#william is wearing a mask

[dovewingkinnie]

some older art of a au that i made a while ago, forgot to post about it basic idea is that it takes place in UCN which is a super big contraption that walks the earth letting people come in to watch the show (aka william getting tortured)

[chloesimaginationthings]

The Aftons tried to kill Mike for being eepy in the FNAF movie

[kaidanalenkosprmanager]

"Did I ever tell you about my Omega casino run in with the Blue Suns, Eclipse, and the Blood Pack Vorcha mafia? Five thousand credits and a bottle of whiskey?"

Ft. Staff Cmdr. Kaidan Alenko, Operations Chief Ashley Williams, Zaeed Massani, & Seven. Dominik Shepard. Phoebus. MIRA'S MORE CANON ME1.5 "Are you Phoebus?" AKA: Pt. 1 of some of what happens between ME1 and ME2 with the Vorcha mafia storyline. :) Mass Effect: Legendary Edition (2021)

[l00ney-m00ny]

Gues who has their Halloween costume ready a whole 2 months early!!!!

[roboboxtron-draws]

I miss my boys

[cherry-pop-elf]

I hope this ask finds you well. I wanted to request some headcannons you may have about Bill Weasley? They could be like general hc about him or relationship hc, whatever you like.

Oh hell yeah-! My favorite mentally unstable boy! I love Bill so much. There is so much untapped potential with him. Kisses for you anon. On your little sunglasses head-! 💋

Some Random Bill Weasley 🧡 Headcanons

He was into curse breaking before he even had a wand. There was even a case where Arthur came home with a cursed watch someone snuck into his pocket, and Bill was able to de curse it. No wand needed. He was meant for greatness from then on

The reason Ginny doesn’t have any real long turn damage from the diary, besides ya know trauma, was because of Bill. Given his history of curse breaking, and 100% defiantly dealing with a Horcrux before, he was able to make sure she was able to recover to the best of his abilities. Helps that Ginny is a fighter all the same

His patronus used to be that of a lion, but after the werewolf attack it became that of a wolf.

He has a wand with a Horned Serpent Horn core. It’s perfect for a curse breaker. To help them sense danger when they can’t see or feel it themselves

The only reason he has long hair was he convinced Molly that he grew it out to help Ginny not feel ‘girly’ for having long hair. Charlie hates him for stealing his plans

He moved back to working at Gringotts after the war. As to be closer to George, given Fred’s passing. The goblins welcomed him with open arms, and give him scheduled time off for when the full moon comes around

Given he is a curse breaker, it literally sucks the life out of you. So he is rather pale and slender. It also means mental health is extremely important, so he has a lot of vacations. Along with is the family therapist. As if he wasn’t being the eldest

He works a side hobby with trying to find a cure, some kind of new medication, for Werewolfism. Since he himself did not suffer its extreme effects, he figured due to being a curse breaker, he figured a break through. That if you treat the wound quickly, as if a typical curse, it can be stopped

He is a leading advocate for werewolf equality, and uses his curse breaking title to hold weight in what he does and says. Hermione is proud, and Lupin is as well

He is also 100% part of Abigail’s Pack

And might have possibly slept with her dad at some point shushhhhh

Gerald Grey x Bill Weasley Art When?

He 100% is now super into pet play because of the incident, btw. Whoopsies!

Fleur sure isn’t complaining

He’s now called the “family dog” and he has bitten people so that didn’t help

Anyone that pisses him off he has bitten and made comments about how he ‘licked your stuff’ to scare them. You play stupid games you get stupid prizes. The goblins love him so you are out of luck

Speaking of them, it’s actually canon he was taken in as a curse breaker after Hogwarts. Meaning he’s probs one of the youngest curse breakers ever at being 17-18. So the goblins 100% are a bunch of old men with their ginger kid. Fuck with him? You have to deal with a bunch of angry goblins. Leave their adopted ginger alone!

[fazgoo-connoiseur-1987]

Bill is wearing someone else's skin. You do not see it, originally, because why would you? Why question such a genuine smile? His charm and flattery?

