#classic coke bottle

[inconstantsearchofperfection]

Speaking of things that have no good taste.

Goldpeak tea. It's shit in a bottle.

Fuck you coke. You have made a shitty product. Stop it.

Stop it coke. Stop it.

( I m talking to the people who made new coke )

#4444.4 #classic #coke #gold peak tea ( it s awful ) and it is not tea. #take this shit off the market #coke is pushing real tea in bottles out of places i can buy actual drinkable tea. and fillingbthe shelf w this garbage #i m not gonna buy anymore coke products at all anymore ( cause goldpeak tea is so f awful ) #nice going coke #trying to get more market share by being shits #now you have lost me as a customer #once more ... fuck you. gold peak tea is fucking garbage . please take it off the shelves

[modifiedyincision]

Not proud to say that if someone uploaded an aesthetic moodboard with assorted vintage pop bottles (not just coke or whatever) id be on it like flies on shit.

#Saying all this bc i was in my photos and saw photos i took of bottle labels (theyre sexy sue me) #Idk i just love labels on bottles. drinks especially. Not really the modern ones for the most part because they lack something #but you know what i mean. Especially if they’re glass they’re usually sexier that way. #Helps If theyre local things and not Big Sodapop Classic Flavors usually lmfao #joe tea. Faygo. Old coke. Towne club. You see what I’m trying to say

[ozarkfleajunksales]

#cocacola coke bottle cokebottle 5centsoda soda classic magazinead 1947coke advertisement sodabottle cokeorcola printad advert

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | seven

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: things get a little messy after returning home. a confrontation sparks the beginning of a new stage in your relationship with joel. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, angst, miscommunication trope, self-doubt, alcohol consumption/hangover, joel is 50 and he texts like it, les mis spoilers???, phantom of the opera spoilers???, jealous!joel, food/eating, hurt/comfort, professor DAD, professor COWBOY, soft emotional smut, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, oral [f!receiving], joel says dadgum cause i think it's so classic him and so cute. word count: 11.1k jesus series masterlist | main masterlist chapter moodboard a/n: merry christmas to all that celebrate. as always, thank you for your patience and kindness. the love for this series is nothing short of mind blowing, and i appreciate you all endlessly. i hope you enjoy this angst and potentially the most flowery + emotional ALP smut yet [if that's even possible]. also rachel i love you i'm sorry. without further ado, the beginning of our descent into The End Times x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part seven of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six.

Tuesday.

It's nine thirty in the morning and you buy a Coke anyways.

It’s raining heavy outside; fat droplets of water that splatter against the windscreen of your car and dribble down, slipping through the crevice at the top of the bonnet, searching for the engine, for the oil gasket, for somewhere undercover to dry out.

You tuck your legs beneath yourself, sit criss-cross in the driver’s seat, and take small sips of fizzing black sugar. Allow it to moisten your lips, coat your tongue and your teeth in that sickening, viscous way soda always does, before it slips down your throat.

There’s something unearthly about the day, unnerving—it’s Tuesday morning and you’re hungover. A dull ache behind your left eye, a kink in your neck. You check your phone.

Thick, rolling clouds loom across the sky. Occasionally, a flash of lightning, a thrum of thunder. You tear open a packet of peanuts and pluck one out, and then another. Eat until your lips are dry and puckered, and then take another drink. More peanuts then. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet.

It’s all you can stomach as your liver pumps and spasms, still working to cleanse your blood of the night before, spent sprawled on the couch with Trin and Nora.

Wearing sweaters and thick socks, gripping full glasses of wine, and watching Les Misérables. Nora, tears on her cheeks, had sung along with Hugh Jackman—'This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgement in my place, who am I?’—and you, bleary-eyed and tipsy, had discreetly checked your phone.

You didn’t cry during I Dreamed A Dream but you’re crying for this? Trin rolled her eyes.

He sacrifices his freedom to save that man, Nora whimpered.

You woke up starving and the traffic was slow. At every red light and stop sign your fingers itched against the wheel, desperate to press inside your bag and pull out this little packet. And now, safe in the campus parking lot, you feast. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet. You feel a fleeting moment of pity for people with peanut allergies, and then you check your phone.

Still nothing.

Since you left New York on Monday morning there’s been no sign of life from Joel. No get home safe, no see you on Tuesday; no acknowledgement at all.

You stare dejectedly at the messages you’ve sent him.

First from yesterday afternoon:

Home now. Enjoy your last day in the big apple x

And then from late last night, two bottles of wine deep:

It’s raining and miserable here

Wish I was still in new york

With you

Sitting in your car now, glowering at the blank space where his response should be, you reconcile with the thought that perhaps he wants what happened in New York to stay in New York. Stolen glances and all-too-brief touches in a conference hall, his hand on your wrist at the museum, skin against skin in his hotel room, and in yours—perhaps it was supposed to happen there, not here. The lowering of walls came with a change in location, and maybe that was his intention. But those thoughts don’t ease the sharp twist in your chest when you think of him. Doesn’t take away how much you wish he would give you something – a morsel of communication, even a single word of acknowledgement. For as hard as you try to understand, you can’t forget the look in his eyes when he touched you at the cloisters, the way he breathed your name into your mouth. Sewing the seed of JoelJoelJoel into in the soft folds of your brain, impossible to forget.

You don’t think about his dinner with Rachel. Don’t consider that something may have happened that night, something that changed his mind about you. Something that made him rethink the entire weekend as you slipped into the shower and out the door, leaving him alone in your hotel bed while you headed to the airport.

No. You don’t think about that at all.

When you make it inside, clothes wet and cool from the rain, you shake your hair out like a dog. Let droplets fly across the hall as you make your way into the lecture theatre; a drizzled trail left in your wake.

The room is full when you step inside, but there’s no sign of him yet. You collapse into an empty chair in the front row and wait. The final few students filter in through the door, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their feet. And for another ten minutes you, foolishly, still expect Joel to show up.

It’s only when the door creaks open and an old man walks through, that you let the hopeful feeling rest.

He lays a worn old satchel against the desk and turns to smile at the room.

“Hello,” the stranger smiles, and his jowls quiver as he speaks. “I’m Jerry Dorfman, a Professor from the literature department, and…”

You zone out for a second, eyes darting down to your phone screen. Nothing.

“Oh, and Professor Miller,” Dorfman says, as if he’s just remembered that he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing up there, in his spot. “Is tied up with a family matter. I trust he’ll be back with us later in the week.”

A family matter?

Slick with rain, staring at this stranger stood in Joel’s place, you feel like a kind of newborn. Some fresh lamb, soaked in the blood and amniotic fluids of her mother’s womb, staring through unseeing eyes, hoping to glean some understanding of this moment. This sudden burst of light, this shocking cold after so many weeks of warmth, of sweat and strong hands on your skin, holding you close. But this is Eros; the blacksmith, the limb-loosener, the crusher. A deviation from stoking the flame to the suddenly desperate, grasping loneliness of feeling as though you are standing by a lover’s window, staring helplessly through the glass, and watching them from the outside. Alone.

Dorfman tries and fails to connect his laptop to the projector.

Numb fingers type;

Are you okay? Where are you?

But no response comes.

No, not until later that night, not until you’re tucked beneath the covers of your bed, showered and sleepy, does he finally reach out.

The clock has just ticked past midnight when your phone vibrates.

Hey, I had to stay in the city another day. Just landed at PWM. See you on Thursday.

A hot, jagged feeling swims in your gut as you read the message, and then reread it. Twice, three more times, searching for some hint of familiarity. Some indication that he has been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. That the past weekend meant something to him, like it meant to you.

Minutes pass, and when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you fall asleep without responding.

Thursday.

Nora wakes up with a stuffy nose.

This always happens to me, she sniffs. I hate being sick.

The tiles in the kitchen are cold beneath your bare toes and rain smears heavily against the windowpane. You can hear fat blooms of thunder bellowing outside. Nora’s sullen, husky voice paired with the steam rising from your mug are all it takes to convince you to stay home with her.

The two of you spend the day curled on the sofa beneath blankets. You stare at your laptop, a document open on your screen with the title of an essay sitting pretty at the top. The cursor blinks and blinks at you, taunting you, daring you to write something, anything. But Sex and The City is playing on the tv, and Nora is snoring at the other end of the sofa, and you can’t help but watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Listen to Carrie and Miranda argue about Big, and wonder if Joel has even noticed your absence.

Trin gets home from class, and you follow her into the kitchen. Peel and slice oranges and apples and lemons while she tells you about her day. Boil them in sugar with cinnamon and star anise while she complains about an argument she had with her boyfriend. Add red wine and brandy while she tells you that her Dad sent her some money, and she’ll order take out for the three of you.

So together you huddle in the lounge and eat hot Indian food with your hands. Soak pieces of naan in tarka dal and saag paneer and top if off with mulled wine, unphased by the clashing of flavours in your mouths.

And you don’t check your phone, or look at the time, and you don’t complain when Nora asks, with glassy-eyes and spinach in her teeth, if she can put on another musical.

He’s a freak, Trin frowns at the TV.  

He loves her, Nora implores, staring doe-eyed at a masked Gerard Butler.

Nor, Trin scoffs, he put a wedding dress on a mannequin that looks just like her. In his fucking lair, no less. That’s freak behaviour.

He has amazing sideburns though, Nora grins. So he gets a pass.

Your phone vibrates as Erik strokes a passed-out Christine’s face, singing help me make the music of the night.

Careful that Nora won’t notice, you pull it from beneath your thigh.

Where were you today?

You stare at the words for a moment and feel your lips curl into an disbelieving sneer.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, and shove your phone into the crevice between the sofa cushions.

Wednesday.

A week goes by with no word from Joel.

No word from you either.

You stay home every day. Write and read and catch up on work and take Benadryl and sip soup and then you wake one morning, relieved to find that Nora’s cold has finally left your system.

