jesus!!’ he shrieked, ‘If you keep doing that- I’m gonna- I’m- f-fuck-’

He was fully conscious now, then.

Spurred on by his whimpering pleas, you kept going and it didn’t take long until his writhing hips suddenly stuttered and he spilled his thick, hot seed into your mouth in a never ending rope. It tasted like stale alcohol. You didn’t know that was possible until today, and it certainly wasn’t what you expected, but in honesty you’d take anything you got from him.

A sound just short of a scream ripped from his chest as his climax took hold, and what followed was a whiny string of expletives intermingled with your name.

You almost choked, not least from the force and volume of his release in your mouth, which was still coming thick and fast, shooting down your throat and trickling from your lips, but from the thought that he might have actually been dreaming of you. That he was hard for you.

He had called your name. Not his wife’s, or some random girl from a bar who just about reminded him of her. Yours.

‘Jesus!’ he cried, lower this time, breathier, between desperate panting as you released him from the warmth of your mouth. ‘Jesus… that was… fucking incredible, I’m sorry it was over so fast… I uh… I was feelin’ kinda sensitive, y’know… it’s been a while. I think, anyway.’

As you swallowed what you could of his seed, the rest dripping out onto his already ruined underwear, you dropped down beside him and stroked his red face, watching him gasp for breath.

‘Holland? Are you with me now?’ you soothed, very aware of how vulnerable he might feel right now.

‘Mmh… sure am, baby. What’d I do to deserve a wake up call like that?’ he smirked, eyes closed in sleepy, post-orgasm bliss.

‘Oh, uhm…’

You hesitated, not sure he’d want to hear You were pathetic and sad and it made me want to make you cum.

‘I must’ve really done a number on you last night, huh? Couldn’t get enough of the March magic so you couldn’t resist, is that it? Jesus. Not too spent for another round are you? Fuck, you deserve the world for making me cum like that.’

He blinked his eyes open so he could really appreciate you, but it looked incredibly painful despite the dim lighting, and he squinted in your direction instead.

‘Holland we… didn’t do anything last night,’ you said softly, wincing a little.

‘We didn’t? Well fuck, let me rectify that right now!’

‘No, no, I think you need a rest.’

He settled back down against the pillow, immediately pleased you’d suggested it, because as much as he wanted to taste you, his head had spun when he tried to get up and his body was trembling. It really had been a long time. And even longer since he’d felt someone else’s touch.

‘So,’ you started carefully, ‘you were… dreaming of me?’

He laughed smugly. ‘Sure was.’

He brought a hand up to wipe the fresh sweat from his forehead, catching a glimpse of something on his hand that he swore wasn’t there yesterday.

You winced as his eyes slowly moved over the letters. And then again.

‘What the fuck did I do to you last night?!’

You huffed a gentle laugh. ‘Never mind that now. I guess I changed my mind somewhere between you face planting between my thighs and waking up with you in my arms with the biggest hard on I’ve ever seen.’

Holland looked horrified and you wondered if he was actually remembering any of it. Perhaps that wouldn’t be for the best, though.

‘Hey, how about I run you a bath. It’ll soon wash off in there. Along with uhm… well…’ You gestured to the state of his underwear and his coated, limp cock and he chuckled. He must cum that much usually because you could tell from his laugh that he knew. ‘Plus… maybe I could join you…’

‘Jesus…’ he breathed. And then his eyes shot wide open as a lightbulb pinged on in his eyes, seemingly no longer bothered by the relatively dim light. ‘Hey, would you let me at least fingerfuck you while we’re in there? I can’t have you walking out of here unsatisfied, what would that do to my reputation, huh?’

Reputation? Ha. Yet that familiar heat rushed to your core. Again. He had big hands. Really big, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t wanted them between your thighs when he had first started flirting with you last night. Even as you were writing the message on his right hand, your mind had wandered. And again when you added the little smiley face.

‘Hmm. I think I can stretch to that.’ Your lips curled smugly as you slipped off the bed and considered him. ‘Although maybe not with the size of those hands,’ you winked.

[sandpapersnowman]

@webbo0