But they you notice how it sloghs off his face, how it doesn't match his eyes, how it stretches unnaturally when he performs his little charade for you.

And you want to go back to being blind to it again, now everything he does feels wrong, but you can't. You can't unsee it.

[thefirsthogokage]

COVID is not over, and the odds of you needing long-term care because of getting it are NOT small.

Edit: I guess this wasn't clear. This is @/dr_asherwilliams_ on IG.

[such-a-fellow]

artistic rendering of what patients and hospital staff at my work see all day every day when I'm on the clock

[luna--dragon]

Woah woah woah, you're telling me Ellie, from The Last of Us, IS infected with Cordyceps, but just doesn't show any symptoms? None at all??

Oh, they missed the perfect opportunity to make her a sentient Clicker in the second game

OH, LIFE IS FULL OF DISAPPOINTMENTS

[opossumbard]

I think it would be cool if there was a cosmetic/mask for Myers that was the not painted Shatner mask.

[sleepy-cat-maniac]

THATS WHAT THE MASK ISTHATS WHAT THE PIONT OF THE MASK IS.

Mask - by Dream

FNAF movie William says the mask stays on-

[backtonormallife]

Covid isn't going away just because people are ignoring it.

[pucksandpower]

The World Can Wait

Carlos Sainz x Reader

Summary: no matter whether he’s wearing Ferrari red or Williams blue, standing on the top step of podiums or fighting for points, you’ll love Carlos through it all

The podium is eerily quiet now. The lights are dimmed, the bright flashes of cameras long gone, and the chaotic hum of celebration has faded into nothing. The night wraps itself around the circuit like a heavy blanket, but Carlos is still there. Sitting cross-legged on the podium, the silver P2 trophy rests beside him, untouched.

You find him like this after weaving through the empty paddock, the distant sounds of dismantling garages growing fainter as you near him. At first, you’re hesitant. You stop at the base of the podium steps, watching him from the shadows.

His head is tilted back, eyes fixed on the sky, though you doubt he’s really looking at anything. The set of his shoulders is tight, his elbows resting on his knees. He doesn’t notice you.

“Carlos,” you say softly, almost unsure if you should disturb him.

He doesn’t startle. Instead, his gaze drops, and he looks at you. There’s something hollow in his expression, a weariness that no trophy can mask. He doesn’t say anything, just gestures faintly with his hand for you to come up.

You climb the steps slowly, the sound of your shoes against the metal breaking the heavy silence. When you reach him, you hesitate again, standing just a few feet away.

“Are you okay?” You ask, careful, your voice low.

He exhales sharply, almost a laugh but not quite. “Am I okay?” He repeats, shaking his head. He leans forward, running both hands through his hair. “I don’t know, cariño. I don’t think I know how to answer that.”

You lower yourself down beside him, close enough that your knees brush. The chill of the night air seeps into your skin, but you ignore it, your eyes fixed on him. “Talk to me,” you urge gently. “What’s going on in your head?”

He doesn’t respond right away. For a while, the only sound is the distant murmur of the city beyond the circuit. Then he sighs, deep and heavy, as if it’s been trapped inside him all night.

“I’m just ... taking it all in,” he says finally, his voice quiet, almost broken. “I don’t know if I’ll ever stand up here again.”

The weight of his words sinks into your chest. You reach out, your hand brushing against his arm. “Carlos, don’t say that. You don’t know that.”

“But I don’t know that I will, either,” he counters, turning to look at you. His dark eyes are glassy under the dim lights, his jaw tight. “It’s Williams next year. Williams. You know what everyone is saying. You know what they expect.”

“Forget what they expect,” you insist. “This isn’t the end for you. It’s just-”

“-a step back?” He interrupts, his tone bitter. He shakes his head again, lips pressing into a hard line. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? That it’s a ‘rebuilding year,’ a ‘fresh start.’” His voice drops, softer now but no less anguished. “But what if it’s not? What if this really is the end? What if I’ve peaked, and it’s all downhill from here?”