So you tug on jeans, a sweater, and share a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Share quiet conversation with Pete in his shitty old Beamer as he gives you a ride to campus, and walk into Rachel’s lecture with zero expectation that today will be the day you finally see Joel again.

“We understand that Antigone is a victim of her father’s sins,” Rachel explains. “In the wake of patricide, of incest, every one of her actions is seen as a direct consequence.”

“Even her fate to be buried alive was sewn by her father’s unwitting actions,” she pauses, eyes searching the faces across the room, gauging reactions. “And, of course, this concept isn’t unique to Greek mythology. We see it plainly in the Bible, in Exodus; the sins of your father are to be laid upon the children… these themes of ancestral curses, of the inevitability of fate – they are integral to understand when looking at our tragic heroines. We saw it with Medea, we see it with Antigone, with Iphigenia, with Electra. Electra herself said, we are bound to acquiesce—”

An interrupting knock sounds against the door. Rachel’s head swivels around, eyebrows knitted in frustration as she calls for whoever it is to come in.

The door creaks open and her expression lifts. A saccharine smile spreads across her face, shoulders loosening.

“Joel,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you?”

A shiver wracks down your spine, toes curling in your sneakers.

The broad mass of him rests in the doorway. His head peeks past the wood, just a glimpse of his curls, his glasses, visible from where you sit. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms going damp at the prospect of this being the moment you finally see him again.

He speaks a few words in her direction, too quiet to catch, and then he’s taking a step into the room. His hand grips the edge of the door, keeping it open, and he casts a glance out towards the audience. Dark brown and searching, those eyes filter through countless faces until they finally land on yours.

And for a second, he doesn’t say a word. Just gazes out at you, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, and then—and then he fucking looks back at Rachel. Your stomach goes hollow when you see the smile on her face. She lazes against the corner of her desk, and it feels like minutes go by as the two of you stare at him. And there’s something about waiting, you think, that feels like torture. That slow, painful build-up of pressure as you sit and stare and prepare yourself to discover who he’s here for. You or her.  

You’re reminded painfully of a Graham Greene quote. A passage from The End of the Affair – one you’d, perhaps foolishly, found romantic when you read it that first time. Chosen words that had warmed your chest and made you feel light, lighter than air; the way only words could do sometimes.

‘Yes, Henry?’ and then ‘You?’ She had always called me ‘you’. ‘Is that you?’ on the telephone, ‘Can you? Will you? Do you?’ so that I imagined, like a fool, for a few minutes at a time, there was only one ‘you’ in the world and that was me.

Now, as you stare at Joel in the mouth of the doorway and memory of that passage sinks its hooks in, you feel only contempt for Greene.

For you had always read that passage imagining yourself as Sarah. And someone else, some misfortunate Maurice Bendrix, had fallen into your lap, and he was the ‘you’. But not you, never you. And it’s that pride which deceives. That pride which lulls us into false senses of security.

Joel says your name then.

Says, “Can I speak with you?” You, you, you.

And it should feel like relief, to hear your name on his lips again. But you catch the way he spares another glance, soft and sympathetic, in Rachel’s direction, and that sickly hurt isn’t abated.

Her face falls, but she smiles at you. Nods her permission for you to leave the room, and only when you’re halfway across the lecture theatre, bag swung over your shoulder, does she continue speaking to the class.

Palm flat against the door, he holds it open for you, making you press against him as you slip out of the room. It clicks shut behind you and he begins to move down the hall, leaving you to follow behind with no explanation. You assume that he’s going to lead you to his office, or anywhere more private than this, but a metre from the door Joel pauses abruptly, turns, and you slam into his chest with a huff.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stumbling a few steps back.

“Where have you been?” he glowers, brows drawn tight and angry over his eyes.

“What?”

“I’ve been busy,” you grit, glaring back. “Where have you been?”

“Busy?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been busy too. Busy teachin’ the classes that you don’t even show up for.”

“I’ve been sick,” you roll your eyes, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to stray from nastiness, from spite. “My apologies, Professor.” 

“Don’t—” Joel snaps, and flinches as quickly as the word comes out of his mouth, surprised by how harsh it sounds in the air between the two of you. He takes a step closer, voice low now—“Don’t call me that.”

“Fuck, what is your problem?” you huff, eyes widening, exasperated. “I missed two classes, it’s not a big deal.”

“And the silence?” Joel takes a step forward as he says it. Close enough now to see the smudges on the lens of his glasses. Close enough to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Too close for public; too close for here. “Can’t even text me back, huh? What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

Your body pulls taut at that, hands balling into fists at your sides.

“Oh, you don’t like silence?” you hiss, matching his volume. “You can’t be serious. Joel, I didn’t hear from you for days after New York. Why would I waste my breath when it’s obvious you don’t want to fucking hear from me?”

“It was barely two days,” he shakes his head, shakes off the insinuation, shakes off whatever blame you’re trying to put on him.

“Two days,” you nod, smirking angrily. “Two days after we spent an entire weekend together. Two days after we kissed and fucked and practically went on a date.”

And the word date must elicit something in him. Some minute, man-brain trigger that snaps him to attention and helps him understand the hurt on your face, the tremble in your hands. Because he says your name, voice softening, posture loosening, every bit of his body language screaming out that he wants to step forward and touch you.

And he’s speaking again, voice low, but there’s people coming down the hall, heading your way. Two figures that you can’t make out through the haze of Joel in your immediate vision. So when he reaches out and touches your hand you flinch, jutting your chin over his shoulder. A warning. Don’t do this here.

One of them calls your name and you pause, mouth open. Drag your eyes away from Joel’s features to watch the figures get closer.

“Pete,” you force a smile. “Hey.”

You realise quickly how it must look; your sullen expression, Joel staring down at you with his shoulders hunched. He must understand at the same moment, because he takes a quick step away, folds his hands behind his back.

“Hey,” Pete takes a step closer. He glances warily between you and Joel, confusion colouring his face. “Everything cool?”

Stony faced, Joel looks between the two of you, posture stiffening the longer he stares at Pete. So much larger than him, taller and broader and far more intimidating. But a man with a secret to keep isn’t one to jump quickly at confrontation, so he keeps his mouth shut. Let’s you do the talking.

Ian catches your eye over Pete’s shoulder and offers a sleazy sort of smile. You swallow down a glare and hold Pete’s gaze.

“Everything’s fine,” you lie, taking a step towards them. A step away from Joel. “What’s up, what are you guys doing in this building?”

Pete’s eyebrows pull together, and he cocks his head at you. “Said you needed a ride home today. This morning, remember?”

“This morning,” you repeat, nodding slowly. You raise your hand and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking quickly, mind a mess. “I, uh… right, look, Pete, I actually forgot I have a meeting with Professor Miller about my final essay this afternoon.”

“Your final…” Pete trails off, frowning. “Isn’t that due in like a month?”

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, and do not look at Joel. “I’ll find a way home later, okay?”

“I mean, sure. I guess,” Pete agrees reluctantly, reaching up to grip the strap of his satchel. “Call me if you need me okay?”

And Joel’s face turns to stone at the insinuation in those words. The idea that Pete could give you anything he couldn’t. That anyone would need to swoop in and save you from him.

The pair of you stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on Pete and Ian’s retreating backs as they head down the hall. You watch and watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and only then do you exhale a breath of relief.

You contemplate leaving him there. Turning your back on him and returning to Rachel’s lecture, ignoring his texts and letting this all fade into some painful memory. But when you look at him again—at those big brown eyes that gaze back at you—you know you couldn’t if you tried.  

“You look tired,” he frowns, and it’s not angry anymore. A little sad, maybe.

“I am,” you admit, and wonder if your face betrays how much of a role he plays in that exhaustion.

“Are you hungry?”

You stare for a moment, blinking slow, and then say, “Yeah.”

Joel nods, attempts a crooked smile, and says, “Let me take you to get something to eat.”

It’s silent in Joel’s car, aside from the soft patter of rain against his windows and the dull squeak of his windscreen wipers sliding it away. The truck glides through the winding streets of Biddeford, cruising down the main road and into the left lane of a fast-food drive thru. Orders you a burger, fries, nothing for himself, passing the bag into your lap and then continuing to drive.

The bun is soft beneath your fingers. Grease soaks your skin, and you taste beef, taste onions so soft, so sweet. A crimson dot of ketchup spattered onto your pants; a bright shock of mustard on your tongue. A fry here and there. Joel’s hand, outstretched fingers, sneaking across the centre console to steal one. You shift the paper bag on your lap, tilt the opening so it faces him, easier to access, but he doesn’t take another.

He grips the wheel and asks, “Do you want me to take you home?”

You think about Pete waiting for you at the house. Think about if Ian and that filthy smirk on his face and whether or not he’ll be there too. Think about having to flesh out your excuse, your lie, and finally say, “No.”

Joel keeps driving. You eat until your pants feel tight and the greasy brown bag is crumpled in your fist and he’s pulling his truck off the road and into a short driveway.  

“Full?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

“Is this your house?”

“This is it.” He drags the keys out of the ignition and knocks the door open. It’s not long, barely a second, before he’s pulling yours open with a rough yank and a soft, “Door always sticks on this side.”

A vague sound spills from the back of your throat, and he guides you up a path towards the small home. Single storey, with a large brown door and windows decorating the outward façade. Your immediate thought is that it’s very Joel, but you stop the idea in its tracks. Remind yourself that maybe it isn’t your place to think things like that.

Inside it’s even more silent, even more tense. The two of you stand in the entry way, toeing off damp shoes. Your eyes flit around his front room, but it’s difficult to focus on anything. Too much to look at, too much you want to know, and you find it easier to just look at him.  

“Realised you’d never been here,” Joel murmurs after a while. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, decidedly unsure of what to say as he rests beneath the weight of your stare. “This is the, uh, the livin’ room. Kitchen’s over there.”

When you don’t respond, he clears his throat, ticks his head towards the hallway. “Bathroom is down the hall. Bedroom too.”

You feel your face shift. Deadpan stare turns to surprise, to incredulity, to blatant anger.

“Oh, the bedroom, huh?” you smile, sardonic, cutting. Your throat feels tight. “S’that seriously why you brought me here? Ice me out and then come crawling back when you want something to fuck again?”

“Woah, hey,” his eyebrows shoot up, hands drifting forward like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.

“Don’t,” you hold up a shaking hand, eyes wide and wet suddenly. “Just… don’t touch me right now, okay? What are we doing here, Joel? Seriously.”   

He says your name hard and fast, surprised by how quickly it’s all unravelling, spilling from you in a tidal wave.

And spill it does. The words are wet and watery, a tsunami of pent up emotions pouring from your mouth without permission, without forethought.

“I mean, we haven’t seen each other since New York. And I… I thought being there changed things between us. But maybe I was wrong… and then you pull me out of a lecture, bring me here and say my bedroom is down the hall? Am I just… do you just like having someone to fuck whenever you want? Is that it? Someone at your beck and call?”

Joel repeats your name, sharper this name. “Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” His face pinches in anger, hands dropping.

“When it’s not convenient you try to shake me off, but when it is—at a bar, or out of town—” you list them off on your fingers, eyes growing wider and wider. “Oh, you want me then?”

“That ain’t fuckin’ true and you know it—”

“Do I?” you scoff.

“I came that night when you texted,” he implores, voice raising, all wild-eyed and pleading. “You were drunk, and textin’ and you needed a ride.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that—”

“You didn’t ask me not too either,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “You wanted me to come. Don’t fuckin’ deny that now.”

You open your mouth but he’s too quick, matching your spill with his own now.

“And as if you’re any better?” he bares his teeth now, voice low. “As if you didn’t find out I was your teacher and keep fuckin’ me just for the thrill of it. As if you actually wanted me, and you weren’t just gettin’ off on chasin’ some forbidden fantasy.”

“I…” you gape at him, unafraid to let the hurt show on your face. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he hisses, exhaustion evident in the way he runs a hand through his curls and sags against the door. “You tellin’ me I should believe that you just want me for what I am? A fifty-year-old teacher who spends his time giving fuckin’ speeches to people that are hardly listenin’? Who goes home to an empty bed? That’s what you want?”

And it deflates you, a little. The wounded expression on his face – the devastating truth in those words, splashed across his expression so plainly for you to see. Disbelief.

“Is that such a crime?” you ask quietly. “To want you… and have it be that simple?”

“You shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. Grimaces. “You shouldn’t want me, I’m—I’m no good for you.”

You swallow. Feel tears hot and sharp behind your eyes.

“Then why do you keep letting me?”

“Jesus,” he exhales, and his hand is on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re pressed against his chest, hands coming up to grip his shoulders and steady yourself. “Because I can’t fuckin’ quit you, alright?”

“Because I don’t just want you when it’s convenient,” his lips curl around the word, disgusted by the insinuation. “Because I think about you all the god damn time and if I can only have you some of the time then I guess I’ll take it. Because if you want some fucked up fantasy, then I’ll play my part if it means I get you, I don’t care—”

You cut him off, lips firm and searing against his. He goes still for a moment, mouth parting with a surprised exhale, warm when you press inside with your tongue. And then warmer, salty; tears on his cheeks, on yours.

“That’s not what this is,” you whimper into his mouth, desperate for him to believe it. “It was never about that, it was about you, Joel. I want you.”

He kisses you again, slow. All of the anger and hurt and frustration pools out of the both of you, spilling from your mouths and into the air. His lips mould over yours and his hands are warm on your waist, your back, holding you tight against his chest. When you sniffle, he pulls back, forehead heavy against yours, and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes closed. “I missed you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for—"

“Where were you?” you interrupt. “What happened in New York?”

He hesitates for a moment, nervous and calculating as he stares you down.

You wilt a little; dejected all over again. Recoil from him and quietly ask, “Why won’t you let me know you?” 

Joel’s hand hovers in the air, as if contemplating reaching for you again, but then it drops and he says, “I was with my daughter.”  

You blink.

Daughter.

Daughter?

“She lives there now,” Joel sounds a little breathless, cheeks pink as the words spill from him. “In New York, with her girlfriend. I’d planned to spend an extra day there with her, and then Nina—Nina cut her hand open at the studio and we had to go to the ER, and she had to get stitches and—” He pauses, waiting for you to jump in, to interrupt, to say anything. When you don’t, he takes a breath and continues. “And I wasn’t gonna stay any longer but Ellie was worried, and she needed me. She needed me there, and—and I’m never fuckin’ there, because she never needs me anymore. So I stayed, and I’m sorry I went silent but I was… I was takin’ care of my kid.” 

You think it might be the longest—and the fastest—you’ve ever heard him speak outside of a lecture hall.

His eyes drift to something over your shoulder and his entire body seems to sag a little. But it isn’t sad. It’s a resigned, sort of relaxed thing that happens – the corners of his mouth tilt up and he smiles weakly.

You turn, follow his eyeline until you see them.

Pictures, so many pictures, lining the walls of his home. Ones you’d paid no attention to when you first stepped inside, but can now see clearly. Bright eyes and wide toothy grins.

Some of Joel younger, leaner, smiling beside a little girl with curly hair. Some of him as you know him now; scruffy and greying, beside a different girl. This one lanky and pale and grimacing toward the camera as if she were forced into being placed in front of it.

There’s one picture of the girls beside each other, teenagers maybe, sat on either end of a seesaw. The curly-haired girl is on the upper end, grinning madly at the lens, while the other sits with her feet planted firmly on the ground, laughing up at her. Two of them. Two daughters?

“Please say somethin’.”

There’s a picture of Joel and he’s holding a tiny little bundle in his arms, and he looks so young and so fucking afraid. Dark eyes wide and teary as he gazes down at chubby cheeks, his index fingers crooked around the edge of her swaddle. A warm feeling swells in your chest and your body softens the longer you look at it. He’s a father.

Joel says your name and when you turn his face is all twisted up, and he looks the smallest you’ve ever seen him. Almost curled in on himself.

“I should’ve told you,” he nods, brown eyes darting across your face in an attempt to decipher your silence. “I know that, and I—”

“I’m an asshole,” you interrupt softly, and the tears never left but now they feel heavier on your waterline. Begging to spill over again.

“Hey,” he frowns, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb swipes at the soft skin beneath your eye, begging the wetness there to disappear. “Hey, hey, no—”

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, sniffling. A sickly cocktail of embarrassment and guilt and shame swirl in the pit of your stomach and you try to swallow it down, try to send it away, but it’s persistent. “I never stopped to think that something had actually happened, that you had… I feel selfish, Joel, I’m sorr—”

“You’re not,” he hushes, fingers curling into the hair behind your ear. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you before, and I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were staying away because of me,” you offer a watery smile. “I thought maybe you and…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Can’t make your lips form the name Rachel.

“No,” he shakes his head, jaw tight, as if reading your mind.

“Is she okay?”

“Ellie?”

“Ellie,” you roll the name around in your mouth. His daughter.  “Yeah.”

“She’s okay,” he smiles, nodding. “They’re both fine.”

“And…” You look back at the pictures. Two. “And the other girl?”

“Sarah,” Joel says softly, pointing at wild curls and brown eyes that look just like his. And he must see the questions swirling in your brain because he speaks again. “I was twenty. My, uh, my girlfriend at the time didn’t know what to do. Didn’t wanna be a Mom, but didn’t agree with abortion, and we were so young and… well, I asked her to marry me cause it felt like the right thing to do, but she didn’t…” he shakes his head a little, a faraway look in his eye as he remembers it. “She said no. She never wanted that… so, after Sarah was born, I told her that she didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t have to?” you repeat the words, eyebrows furrowing.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he clarifies. Your lips part, surprised. “So, she didn’t, and we ain’t seen her since Sarah was a few months old.”

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes widening as the information finally starts to sink in.

“And Ellie,” he laughs then, gazing at a picture of auburn locks and shock grey eyes. “Well, that one showed up on my door some time fifteen years later. Been in ‘n’ outta foster care for years, and just started followin’ Sarah home from school one day. We did this little dance for a while; dinners and sleepovers and me slipping money into her backpack so she could buy lunch at school. And then one day she just… begged me not to make her go back to her own house. So I didn’t.”

“Wow, I…” you blink. “You adopted her? Alone?”

“I…” Joel pauses. Wets his lips, frowning as he collects his thoughts. “Alone is… I don’t think that’s the right word for it. You see Ellie was… Sarah and me, we just knew. She was family so fast. It was the only thing that made sense, you know?”

And it does, you suppose. The image isn’t hard to conjure. Joel at the dinner table with two teenagers on either side of him. Arguing over homework, over curfews, over what movie to watch. You can see the fondness in his eyes as he talks about them – the emotion laced through his words; we just knew.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Joel says, and that line between his eyebrows is back and it’s so deep that you can’t help yourself from reaching up and smoothing it over with your thumb. He catches your hand and holds it against the centre of his chest. Lets you feel the way his heart thuds heavily beneath the skin, a sturdy rhythm against your palm.

“It’s… it’s a lot to take in,” you confess, and his hand tightens over yours. “But I’m glad you told me.”

Brown eyes search yours, gaze heavy. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.” 

You flex your palm against his chest. Dig your fingers into the flesh there a little.

“Can I…” he hesitates, eyes flickering down. “Do you… Can I kiss you?” You, you, you.

Your heart beats fast, and you feel his do the same, and Joel is a father, and two daughters, and I can’t fuckin’ quit you, and you’re breathing into his mouth yes, yes you can kiss me, please kiss me.