Your heart twists at the vulnerability in his voice. You don’t know how long he’s been holding this in, how long he’s been carrying this fear. “Carlos-”

“Do you know what I thought, standing on that podium tonight?” He cuts you off, his voice thick. He doesn’t wait for you to answer. “I thought, ‘This is it. This is the last time.’ I smiled, I waved, but inside I was just ... empty.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and he swallows hard, looking away from you. But you can see it — his hands trembling slightly, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

You don’t think. You just move. You reach for him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him into you. He doesn’t resist. His head drops against your chest, and that’s when it happens. The tears come fast, silent at first, then with a shuddering breath that rips through him.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, your hand threading through his hair. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

He clings to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, his arms wrapping around your waist. His tears soak through your shirt, but you don’t care. You press your cheek to the top of his head, rocking him gently. “Even if you never stand on another podium,” you whisper, your voice steady, “it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t make you any less. It doesn’t make me love you any less.”

He stiffens slightly at your words, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are red, his face streaked with tears. “You say that now,” he says, his voice cracking. “But what if I can’t give you the life you deserve? What if I can’t be-”

“Stop,” you cut him off firmly, your hands cradling his face. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare say you’re not enough for me. Carlos, you are everything. Do you hear me? Everything.”

His eyes search yours desperately, as if looking for something to hold onto. “Promise me,” he whispers. “Promise me you’ll still feel that way, even if ... even if everything goes wrong.”

“I promise,” you say without hesitation, your voice trembling with the weight of it. “On my life. I promise.”

He closes his eyes, a fresh tear slipping down his cheek. You wipe it away with your thumb, your fingers lingering against his skin. Then, slowly, you lean in, your lips brushing against his in a soft, lingering kiss.

When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing still uneven but steadier now. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

“Yes, you do,” you counter, your hands slipping down to rest on his shoulders. “And if you can’t believe that right now, then believe this: I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

He doesn’t respond with words this time. Instead, he pulls you back into his arms, holding you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world. And maybe, for now, that’s exactly what you are.

The night stretches on, the podium still and silent around you. But neither of you moves. The world can wait.

[fruitjoos]

serving up suds!

parings: patrick zweig x fem!reader / art donaldson x tashi duncan

word count: 3.9k

summary: you and the rest of the girls on the tennis team need to figure out a way to earn money for new uniforms. your boyfriend suggests the best idea.

contains: SMUT 18+ with lots of cute boyfriend patrick plot, fluff, only contains art and tashi as side characters (sorry), suggestive language between art and tashi, oral (m receiving), inaccurate numbers probs, if you think anything else should be added, please let me know!

note: wrote this simply because i love and miss pookie patrick zweig so enjoy… i planned to post i choose you but wanted to post this instead! also, not edited – will be doing so shortly.

You stood in front of Coach Williams, arms crossed and brows furrowed, your frustration barely masked. “We don’t even have proper uniforms,” you said, voice tight. “They just told us to wear red tank tops and the shortest white shorts we could find. It’s ridiculous. No one takes us seriously.”

It had been a minor irritation at first, something you could almost shrug off as a small injustice. But when you found out that the boys' team, including your boyfriend Patrick, had crisp, matching uniforms—with collars and the school logo stitched on the chest—your irritation curdled into anger. They looked like a team. They looked respectable. And you? You and the other five girls on the team looked like a mismatched afterthought.

A few of you had approached Coach Williams, hoping she’d understand, hoping she’d do something. You told her how embarrassing it was to stand on the court, mismatched and disheveled, while the boys walked by in their pristine gear. She’d just sighed and said the school didn’t have the funds. “Those boys raised the money themselves,” she added, almost proud. “If you girls want uniforms that badly, you’ll have to do the same.”

You groaned. Right, like it was that simple. You had done the math in your head—the cost would be at least a thousand dollars to get anything decent, something that would make you all look polished and cohesive. You wanted sharp collars, the school name embroidered in neat white stitching over your hearts, maybe even matching skirts. But there were only six of you, and $200 each was a lot to ask from college girls already juggling tuition, textbooks, meals, and a list of other expenses that never seemed to end.

The thought gnawed at you for days, and finally, you did something you never would’ve considered before. You went to Patrick. The two of you were sprawled out on the campus quad, the grass prickling your skin, the sun warm on your back. Patrick was fiddling with a Rubik's Cube he’d picked up from god knows where, twisting it clumsily, his focus entirely absorbed. You were trying to study, your math textbook open in front of you, but the thought of those damn uniforms kept distracting you. You sighed, louder than usual, trying to get his attention. He didn’t look up.

Another sigh, this one practically a groan. Patrick smirked, eyes still fixed on the colored squares in his hands. “Something on your mind?” he asked, voice teasing, as if he was enjoying your distress.

“Actually, yeah,” you said, sitting up and crossing your legs. “The girls’ tennis team needs uniforms.” He finally glanced up, confusion flickering in his eyes. “And I was wondering…” you trailed off, giving him a mischievous grin before reaching out to tickle his side. He jerked away, laughing, and caught your wrist. “...if you could, you know, maybe donate a little to help out.”

“You’re cute,” he said, kissing your cheek. “But I’m broke. Spent my allowance for the month already.”

Your head slumped against his chest, and you whined, letting the sound drag out, like a child who didn’t want to go to bed. “C’mon, Patrick. We need this.”

He chuckled, but you could sense his patience thinning. “Why don’t you do a fundraiser or something?” he suggested. “I don’t know, a bake sale?”

It was a simple idea, but it sparked something. You sat up straight, eyes bright with sudden inspiration. “A car wash!” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “We could do a car wash! Who wouldn’t want to donate to a group of girls in bikinis?”

Patrick’s smile faded. “Wait, I meant like selling cookies or something, not—”

But you were already on your feet, packing your things, a plan forming in your mind. Oh you’ll be selling cookies all right. “Thanks, babe! I’ll call you later,” you said, barely looking back as you headed off to find the other girls.

Patrick’s voice trailed after you, a mix of amusement and resignation. “Great. This is going to end well, I’m sure.” But you didn’t care. For the first time in days, you felt a thrill of hope. If it took a little shamelessness to raise the money, so be it. At least the girls’ team would finally have the chance to be seen.

You stood outside Art Donaldson’s dorm room, tapping your foot impatiently, half-wishing you didn’t have to do this. You were almost certain Tashi was hooking up with him. Everyone on the courts could sense the weird tension between them, the way they eyed each other during practice. It wasn’t admiration for his technique, that was for sure. Art was talented, sure, but he played like a baby deer—deft, but awkwardly loose, stumbling into his own brilliance.

Your knuckles rapped softly against the door, and when it finally creaked open, you caught sight of Art’s glassy eyes and his half-buttoned shirt. You had to stifle a laugh. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, and not because he was taking a nap. “Uh, is Tashi around?” you asked, already guessing the answer. Art glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he was checking to see if she was still there.

“Yeah, but she’s busy,” he said, with a casual shrug that didn’t quite hide his irritation.

“I’m sure,” you replied, tilting your head with a knowing grin. You leaned past him, raising your voice. “Tashi, come out here! I’ve got an idea!” Art winced, his expression morphing into a tight-lipped smile, the kind you give when someone’s overstaying their welcome. “She’ll be out in a minute,” he muttered, stepping back to let you linger in the doorway.

You could hear the faint sounds of shuffling before Tashi appeared, her hair tousled and her expression caught somewhere between glee and annoyance. “What are you doing here?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Patrick gave me the best idea,” you said, ignoring the way she rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. She didn’t even try to hide her skepticism—those words didn’t belong in the same sentence, and she knew it.

“No, really,” you insisted, giving her a playful shove. “We should do a fundraiser!”

Tashi’s face softened slightly, but her arms remained crossed, a single brow arching. “A fundraiser?”

“Yes! Think about it—tight bikinis, soapy cars, a bunch of frat boys with too much cash to spare. We’d make bank!” You bounced on your toes, grinning—your excitement spilling out uncontrollably.