It’s warm and it’s gentle and it feels like such a kindness to kiss him now and feel less space between the two of you. Feels like a thousand apologies and explanations slipping off his tongue and you opening your arms to him, saying I understand, saying thank you for telling me.

And when you pull him closer, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, he meets you in kind, pressing your back against the wall. He shifts his hips between yours and shows you how much he’s missed you, and only when his hand drifts beneath the hem of your shirt do you pause.

He stills, warm breaths drifting across your mouth as he looks into your eyes.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m exhausted,” you admit shyly, twisting a finger through a frizzy lock of hair at the nape of his neck. You tug at it, not meeting his eye, and watch it bounce back into a curl when you let go. He nods and kisses you again, closed lips soft and not asking for anything, never asking for more than you want to give, before he takes your hand and leads you through his house for the first time.

He runs you a bath. Makes you sit on the edge while he lays out a towel and checks the temperature every few minutes. Only when he’s satisfied that the water is perfectly warm does he help peel the clothing from your body. He grips your hand and helps you step into the tub, lowering you down into sudsy water. And when you’re settled, he pulls a stool nearby and sits, keeping you company as you soak.   

“S’nice,” you tell him quietly, dragging a foamy sponge across your arms. “Thank you, Joel.”

The weight of before hangs over you a little, pressing down against your shoulders as you watch him. Gauge him. But he doesn’t seem angry or upset anymore. He leans over the lip of the tub. Runs his hands through the water, over the skin of your calf, your knee. Feels the coarse hairs that have grown there over the past fortnight and smiles when they scratch against his palm.

“Said you were sick?”

“Mhm.”

“What kind?”

“Just a cold,” you whisper. He squeezes your knee, palm against your patella, fingers soft in the flesh around it. “M’fine. Past it now.”

In the soapy water, his skin feels like silk against yours.

“Changin’ of the season,” he muses with a nod. “Normally gets me too.” 

And you laugh a little at that, because it’s such a fatherly thing to say and you can’t believe how naïve you’d been to not see it before. Can suddenly picture him doing this a thousand times over; resting by the bath while one of his little girls floats in the water, nose all stuffy from the flu.

At the sound of your laughter he smiles, gaze dropping to your mouth, and the skin beside his eyes pinches. Little wrinkles, so soft and so beautiful that you want to reach out and brush your fingers across them.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, and his voice is hushed, so low in the small bathroom.

His fingers skirt against the inside of your thigh and you splay your legs open for him, knees knocking against the sides of the tub. He glances down through the water to where you’re spread open for him to see, shameless, and smiles.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeats.

“So are you, Joel.”

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, offering a delicate little smile. So shy, so feeble, and so desperate to believe you. A little glimpse of that wary weight, still pressing down on him as well.

“Mean it,” you insist in a whisper. You lift a hand from the water, wet thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Feel the bristles of his moustache, the hairs on his cheek, prickling against your skin.

“Swoony type,” you say, smiling when recognition flashes in his eyes. Stroke the fresh blush on his cheeks. “Long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss against your palm. “Can’t get away with plagiarisin’ Carson in this house, baby.”

“She just said it so well.”

“She did,” he agrees. “So did Tartt.”

“Tartt?” your mind wanes, the warm water lulling you into a sleepy sort of daze. You rest heavy against the side of the bath, gazing up at him

“Beauty is terror,” he quotes tenderly, eyes bold and earnest as he holds your stare. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, water droplets staining his shirt where your fingers grip the material, and pull him forward to kiss you. Joel grips the inside of your leg and kisses you until your skin prunes and wrinkles. And when he notices he laughs with you, gripping your hand to press his lips against fingertips that look like raisins. Worships the soaked skin of your fingers until you pull his face back to yours; jealous of your own hands, fearful that they might come to know his kiss better than your lips.

And when the water goes lukewarm and you don’t know what time it is anymore, he dries you off with a soft towel and offers once more to take you home. But you say no, so he smiles and kisses you again—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—and leads you to his bedroom.

He drags a too-big shirt over your head, helps you loop your arms into the sleeves. Dark blue and warm, so warm, against your skin.

The two of you slip beneath the covers on his bed and he drags you against his side; lets you press your cold toes against his shins without so much as a flinch.

Facing each other on your sides, those hands slink beneath the shirt, rough palms cradling your ribs, your back, holding you tight against his chest until your breathing falls in sync. And those hands don’t stray, don’t move down, they just embrace you. A carefully held apology that promises I want this, to hold you, to be with you, too.

It stays like that, nothing more, until your eyelids are heavy, and his breathing has evened out. Stays like that until your hand drops from his back to the band of his boxers, sleepy little fingers plucking at the material, trying to slip underneath.

“You should rest.”

But you whine softly; needy and insistent as your fingers press harder.

“What do you need?” Joel rasps into your neck, helping you shift them down his legs.

“Need you,” you whisper back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Wanna feel you, I—”

His mouth is soft against yours, plucking those words from your mouth and swallowing them down. He sucks your bottom lip between his, prying your mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside.

His hand in on your knee, pulling your leg up until your thigh rests heavy around his hip and you can feel the hot weight of him against your core, still slick and warm and needy from when his hand rested on the inside of your leg in the bath.

And if you’d ever subscribed to the meaning behind words like sin you suppose that once this might have counted as one. An act worthy of being sent to reside in that second circle of hell, reserved solely for those overcome by lust; left to blow back and forth in the storm of their own desire. Two people who cannot touch, should not touch, who hold their hands out to feel anyways. A touch once spiteful, once desolate and removed, now so forthcoming. A touch that says this is the only way it could have ever been. And there can be nothing sinful about it anymore. No more shame or derision behind heavy eyelids, no more you shouldn’t or I’m no good for you. Here you rest comfortably in the hurricane of that second circle, and you welcome the breeze as a comfort.

Lips against yours, Joel feeds his cock to you in slow, careful passes.

Ensures you feel every ridge, every hard line of his body. And with each gentle press inside he murmurs against your mouth. Incessant, low nonsenses of so fuckin’ beautiful and god I missed you and that’s it, baby, I know, I know. His kiss smooth as an almond, tender as a fig. Ripe and wet and tremulous as his tongue finds a home against yours, over and over.

The comforter on his bed stays pulled high, up to your shoulders, and it traps the warmth of your bodies between you.

He coaxes rough, gasping sounds from you with every shift of his hips.

Long fingers grip the back of your thigh, using his hold there to rock your body into his over and over again, slowly, making sure you feel every second of it. Slick seeps out of you around his length, smearing against the inside of your thighs and his, and he groans at the wet sounds that slip from where the two of you are connected.

Joel says your name, low and gravelly, praising every syllable. He tells you how good it feels, how perfect you are, and every word is like an undressing of the flesh. Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him. The whole surface and everything underneath it now too. And when you say his name in return and he moans, begs you to say it again, say my name again, it’s hearts on wings, thin fire racing beneath the skin, eyes unseeing, drumming filling your ears. It’s the cold sweat on his hands that hold you shaking, that feel the way you tremble and grip tighter. It’s wanting to take those bones of his and suck them clean; lick past the gristle and taste the marrow beyond it.

It's everything and it’s nothing and it’s that silly little four-letter word that you can’t bring yourself to say, let alone think, and it doesn’t even matter because he’s here and that’s enough.

His nose rests in the hollow above your collarbone and he inhales, smothering soft kisses to skin and bone there.

He says, “You smell like me,” and when he looks up and presses his forehead against yours, he almost looks wounded by it. He stills, holds himself deep inside and just stares, and his eyes are screaming I can’t fuckin’ quit you, so you lay your thumb over the dimple on his cheek and smile. “S’my clothes, my soap…”

Your body flutters and tightens around him, and your mouths fall open in soft moans, lips slotting together again.

“You like that?” you breathe into the kiss, and he tightens his fist around the back of the shirt, pressing inward until your back is arched, and your stomach is flush against his and he’s groaning yes.

“Want you in my clothes all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, and the tip of his cock presses so deep inside that you’re gasping, mouth hanging wide open. “And when you give ‘em back I’ll wear ‘em and smell like you, and then we’ll be even.”

“Even?” you laugh a little, nipping at his bottom lip. He smiles, eyes glinting in the darkness.

“Yeah, even,” he repeats it and presses forward in a sharp thrust to emphasise his point. You don’t need to hear it again to know exactly what he means.

“Tell me you’re mine,” you whisper, and he grunts, hips shifting a little faster against yours. You feel him pulse inside of you, his stomach tightening against yours.

“M’yours,” Joel murmurs, voice like velvet and honey, so soft as he leans forward to kiss you, licking the words into your mouth. You say it back, spell it out against his teeth, his lips, his jaw. Yours, yours, yours. 

He says something else then, lips soft against your chin, and you’re so close; can feel it hot and burning in your gut, almost at tipping point.

“Hmm?”

“Baby,” Joel nips at your jaw, sharpening your senses. “Tell me you’re on the pill or somethin’.”

“I am,” you whimper honestly, and his body seems to sag against yours, hips shifting in sluggish, tired movements.

Something snaps at the base of your spine, and you tremble against him, gripping the back of his neck. Soon enough he’s shuddering into you, arms going tight around your back, trapping you against his chest as his cock pumps inside your core. And it’s warm and wet and sticky and his seed drools out of you, down to your asshole, smearing against the inside of your thighs, his sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him to you, keeping him there as long as you possibly can. Riding out your highs, and then the trembling, stuttering aftershocks in each other’s arms. He pants into your mouth and all either of you can say is mine or yours, until the words mix together and become a meaningless blur of sound murmured between locked lips.