She scoffed, but you caught the flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Maybe she was amused, or maybe it was just the sheer absurdity of the situation. “I’m not selling my body to a bunch of frat boys,” she said, shaking her head firmly.

“You’re literally in there with Art Donaldson,” you shot back, your shoulders slumping with exasperation.

Tashi’s eyes narrowed, and she folded her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “So, what’s that supposed to mean?”

You let out an awkward laugh, waving your hands. “Oh, nothing. Just making an observation.” You could see her jaw tense, but you pressed on, undeterred. “Anyway, I’m telling the other girls. We’re doing this, with or without you.” You winked, trying to keep things light, but Tashi’s expression was unreadable as she watched you turn and leave.

A week later, you found yourself in your dorm room, sorting through an array of colorful bikini tops. The whole plan felt like a gamble, but you were determined to make it work. You wanted it to be fun, at least, if you were going to be out there scrubbing cars for spare change. Patrick was sprawled on the edge of your bed, watching with a bemused expression. “You’re seriously going through with this?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“You suggested it!” you argued, as you adjusted the lettering on a handmade sign with your glitter gel pens.

“I suggested you bake cookies and sell them on campus,” he corrected, waving his hand as if to swat away the absurdity of your plan. “This is not what I meant.”

“We’re just washing cars,” you said, shaking your head as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And besides, it’s for a good cause.” You added a few more swirls and hearts to the sign, mockingly repeating his earlier words in a high-pitched voice before tossing a pink towel at him.

Patrick caught the towel and laughed, shaking his head. “You’re something else.”

Grabbing your keys and the finished signs, you turned to him, flashing a grin. “Walk me over there,” you said, already halfway out the door.

He groaned, dragging himself to his feet. “I better get a free car wash out of this,” he muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. The two of you headed down the hall, and as you passed by, you could almost imagine the scene—the sun beating down, water glistening, and a line of cars full of guys willing to fork over their cash just to see a group of girls make a splash. Maybe it was shameless, but you were desperate, and desperate times called for bold, glittery, bikini-clad measures.

The sun was barely up, but the day was already heating up as you and a few of the girls set up the buckets of sudsy water, sponges bobbing in the foam, and wrangled with the nearest hose. Patrick stood nearby, scanning the growing crowd like a bouncer at a club, his eyes narrowing at any guy who dared stare a little too long when you bent over to dip your sponge. He was protective like that, and maybe just a bit possessive, but you couldn’t deny it felt good having someone in your corner, even if he looked ready to body check anyone who ogled you.

You were just about to yell something smart at him when Tashi strolled up, the sound of her flip-flops soft on the concrete, and every head turned as she made her entrance. She was all long, tanned legs, glistening in the sunlight, a tiny bikini peeking out from under her daisy dukes, and she moved with a sort of effortless grace that made you want to both envy and applaud her. You let out a sharp whistle, catcalling her as she approached, unable to resist. She rolled her eyes.

“Careful, those eyes are gonna get stuck back there one day,” you said with a small smile on your lips, and you could tell she was enjoying the attention.

“You look so hot!” you squealed, bouncing on your toes. Tashi flicked her hair over her shoulder, pretending to be exasperated, but she knew she was killing it, and so did everyone else.

Hours passed, the sun climbing higher, scorching the asphalt, and the music thumped from the speakers you’d set up, loud enough to echo down the block. You and the girls took turns yelling at passersby, daring them to get their cars washed, and you couldn’t believe how fast the line grew. It felt like every guy within a five mile radius had suddenly remembered he needed a wash, and they queued up, engines idling, windows down, some leaning out just to get a better look.

Your bodies were practically spilling out of your clothes, skin glistening, slick with soap and sweat. You pressed up against car windows, sponges swirling over the glass, your laughter and chatter floating above the music. “Thank you!” you sang out, flashing bright smiles as you took crumpled bills from hands reaching out of car windows, a parade of faces you didn’t even recognize. You skipped over to where Patrick was standing, collecting the money, and tossed the latest stack of bills into the box he was holding.

The pink, glittery box which you wrote ‘Stick something in me!’ on. It was heavier than you’d expected; you were actually making bank.

Before you could turn back to the cars, Patrick caught your wrist and pulled you close, his hand warm and firm. He cupped your cheeks between his fingers, smushing them slightly, and before you could even register the movement, he kissed you hard, right there in front of everyone. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t soft. It was a claim, a brand, like he was marking his territory for all to see.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice low, but loud enough for everyone nearby to hear, a hint of a challenge in his eyes. He wanted to remind you.

You blushed, caught off guard, but then a grin spread across your face. “I’m yours,” you repeated, just as firmly, before pulling him down and planting another kiss on his lips, making sure the message was clear. As you pulled back, you saw a few guys in line avert their eyes, and you laughed to yourself, a mix of pride and relief swelling in your chest. You had Patrick, you had the girls, and if things kept going this well, you’d have those uniforms too.

"Six-fifty… seven-fifty," Patrick counted, his voice low and steady, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and purples. You were sprawled out across the lawn, grass tickling your bare arms, and you watched him with a warm, tired smile, the kind of smile you give when everything feels just right for once. It had been a long, sweaty day, but now the breeze was gentle, like a cool kiss against your skin, and you felt almost weightless. Your body thrumming with a sense of accomplishment.

“Okay, that’s great!” you said, grabbing his arm, a burst of giddy excitement surging through you. Around you, the girls broke into their own cheers, hugging and high-fiving each other, still buzzing from the success of the day.

“And $100 from me,” Patrick said, pulling out a crisp bill from his wallet and tossing it into the box with a casual flick. The girls swarmed him, shaking his shoulders and showering him with thank-yous, calling him sweet, generous, the best. Even Tashi, who’d been leaning coolly against Art, broke into a grin, and she nudged him with her elbow. Art, who’d been half-pretending not to care, rolled his eyes but couldn’t resist. With a reluctant sigh, he parted with another $100, mumbling under his breath as he handed it over.

“Fine,” he said, almost as if the word hurt, but he was grinning a little, too, when the girls shrieked and patted his back. Rich people, you thought, shaking your head with a smirk. They always made it seem like giving was a struggle when it barely scratched the surface of their wallets.

You took a breath, pushing yourself up to your feet and looking at the small circle of girls around you, their faces flushed and glowing under the dimming sky. "I just want to say… thank you," you started, your voice slightly hoarse from yelling all day but still earnest. "I know this wasn’t exactly easy, but we did it. And I’m really proud." You reached into your own wallet, pulling out a $50 bill, twirling it between your fingers, and held it up like a trophy. “Here’s to us. And new uniforms!”

The girls erupted, their cheers echoing across the lawn, loud and jubilant, as if they’d just won a championship. For a moment, it felt like they had. The line between a football team scoring a last minute touchdown and a group of college girls hustling for their dignity had blurred, and you all basked in the glow of it, even as the day faded into night.

Later, you stumbled back to your dorm, too exhausted to think but too exhilarated to sleep. You flopped down on your bed, sinking into the mattress, letting out a long, satisfied sigh. You barely had time to close your eyes before Patrick followed, landing on top of you with a playful thud, his chin digging uncomfortably into your stomach.

“Ow,” you laughed, swatting at his head as he tried to adjust, mumbling an absent apology. He shifted, then propped himself up, and you cradled his face in your hands, tilting it up so you could look into his eyes. They were the soft blue of summer berries, glinting with mischief and tenderness, and you felt a sudden rush of affection that made your chest ache a little.

“I have the best boyfriend in the world,” you said, the words coming out soft, almost like a secret you were finally ready to admit. Patrick’s cheeks flushed a faint pink, something he did so rarely it was almost a treat to see. He gave you a shy, crooked smile, and you could tell he was savoring the moment, letting it hang in the air between you.

Then he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours, slow and careful, his mouth tasting faintly of your pomegranate chapstick. It was gentle at first, then firmer, like he was memorizing every bit of sweetness. When he pulled back, his eyes were still half-lidded, and his lips curved into a teasing smile.