It could be minutes or an entire hour before you manage to separate from each other. All eager little kisses and whines as his soft cock slips from your hold, thick spend seeping out of you in his absence. And you just want to sleep, want to curl up in his arms and never leave, but you slink off to the bathroom first. Wet your face and drop down on his toilet. Urinate and feel his come drip out of you. And where once, with someone else, you might have cringed at the feeling, you only feel warmth; calm.

In the bright lighting of his bathroom, you can see yourself reflected in the mirror above his sink. Hair a wild mess, cheeks and lips swollen with warmth. This woman in the mirror stares back at you and she has bright eyes. She smiles at you, and you feel your lips peel back, teeth on show just like hers. You stare at her and think god, she looks happy. When you wipe between your thighs and stand, she does too. And with your finger on the light switch, a wet handtowel clutched in your other palm, you give her one last look before turning out the light, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

Thursday.

Joel sleeps on his stomach. At least, that’s how he ends up overnight.

Face buried deep in a pillow, one leg slung outside of the covers, with a heavy arm out to the side. When you wake, at first, you’re careful not to move. Not to breathe too heavily, not to cough or jostle him awake. He looks so peaceful like this. Heavy breaths puffing from chapped pouty lips, forehead smooth and devoid of the stress and exhaustion that often lines his face. A large hand rests close to you. Despite you drifting a part in the night, the body heat getting too much for you both, his fingers remain outstretched in your direction. The tips just grazing the skin of your stomach as you lie on your side and watch him.

A low murmur escapes from his mouth, face twitching a little, and then he’s relaxing again, humming in his sleep. You smile, and let your eyes wander.

There’s a pile of books on his bedside table, reading glasses dropped haphazardly atop them.

An Idiot’s Guide to Space, one of the weathered spines reads. Interesting.

A framed painting rests above a set of drawers on the side of his room. A vast landscape with a herd of horses galloping across it. Gorgeous hides of orange and brown and black splashed across green grass and blue sky. And on the back of his door… hangs a cowboy hat.

You move slowly, careful not to wake him as you rise and tip toe across the room. Coming to rest directly in front of the closed door, you slip it off the hook and admire it. You don’t even hear his breathing change as he wakes up.

Dark brown with a curved brim; the felt is soft beneath your fingers. The image of Joel wearing it, perhaps often, while living in Texas flits through your mind and you can’t help but smile. And then warm hands are on your hips, arms snaking around your waist to pull you back into a warm chest.

You gasp in quiet surprise, but your smile only broadens when Joel rests his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the hat in your hands.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gruff and deeper than usual. A pang of arousal swims in your core at the sound of it, but you ignore that, turning in his grasp.

“Good morning, cowboy.”

Joel groans, sleepy eyes drifting closed as he hugs you to his chest, swaying the two of you from side to side.

“Wanted to lie in,” he grumbles. “S’too early for this.”

“For what?” you blink in mock confusion, holding the hat against your chest.

“For you to see that.” He moves quick, tugging it from your grasp.

“Hey—” You gasp, wide eyed and ready to steal it back. But before you can Joel just lifts it onto his head with a heavy sigh. “Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeats, eyes narrowing.

Warmth simmers in your stomach and you smirk, stepping back to give him a quick once over.

“I could get used to this.”

“Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, moving to take it off but you grip his hand, shaking your head fiercely.

“Not so fast,” you coo. “I want the whole experience.”

“And what exactly is the whole experience?”

“You know—” You shimmy your hips a little. Imitate twirling a lasso in the air, wiggling your eyebrows. “Show me some tricks.”

Joel laughs at you, and you can see the desire in him to say no, to refute it, but the longer you stare him down, the more it cracks and fizzles away.  

“Go on, cowboy,” you try out your best Texan drawl, falling down to sit on the edge of his bed.  

He adjusts his legs, elbows bending as he waves two finger guns in your direction. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down a laugh as he makes a small pchew pchew noise out the side of his mouth.

“Oh,” you smirk. “Is that all you got?”

“I’ll have you know,” Joel huffs, pretending to holster one of his guns. Hip cocked now, still dressed in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxers; he stares you down. “I’m startin’ to think this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

And that gets you. A sharp, barking laughs slips from your mouth, and Joel grins in return, the skin beside his eyes creasing as he adjusts the Stetson over his curls.

As your giggles calm, he just shakes his head, still smiling, and murmurs fondly, “Dadgum, you got a good laugh.”

Your face warms beneath his stare, and you just shake your head, bottom lip snagged between your teeth. Moving quick, Joel pinches the brim of the hat and places it onto your head. It’s a little big, and the brim falls down, obscuring your eyesight before he adjusts it for you. Then he takes a step back, hands on hips.

“How do I look?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, smiling shyly.

“I don’t know,” he fakes an air of contemplation, giving you a long look up and down. “Think you might be all hat ‘n’ no cattle.”

“Hey,” you pout. “I’d make a great cowboy; just need a pair of chaps.”

“Well, you can wear the hat and the chaps all you like,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy. “But you ain’t a cowboy ‘til you prove you can ride like one.”

Your thighs tense and you arch an eyebrow, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Is that right?”

“S’right.”

“Mm,” you hum. You lick your bottom lip and watch the way his gaze darkens, eyes trained on the movement. “Gonna let me show you what I got?”

And so you end up back in bed, straddling Joel while he smirks up at you, long fingers twisting around the hem of your t-shirt. But when you slip a finger inside the hem of his boxers, the movement so reminiscent of last night, he laughs a little and gives you a look that says, really?

You pout, confused. “I thought you wante—”

“Uh uh,” Joel shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“Get up here.” He lifts his chin upward.

Your eyes widen, stomach tensing a little.

Desire warms the inside of your thighs, and you murmur, “You want that?”

“Do I wa—?” he cuts himself off, eyes darkening a shade. “I said, get up here.”

Heart racing, you shimmy up his chest until your knees are planted on the mattress on either side of his shoulders. He smiles, encouraging, and you grip the hem of his shirt, prepared to pull it over your head, but he stops you.

“No,” he exhales, hand quickly gripping yours. “Leave it on for me.” And then he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you can only nod, holding your breath as you wait for him to reach where you want his mouth the most.

Face tucked in the cradle of your hips, Joel sighs your name. A rough exhalation, nose pressed into your skin. And it feels a little silly at first – your face is warm as you stare down at him, the wide brim of the cowboy hat tilting forward.

But then, breath hot and heavy against you, he mouths at the crease where your hip meets your thigh. Slow, drawn-out kisses that have your legs tensing over him, his hands slip beneath the shirt, tracing light patterns into the skin over your spine, all the way up to your shoulders. He keeps going until you’re shivering, a wet trembling mess in his hands, hips twitching forward with every touch of his mouth to your skin until he finally glides his tongue through your folds.

Your breathing hitches as he pants against you, chest vibrating with low sounds as he licks thick stripes up the entire length of your pussy. Eyes closed, he tastes all of you; tongue slipping over every piece of exposed skin that the position grants him. And with every broad stroke of his tongue, he dips inside your weeping hole and finishes with a gentle flick against your clit. So soft and so slow, building you up over and over until finally you break and begin rocking your hips into his face.  

Joel grunts at first, a little surprised maybe, but in a second his hands are dropping to grip your thighs, locking you in place against his face.

At first, he guides you. Helps you find a rhythm that works, that feels good. Flattens his tongue and uses his grip to rock you back and forth over his face, groaning as you roll your clit against him, huffing and panting quiet little pleas. But soon enough your fingers are carding through his hair, holding him tight against you as you grind down into his mouth. Sharpening his tongue, he dips it inside of you and then drags upward, pulling your clit into his mouth and sucking gently.

You gasp, vision going hazy as you try to keep your eyes on him, try to watch, but it’s too good. He knows exactly what you like, and it all moves far too quickly for your liking. You can already feel your hips winding faster and harder against him, breaths falling shorter, everything in your stomach pulling tight and hot.

Joel can tell – he can always fucking tell – and one of his hands drifts over your ass, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind until his middle finger is circling your entrance.

“Fuck,” you inhale sharply, jaw going slack as he prods at your cunt, tongue lapping lazily over your clit all the while. “Please, your fingers, yeah, ohhh—”

A long finger sinks inside and you moan, head falling back.

“You like that?” he murmurs, pulling back to graze his teeth along the inside of your thigh. A second finger presses inside, and he curls them against that soft spot, fucking you slow and steady until you acquiesce, whimpering yesyesyesfucksogood towards the ceiling.

“Good girl,” he hums, slick tongue finding its way back to your clit.

He eats at you so lovingly. So generous as he lathes firm circles around your nerves, only ever pausing to suck you into his mouth again or press wet, open-mouthed kisses against the entirety of your cunt. Nose buried in the short curls over your mound, he doesn’t let up until your moans turn high pitched; strained little whimpers of his name falling from your lips as you press down harder and harder.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, hips rocking back and forth, faster now. He breathes you in, jaw shifting from side to side, matching the intensity of your movements with sharp flicks of his tongue. And when you fall apart, shoulders sagging forward, he moans, taking and taking and taking every last drop of what you have to offer.

And what an image it must be – you, wearing a Stetson, riding Joel Miller’s face. You almost wish you’d filmed it, for posterity’s sake.

He presses a small kiss to one swollen lip of your pussy, and then the other, before his head is falling back into the pillows and he’s smiling up at you.

The lower half of his face shines, lips and facial hair slick with your come, and you can’t help but grin back, a tired snort of laughter slipping from your mouth.

“How’d I do?” You grip the brim of the hat, tipping it down at him.

Joel smirks, hands squeezing your thighs, helping to shift you up and onto the side of the bed so he can sit up.

“I’d say you more than proved yourself,” he hums, leaning in to steal a kiss. You sigh, whining against his warm wet mouth, and reach a hand down to press it against his abdomen. Shifting lower, you trail your fingers over where his cock strains against his boxers, but Joel just tuts, pulling away and slipping off the bed.  