“So, what’s the reward for being the best boyfriend?” he murmured, his gaze flicking over your face, taking in every detail as if he hadn’t already committed them to memory. His eyelashes fluttered, casting a silhouette across his cheeks, and you felt a shiver of warmth spread through you.

His reward for enduring the humid, sticky air all day, the sun beating down relentlessly on his already sunkissed skin, was right here, pressed against him. He had been patient, sitting there with the box of crumpled bills, sweat glistening on his forehead, eyes darting protectively every time someone lingered a little too long on you. He deserved something for putting up with the heat, the endless chatter, and the occasional, awkward guy who looked like he wanted to challenge him just for standing there. And this was it. You, warm and pliant under his hands, your fingers tangled in his hair, lips brushing his, teasing, like you were savoring every second as much as he was.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head in mock contemplation. “Hmm, I guess I’ll have to think of something…” you said, running your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer until your noses touched. “Maybe a little more of this,” you whispered, your lips brushing his as you spoke, letting the promise linger in the space.

You rolled over, his back sinking into the worn mattress. You let your lips graze his jaw, then drifted down to his neck. He shifted under your touch, laughter mingling with a nervous squirm as your breath tickled his skin. “You’re so good to me,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his earlobe. “So supportive,” another kiss at his temple. “And so, so handsome.” A faint smile broke across his face, eyes closed, lost in the moment.

You let your fingers glide over the cool, metallic buttons of his shorts, tracing each engraved design as if it were spelling out something only you knew. You helped him pull them off, giggling as you threw them across the room. Your hand dipped into the dark mouth of his boxers, rummaging past his trimmed bush of curls, until your fingers closed around the smooth, familiar shape.

His hard cock slid out, catching the light above, precum gleaming, almost tauntingly. You held it up to your mouth, breathing in the faint trace of scent that lingered, delicate but intoxicating.

You stared at it for a moment, feeling a slow, subtle warmth unfurl in your chest. It was a tiny, almost imperceptible smile that tugged at your lips, like the beginning of a secret, and you could feel the tension building under your skin, pooling low in your stomach. Something about holding it in your hand made you feel powerful, like you were in control.

The head was your favorite color—deep, cherry red and glistening like a polished gem when you pulled back his foreskin slowly. You slid it between your lips, supple and sweet. Your tongue circled over his tip, feeling the tiny slit. His sap dissolving against your taste buds. You closed your eyes, savoring the taste.

His arousal melted on your tongue, sweet and syrupy. A thin string of saliva stretched between your lips and the tip when you pulled it away, snapping when you moved it too far. It was deliciously wrong, like sneaking a piece of forbidden fruit.

"You’re so sweet," you murmured, almost to yourself, but loud enough for Patrick to hear. He glanced up, his expression lustful and high.

“Wanna taste it?” you asked, slightly lolling your head to the side. The way you said it was innocent, almost playful, but there was a glint in your eyes, a subtle edge to the offer. You leaned up to him, grazing your tongue over his lips. He moaned at the contact. You grabbed his jaw, letting the glob mixed of your saliva and himself fall onto the heart of his tongue. He groaned, letting it slide down his throat. “I love you.” he whimpered, sloppily inhaling your lips.

You furrowed your brows, mocking the desperate look in his eyes. You watched him, a slow smile curling on your lips. You hadn’t realized how much you’d loved being in control. It reminded you that, for once, you weren’t following the rules, and that felt more delicious than anything you’d tasted in a long, long time.

You pumped your hand up and down his shaft, practically begging him to release all over your pretty face. “You wanna come for me?” you asked with a sweet, honey tone. “I’m so close,” he panted, fingers tangling between your strands of hair. “Fu– please,” he cried, mouth gaping open while hips desperately bucked toward you.

Taking him in your mouth again, you slapped his stiff cock against your tongue, the familiar sensation flooding your mouth as saliva pooled in your cheeks. His fluids mixed with spit, oozing down your lips and pooling on your chin. It felt disgusting, the wetness creeping along your skin, but deep down, every drop was a small victory for making him feel good.

With each stroke, you watched the fizzy mixture drip, the mess clinging to your hand and wrist as you pumped vigorously. You squeezed him in your palms, watching him sputter. Come painting across your face. You bit your lip, trying to steady your hand, hoping you milked him empty. His slit deflating a little more with every squeeze. You could see the droplets peeking through, mocking you.

He threw his head back, catching his breath. “Feel good?” you teased, sucking your fingers. You slid your body up his, his bare cock still hard, brushing against the skin of your thigh. His body jolting at the touch.

"Thank you for your help today, baby," you murmured, letting your lips brush gently against the tip of his nose, a soft, affectionate kiss.

“Anytime,” he said, a playful glint in his eyes. “And don’t hesitate to bring me any other problems you’ve got,” he added, only half-joking, clearly savoring the reward you’d just given him. “I’m always glad to help.”

You laughed, the sound light and warm, as you slipped off the bed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” you teased, padding across the room toward the bathroom to shower. You glanced back at him once more, a smile still tugging at the corners of your mouth, “You coming?” you ask, disappearing into the bathroom.

He slid off the bed in a hurried, awkward motion, the springs letting out a sharp, staccato creak that echoed through the room. His feet barely touched the floor before he was shuffling off, making his way into the bathroom behind you.

[finalgirllx]

fuzzy sweaters | jackson!ellie williams just a teensy fluffy thing for week 1 of spooktober. honestly, i'm in a sweet mood so i think i'll be pumping out more blurbs like this over the month.

no warnings | just give me all of the gf!ellie please and thanks

"ellie, come on," you coax through the bathroom door, your voice soft but persistent. "just show me."

on the other side, you hear her sigh. "are you sure this is my style?" ellie's voice is muffled, but still carries that familiar tone of doubt she only trusts you with. "it's kind of… old man, ish."

"oh yeah, that's perfect," you tease, knocking on the door a few times to signal you're getting antsy. "no, i know it'll look great. plus, it's getting colder, and i'm tired of watching you freeze your ass off while refusing to do anything about it."

"gah, fine," ellie mutters, dismissing your lecture with a part-anxious, part-aggravated huff. you can practically hear her roll her eyes, always with that damn attitude.

ellie tended to reach for clothes that made practical sense—though this wasn’t one of those times. her stubbornness shone through in her refusal to go pick out warmer clothes even as the october chill was creeping into jackson. she insisted she wasn’t 'cold yet' even though you had caught her teeth chattering more than once and how she didn't protest when you moved to hold her shivering hands. still, you didn’t want to push ellie too far, so you picked out something muted and relaxed, hoping it would keep her comfy and echo the warmth you felt toward her. it served as something that could wrap her up when your arms weren’t there to do it.

after a long pause, the bathroom door creaks open, and ellie steps out apprehensively. she's wearing the 'vintage' sweater you nabbed from a bartering exchange; the well-worn knit fits her oversized like a warm embrace--just as you had hoped. the sleeves hang well past her hands, and the brown and olive tones of the sweater are complemented by colorful stripes along the arms. it makes her green eyes stand out even more.

you immediately shift into full-on doting girlfriend mode, squealing and clasping your hands in admiration. ellie stands there awkwardly, never used to the attention. her cheeks flush pink as she fidgets with her fingers beneath the long sleeves.

"you're so dang cute!" you fawn, stepping closer to lightly tug at the sleeve’s fabric. "prettiest girl in the world."

ellie, naturally, protests for a few moments, but the fuzzball sweater and her soft spot for you disarm her, and she quickly crumbles under your affection. her mask fades into something sweet and vulnerable. "are you sure?"

"oh, i'm so sure," you grin affectionately, draping your arms on her shoulders. "my favorite old man—"

ellie's eyes narrow instantly, cutting you off with an 'oh no, you don't' expression. "i will rip this damn sweater in half, i swear to god—"

you lean in to interrupt her half-hearted threat right back with an apologetic kiss.