“Hey,” you huff, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down, but he just shakes his head, laughing, and drags you to your feet.

“Gonna be late,” he tells you, squeezing your hips and pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you needa eat.”

Late. You’d almost forgotten that you had a lecture this morning. Joel’s lecture.

He turns, rifling in the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes, a pair of socks, while you stand behind him and watch, knees still shaking, with a fucking cowboy hat on your head. After a moment he turns, stares, and a rough laugh hits the air. Shaking his head, Joel grips the brim and tosses the hat back up on its hook before pointing towards the ensuite, telling you to shower.

“You coming?” you ask, and he just shakes his head, tugging on socks before padding towards the hallway.

“Cowboys don’t shower, baby,” he flashes a smile over his shoulder at you and winks. “They just dust off.” 

When you make your way out of the shower, Joel is in the kitchen. Ironed black trousers and a neat white shirt cover his frame, and from across the room you admire him. That strong back, the pert rounded muscles of his ass. Fuck.

He manages to over scramble the eggs and burn the bacon because he can’t stop looking over his shoulder at where you rest at his dining table. Head resting heavy in your palm, you smile back at him. And when he puts a plate of food in front of you, you don’t have a single complaint.

The two of you eat fast, plucking little pieces of eggshell out as you go, smiling and laughing shyly as your feet tangle beneath the table. He watches you; makes sure you clear your plate before he takes it to the sink, murmuring something about how he won’t make you sit through me talkin’ for hours on an empty stomach. Says he’s pretty sure that counts as torture somewhere, baby.

And when he turns, dirty dishes forgotten in the sink, you’re staring at him, heart on your sleeve, and he must see it in your eyes. You know that it has to be clear as day; that forbidden four-letter word blazing across your forehead in bold letters.

Joel clocks your gaze and moves to hover over where you sit, wordlessly cupping your face in two broad palms and slotting his mouth over yours. And as he licks into your mouth, tasting the remnants of eggs and bacon and every unsaid word, you start to believe that maybe confessing wouldn’t be so bad. That maybe forbidden is a word you’ve prescribed to this feeling all on your own – that he might just be feeling the exact same way.

But he pulls back, presses two more quick pecks to your mouth and tells you to get ready, says he’ll drive the two of you to school, and the moment slips from your grasp.  

Back in his car, you feel relieved to replace the memory of yesterday with this one. Windows down, the air is cool and calm against your skin as he drives you through town, sated, dopey smiles across both of your faces.

A Bob Dylan song drifts from the speakers and Joel sings along under his breath.

“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue. Tangled up in blue.” Voice low and breathy, left hand on the wheel, right hand on your thigh. You nod along to the lyrics, your fingers tracing the veins and tendons on the back of his hand all the way until he pulls over.

“Shouldn’t be seen walkin’ in together.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding. “Best not.”  

The truck idles on the side of the road, somewhere inconspicuous down the street from campus, and you slip out his passenger door. Close it with a thud and peer in at him through the open window, eyes devouring every part of his face as if you won’t be seeing him within the hour, stood up in front of the room giving a lecture.

The truck peels away from the curb, Tangled Up In Blue still whining from those speakers, and Joel sends a quick wink out the window at you, his face a blur as he drives off. And you just smile, chest warm despite the cool Spring air on your face, walking along in the same direction – because you know exactly what that wink means. And you love it.

Our little secret.

a/n refs:

in Dante’s Inferno he said that those overcome with lust were doomed to the second circle of hell, wherein they would be buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without rest. slay.

the bacchae tr. by anne carson [read if you have mummy issues, a massive ego, or just like the idea of frolicking in the woods for a while...]

the secret history by donna tartt [read if you like unreliable narrators, strange professors and stranger students, and the nursery rhyme 'the farmer in the dell']

the end of the affair by graham greene [read if you like weird intense guys and angst and infidelity]

eros the bittersweet by anne carson [read if you're cool as fuck]

thank you for reading! x

#finally am i right? #my writing #fic: a lover's pinch #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1962 Chevrolet Corvette

1962 Chevrolet Corvette 360HP Real Barn Find, Even GM Forgot Existed

The Classics

The 1962 Chevrolet Corvette was a sports car produced by General Motors under the Chevrolet brand. It was the third generation of the Corvette model and featured a completely redesigned body. The 1962 Corvette featured a more aggressive and sporty design, with a longer and wider body and a more pronounced “Coke bottle” shape.

Under the hood, the 1962 Corvette was powered by a variety of engines, including a standard 327 cubic-inch V8 engine with 250 horsepower or an optional 327 cubic-inch V8 engine with 300 horsepower. The car was available in both a convertible and hardtop (or “Stingray” as it was referred to) body styles.

The dust on the body seems to confirm this is indeed the case, so the first thing this car needs is a thorough wash. However, there’s a chance the Burgundy finish under the dust looks amazing as well, as the vehicle doesn’t seem to exhibit any signs of rust, dents, or scratches.

The interior is dusty as well, but its overall condition is startling, to say the least. The black top matches everything else and is in excellent condition. The seats look fantastic and are free of rips, however it’s unclear why they’re also covered with dust (maybe the car was stored with the windows down?). The door panels appear to be in decent shape, but in order to judge the overall condition of the cabin, you must first carefully clean the inside.

The odometer reads a little more than 41,700 miles (about 67,000 km for our European friends), and the number might be accurate. This might indicate that the engine was never rebuilt, but a closer look should reveal whether or not this is the case.

Then we have no way of knowing if everything is original or if any pieces are missing. The garage in charge of finding a new owner for this magnificent Corvette hasn’t released any facts on this front, so if you’re serious about buying it, make sure you ask these questions.

#chevrolet corvette #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle #corvette #chevrolet

[nataliasquote]

For her | y belova

Summary: Yelena tries to find the balance between spending christmas with her girl and tracking down Clint Barton…

Warnings: none

Pairings: yelena belova x reader

wc: 1.7k

note: I know it’s not christmas but I love this fic and couldn’t really wait an entire year :)

-⧗-

A classic Christmas movie played quietly on the tv in the living room, as the two women sat on the couch, snacking on pretzels and chips. The sun had set, so the room was lit up in a multitude of colour coming from the festive lights strung up outside.

Y/n had her feet tucked underneath her as she curled up on the couch, leaning into the arm rest. Yelena was stretched out across the seat, her toes occasionally jabbing into Y/n's thigh if she wanted to annoy her. It was a chilled out kind of evening, one they both needed.

They both reached for the m&m's, their hands bumping, making them both blush. "This is nice" Y/n hummed, before throwing a handful of candy into her mouth. Yelena nodded in agreement.

"We should make Christmas cookies tomorrow. Or gingerbread?" Y/n asked, hoping to get a reaction from her girlfriend. But Yelena just shrugged, her eyes not moving from the tv screen.

Y/n furrowed her brow in concern. "Lena?" She asked, turning her body to face the blonde.

"Hm?" Yelena hummed in response.

"You ok baby?" Yelena still didn't turn around, but Y/n knew not to push. She looked deep in thought. "What's going on inside that gorgeous head of yours?"

"It's the first Christmas" Yelena whispered.

"Babe, we've been dating for 3 years. This is our 3rd Christmas together." Y/n laughed, trying to cover up the confusion she had over her girlfriends comment.

"It's the first Christmas without her" Yelena's voice wobbled dangerously and Y/n watched her jaw tense as she tried to keep the tears at bay.

A silence hung over the room, only broken by the quiet mumbling of voices coming from the tv. Y/n could see Yelena's throat bobbing up and down as she swallowed thickly, and she tried to figure out what to say next.

But she didn't say anything. Instead, Y/n climbed off the couch and knelt in front of her girlfriend, gently placing a hand on her knee.

"Hey, Lena, look at me."

Yelena turned her head to look at her, her eyes refusing to let the tears spill over.

"I know you miss her. It's ok to. But she's not fully gone." Yelena tilted her head in confusion. "She's in here. Always." Y/n placed her hand over Lena's heart, and the blonde placed her hand on top, giving it a light squeeze. "Why don't we go visit her on Christmas, yeah? You can put that gift, yeah I know you've got one in your closet, you can put it next to her. I'm sure she'll love it."

Yelena smiled a bit at Y/n's words, before pulling the smaller girl off the floor and into her lap for a hug. The pair sat in each other's arms, wrapped in the tightest hug.

"Why don't we finish this movie and then go snuggle in bed. And then we can paint each other's nails all festive!" Y/n suggested, and Yelena nodded.

Y/n stood up off her girlfriend's lap and made her way over to the fridge, pulling out 2 glass coke bottles. She placed them on the coffee table and Yelena instantly brought hers up to her mouth, shuddering at the cold bubbles. The pair clinked their bottles together, Yelena smiling at the sight.

"You 'cheers' your bottle how Nat used to. She always held the top and clinked the bottom. Though one time she was so rough she broke the top off my vodka. I made her buy me a new one though." Yelena's eyes lit up as she told the story and Y/n smiled, proud to see her girlfriend talking about happy memories of her sister.

Loud christmas music started up on the tv, making both girls jump. They pulled their focus back to the movie for a while, before Yelena spoke up again.

"Y/n/n?” Yelena whined.

"Yessssss??" Y/n mimicked the tone her girlfriend used.

"Stop it!" She giggled. "Can you braid my hair?"

"What's the magic word?" Y/n smirked.

"Cyka" Yelena joked, seeing Y/n raise an eyebrow.

"I think you'll find it's 'please'"

"Fine! Please... cyka"

"Oh you are this close" Y/n made a tiny gap with her fingers "to sleeping on the couch tonight." She huffed.

"Ok ok. Please baby. Please can you braid my hair?"

Y/n just rolled her eyes. "You know how to braid! Do it yourself."

Yelena crawled closer to her girlfriend. "Yeah but you do it better. Plus, I want you to do it how you did Nat's."

Y/n softly smiled at how vulnerable her love was being. Yelena was very rarely like this. "Ok. Come on. You can sit here." She patted the floor between her legs, on which Yelena instantly plopped herself down on.

Y/n grabbed the hair tie from the table and began sectioning Yelena's hair into 3 parts, intricately weaving them to create a dutch braid. Yelena kept stuffing her mouth with m&ms whilst Y/n moaned at her to keep still so the braid would be straight.

Y/n braided all the way down her head until she got to the top of Yelena's neck. "I'll braid a little bit more and then tie it off, because your hair is still wavy from today's braids and I think it looks cute."

As Y/n tied off the braid, Yelena reached her hand up to feel her new hairstyle, only to have her hand slapped away.

"Don't touch it! I'm not done yet." Y/n ordered, meaning Yelena just stuck her hand back into the bowl of candy, chewing loudly. Y/n rolled her eyes and started pulling the braid out to give it some volume. She also pulled at the hair on top of Yelena's head, to add volume to the front.

"Now you can touch it." She said, sinking back into the couch cushion.

Yelena jumped up and walked over to the mirror, turning her head to check out her hair. "I love it!" She turned back to Y/n, who was watching her with adoration in her eyes. "And I love you!" She ran over and tackled Y/n into a hug, planting kisses all over her face and neck. The pair connected their lips and Y/n rolled over to straddle Yelena, swiping her tongue across the girl's lower lip. Yelena moaned and opened her mouth, but they were interrupted by Yelena's phone buzzing.

She groaned, pushing Y/n off her lap and walking over to the table where it was on charge. Y/n watched her girlfriend's expression change from happiness to stone cold.

"Who is it?" Y/n asked.

Yelena continued to stare at her phone, before muttering "I need to go."

She stormed over to the cupboard and pulled out a black bag, emptying its contents onto the floor. Y/n's eyes never once left Yelena, confused as to what was happening.

The blonde assassin stripped out of her plaid pyjama pants and oversized sweatshirt, before slipping into her black suit, zipping it up all the way. Y/n eyes went widened in realisation.

"Lena.." Her voice was dangerously low.

"Don't, Y/n" Yelena warned as she strapped her widow bite cuffs onto her wrists.

"You found him, didn't you." She asked, afraid of the answer. She knew Nat would be heartbroken if she knew what her sister was doing, but Yelena wouldn't listen. She always stormed out whenever Y/n brought it up.

"Don't wait up for me." Yelena strapped her gun to her thigh and checked her grappling hook was secure in her belt, her back now completely towards Y/n. She knew if she looked towards her girlfriend, all she'd see is disappointment, so she chose not to.

"Lena please. It's Christmas..." No response. "You know Nat wouldn-"

"Don't say her name!" Yelena growled.

Y/n didn't say anything, only swallowing as she saw how tense Yelena was. She carefully got up off the couch and walked over to Yelena, who had picked up her head cover and goggles. She wrapped her arms around the assassin's waist, leaning her chin on her shoulder.

"Stay safe. Please. I cant lose you too." She whispered, her voice dangerously close to breaking. Yelena turned around and pressed a kiss on Y/n forehead, wrapped her muscular arms around her shoulders.

"I'll be ok. I'll be back before you know it. Go to sleep baby and I'll be there when you wake up." Y/n sighed, inhaling her girlfriend's scent one more time before they both broke away from the hug.

Y/n helped her put her head cover on, adjusting the goggles so they sat right on her face. She kissed Yelena once more on the cheek, before letting her walk out the door of the apartment.

After Yelena left, Y/n walked to the window on the opposite side of the room and watched the pavement as she saw Yelena walk out of the main door and onto the street. She followed her girl's figure until she turned a corner and disappeared from view.

Y/n took a shaky breath in as worry started to take over. Her hands shook slightly as she clasped them together, taking one last look out of the window before walking back into the living room.

She sunk onto the couch and placed her head in her hands, tears flowing down her cheeks. One hand made it's way to the necklace that hung around her neck, her fingers clutching onto the silver arrow charm.

"I'm sorry Nat" She whispered, before her voice broke into sobs.

The once festive apartment now had a darkness hanging over it, one that should not be associated with Christmas.

#marvel #fanfic #yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #natasha romanoff #florence pugh #florence pugh x reader #yelena belova x female reader

[danrifics]

hey guys no one asked but im gonna analyse this screenshot of phil's side of the desk as seen in dan and phil are dating boys

okay lets start with the worst thing in the image and thats the PS4 with the imac resting on it??? that is such rich man behaviour and also its stressing me out why do you need your imac that high and why cant you just get something else to sit it on? also is there an xbox there? why do they just have an xbox controller sat there? what does it connect too??

still on the imac topicthe mac keyboard with a pc mouse is an interesting combo but as a magic mouse user myself i know how fucking annoying it is when they need charging so i'll actually let him off for that one

okay next i wanna talk about drinks, first full fat coke in a glass bottle is bougie as fuck drink out of a can like a normal person?? also full fat coke? disgusting! (correction its zero, point still stands) i am a diet girlie and im not afraid to admit it. then we get to the not 1 huel but 2??? why do you need 2? i looked it up and the can (never seen that one before) is a sparkling vitimin drink and the bottle is the classic food replacement one (i have seen that one) my conclusion is that this is why phil is looking so beefy recently and im not mad about it!

now lets talk about the SD cards! thats a lot but given the nature of their life it makes sense, i wonder what raw videos are living on those tho i crave that information

okay nasal spray, is a bit random but also like we stan clear sinuses and eyedrops are an essential clearly for a man who can barely see and also stares at computers all day, we stan hydrated eyes

lastly i believe the orange thing in front of the xbox controlller is phils custom pokemon card coaster which i think is cute for them but on a personal level i absolutely hate resin art and when they showed them i thought they were kinda ugly and i cant wait for someone in 100 years to find them not decomposing in a landfill <3

I have chosen not to talk about the pumpkin and the tea lights cos we all know it was for spooky week

#dan and phil #phan

[matchalattegreen]

Christmas with the greasers hc

My first headcanon guys hope it turns out ok!! (Sry it ended up being so long)

(Also please if you have any ideas for new headcanons or fanfics just drop them in my inbox like actually PLZZ I need some ideas)

Darry would totally be in charge of everything. Anything he doesn't do needs to be approved by him first

Ponyboy and Soda would decorate the tree very precisely

Johnny would put the star on top

Soda and Steve do the outdoor decorations but Darry watches them the entire time to make sure they don't do anything dumb or screw something up

Dally would simply sulk on the couch while all the decorating is happening

Two Bit would walk around giving unhelpful feedback for all the decorations but not actually offering to help decorate (tbh nobody really wants him to help anyways)

On Christmas Eve, they would have a Christmas movie marathon

Darry and Ponyboy really want to watch classics like It's a Wonderful Life

Soda wants to watch cheesy rom-coms like Love, Actually

Steve will say he wants to watch what Soda wants but get bored five minutes into the movie

Two Bit wants to watch Mickey Mouse Christmas specials

Johnny loves classic TV Christmas specials like Charlie Brown Christmas and Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer

Dally doesn't really like watching movies but will totally suggest that they watch Die Hard or Gremlins and put up an argument that both are very much Christmas movies

Ponyboy and Johnny make the best Christmas cookies

Soda wants to help them but Darry doesn't trust him in the kitchen

On Christmas day, Two Bit would totally run around the house trying to wake everyone up

Once Soda is awake he'll join

Opening presents is the best part

Darry gets everyone useful things like clothes

Ponyboy gives everyone a copy of his favorite book

Johnny gives everyone little origami swans that he made

Soda didn't really know what to get so he gives out bottles of Coke from the DX

Steve takes partial credit for the Cokes since he didn't buy any gifts

Two Bit would give the best gag gifts (he definitely stole them)

Dally wouldn't get any gifts, just say that his being is a gift enough

Darry would cook Christmas dinner, focused on perfection

No one else is allowed in the kitchen while he's cooking (he can't afford any distractions)

Two Bit, Soda, and Steve definitely eat until they get sick

But overall, everyone had a great Christmas!!

My first one, hope you liked it!!

#the outsiders #ponyboy curtis #dallas winston #dally winston #johnny cade #sodapop curtis #darry curtis #the outsiders headcanons #the outsiders christmas

[polarisjisung]

cherry flavoured

09— LOOKS VERY BOYFRIEND

SYNOPSIS| y/n, the campuses notorious heartbreaker, had never been one to settle down, running from the word commitment since the concept had first been introduced to her, but one smile and a little cherry coke seems to do just the trick when she runs into captain of the dance team, park jisung

PAIRING| dancer!jisung x fem!reader

WARNINGS| swearing, use of the word slut twice, the first time it's legit just the mean girls reference, slutshaming— towards the end this chapter is a little more serious than the past few + if you're a choi jiung lover I'll apologise in advance 💀

NOTES: i clearly have a lot to say about this chap, i have no idea why the dreamies are getting ID'd here please dont ask 😭😭 also last picture is a random thought I had, there's no continuity there but it felt very chenji to me 😭

There weren't many holidays that involved shamelessly gawking at people as they walked by, dressed in costume or at least something that could play off as such, with a spooky vibe that lingered in the air, like a fancy dress birthday party but for adults, with alcohol in place of birthday cake, halloween was an exception— which is why October 31st was a serious subject in the NCIT frat, one that required much more than a causal friday night party, no, it was far more special.

Preparations would begin weeks in advance, decor and music being planned ahead of time along with costumes and outfits to ensure they lived up to the expectations of throwing, as was well known around campus, the best party of the year.

Jisung, like always had been given his weight to pull, and including some part of decor and setting up, he'd done everything, except successfully managing to secure what was arguably the most important part of the night, the drinks.

in girl world, Halloween was the one night a year when a girl could dress like a total slut and no other girls could say anything about it, so to you it only made sense to stick to the rule.

basic, however was anything but the vibe you were going for, throwing all the classic, sexy black cat, devil, angel and pirate costumes totally out of the window

considering the red dye you regularly abused your hair with every few months, not including the awful root touch ups and high maintenance of being a redhead, you decided you wouldn't dare throw a wig overtop as part of the costume

which is why, you found yourself adjusting the cowboy hat over your head in the mirror just as you were about to leave, taking a deep breath in, considering the white corset you'd worn was practically cutting off your circulation, the yellow bands on your arms awfully itchy, a price you had to pay to look hot, as yeonhee had said whilst tying your hair into two messy braids earlier.

jaemin greets you at the door with a smile, taking the crates of beer and bottles of alcohol that you hadn't managed to drop off earlier, before stepping back to take in your outfit, music blaring from the speakers behind him

"Jessie from toy story huh?" you nod, doing the same as you looks over his outfit

"are you meant to be cupid nana?" you laugh, something about seeing the captain of the basketball team in a halo and iridescent wings seeming a little out of place, although the proud smile on his face suggested otherwise

"you're the first to guess correctly, God jeno thought I was a maid" he rolls his eyes, leading you inside, you look over to the lee who's dressed, in true jeno fashion, in a pair of baggy cargos with two yellow straps running down his torso, and assumably the bright orange hat worn by the girl hanging off his arm was all part of his firefighter outfit, most notably lee jeno wouldn't miss the chance to walk around shirtless, and where better than his own frats Halloween party

there was a range of costumes in the room, undeniably your favourite part of Halloween, and the decor of course, which the frat didn't seemed to have taken lightly either, with dry ice and fake cobwebs hanging from the ceilings, a few themed cocktails lined up at the bar, which had caught your eye, although you admit that as you approached the kitchen you'd hoped there was something, rather someone else, to steal your attention instead— a hope so far unsuccessful

looking for company, however wasn't difficult when you found haechan and yeonhee already sucking each others faces against the fridge, the cop and delinquent couple costume pulled off well.

"gosh some of us are single here" you joked, knowing that the two had already made it official a couple days back, trying to keep it secret, which had ultimately failed when you had walked in on them, yet again, swallowing each others tongues one afternoon in your shared apartment.

"not for long I'm assuming, fuck you look hot" yeonhee winks, glad to see that you had taken her advice of going for the slightly darker, and shorter, denim shorts with small cowprint ruffles at the bottom, rather than the full length cow print flared pants.

you can only shout back something of a compliment before grabbing a drink and making your way to the dance floor, if the music was this loud, you might as well make something of it you thought

although your plan doesnt seem to be going so well when the red solo cup in your hand finds its way to the ground, your head meeting the harsh chest of a certain blue haired boy, except this time, his hair wasn't blue at all, a sense of deja vu taking you over entirely

"woody from toy story huh, who would've thought" you smile at the sight of the word ANDY written across the sole of his shoe, a sign of his dedication to the costume, a smile that jisung returns shyly as ever despite being a couple of cans of beer into the night

"I mean if you wanted to go for couple outfits you could've told me love" he shrugs, placing an arm around you to guide the two of you away from the crowd "can't say I'm mad though"

"me neither"

you swear your heart beats all too audibly now, the loud bass of the music that had your chest thumping now replaced by the constant knocking of your heart against your ribs at the feeling of jisungs cold rings against your bare back

"I won't lie" you don't miss the way his eyes flicker to your lips as you turn to face him "I dig the brown on you" you're glad to know jisung's at least a couple drinks in considering you'd barely had the time to filter your thoughts before opening your mouth "it looks very boyfriend"

he hums, tucking a piece of hair that had escaped the confines of your hair tie behind you ear, "what if I said I dig you, you look very girlfriend"

you find yourself reaching for the rim of his hat, lightly tugging for his head to lower just slightly, a low chuckle resonating in your ear

"are you trying to flirt with me pretty boy?"

"mhm" he hums "is it working?" he leans forward again, lips threatening to meet yours, both of which are turned upwards, the pinkish tinge of your cheeks barely visible in the harsh lighting

"absolutely is"

it doesn't take long for the two of you to find a steady rythym, your hands finding their way around jisungs neck, his own reaching for the small of your back while another had traced its way up to grab your chin in a gentle hold, electric jolts running through your skin every time his thumb softly traced over your jaw

all too similarly to last time, a call of the dancers name has the both of you pulling away from each other, an apologetic smile on his lips as you usher him toward his friend, although you couldn't quite tell if it was the same orange haired one as last time, the pennywise costume had certainly left its mark

you didn't expect the park to come running back in search for you only a matter of minutes later, which is why you had headed towards the kitchen, in hopes to get a little alcohol in your system, another plan that seems unsuccessful

"so" a voice booms behind you, the shot glass you had been reaching for long forgotten at the sound of the voice you recognised all too well, "found your new boy toy I see" a mocking tone you had happily grown used to the absence of, ringing loud in your ears, despite the music which only seemed to have grown louder

"hes not a boy toy" you snarl, truly something you didn't think you'd ever been capable of, and you're glad you'd ditched the obnoxious hat earlier or else you would have barely managed to look the blonde opposite you straight in the eye.

"oh isn't he? you can't tell me your serious about someone" he cackles, practically throwing it in your face that he just wouldn't believe you had any intention but what he had implied countless times before

"I mean you're full of surprises darling, but you can't expect me to believe this now can you"

there's something in his eyes that tells you that he'd been waiting for this moment, perhaps the sinister smirk that lines his lips as he awaits your reaction, or maybe the way his one eye seems to squint as his gaze zeros in on you, maybe both, either way, you knew you didn't like it

"don't believe it, I'm not here to convince you either" you reach to grab the drink, deciding to turn on your heels and walk away until he grabs your wrist and forces you to turn back to face him, the sight of those sharp features you recognised so well, so close, after so many months causing your stomach to churn sickeningly

"don't act smart with me, we both know you'll ditch him in a couple weeks and find someone new" he scoffs, barely taking notice of the brunette who approaches from behind, worried after you'd been gone for a little longer than he had expected

"it's what you do darling, no shame in how you play your game" he shrugs, your own eyes rolling at the action of his two hands raising beside his head as if to feign innocence

"I didn't want anything serious with you choi, never meant I couldn't be serious about someone else, I'm sorry if that hurt your ego but nothing in my love life should concern you"

"love life?" he spits the words at you, "what would someone like you know about love" grip still firm as ever around your arm

"someone like me? I'm not a fucking slut" you don't know when the word falls from your tongue, the word that choi jiung had long thrown at you under the stairwell, with a stream of other insults, for months on end, suddenly coming to mind

"that's exactly what you are, and you know it"

you're not sure whether your mouth hangs open or whether you're biting at the skin of your lip, parts of your red lipstick flaking off as your airways suddenly constrict, the vocabulary choi jiung, campus' golden boy, seemed to have reserved for you making its comeback

the music seems muffled, voices around you quieter, that accusatory tone echoing in your mind every time the blonde takes a step closer to you

"cat got your tongue darling?"

jisung knows you can handle the situation, no doubt but his fingers seem to curl in on themselves beyond his control, a hand reaching up to grab the collar of choi jiungs shirt before he can finally close the space between you

"keep your hands off of her" he takes your wrist into his own hand, looking down at the harsh red demarcation, "try something like that ever again and I promise it won't end well"

you don't realise when jisung drags you out of the back entrance, hand placed on each of your shoulders as you feel the cool air of the night against your hot cheeks, the heaviness of his denim jacket soon weighing down your shoulders

you barely manage to look him in the eye, half ashamed that someone had spoken so lowly of him all thanks to you, a friend of his no less, but jisung can only pull you into his side, letting your head rest against his shoulder, one hand gripping your purse awkwardly as another rubs your back soothingly

"I'm sorry love" he looks down at you, although you wouldn't dare look back, taking two fingers to guide your gaze upwards "just know that whatever he said doesn't hold true, not one bit"

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TAGLIST (open): @jenobubbles @justalildumpling @jising-jisang-jisung @nanawrlds @222brainrot @chichiuu @dinonuguaegi @ishireads @yyy90210 @hibernatinghamster @stqrrian @makiswrld @everywonuu @marizhua @luumiinaa @asteriaskingdom @jeongintwt @90s-belladonna @000rpheus @jammingjaem @yayloona @neozon3nha @mfaal @hrjunluvs

#nct dream #nct dream smau #nct dream imagines #nct dream jisung #nct #nct smau #nct imagines #nct jisung #nct dream x y/n #nct dream x oc #nct dream x you #nct dream x reader #nct x female reader #nct x y/n #nct x oc #nct x you #nct x reader #park jisung x you #park jisung x reader #jisung x y/n #jisung x you #jisung x reader #park jisung x y/n #jisung #park jisung #jisung park au #jisung imagines #park jisung texts #nct dream texts #cherry flavoured 🍒

[butmakeitgayblog]

Shall we go for a slow buildup then? Let’s start with the first time they hold each other (re: starlet non au)

The first time they hold each other is catharsis. Solace.

It's shortly after Lexa'd reached out that night after winning over Clarke. They were still at a loss as to how exactly to handle all this. This thing between them that neither are willing to talk about or even acknowledge, but both know is there. Both feel it growing deeper, more real. They've gone from nearly a full year of silence to texting every single day. A random call once every few weeks, even if they don't have much to say. They're in each other's lives at that point and neither really have any desire to stop it.

It happens the first time they actually speak to each other in person since that night when they'd both let too many secrets slip out over too many bottles of wine. It's a dinner party "thing" Clarke hosts at her apartment, inviting Lexa but more importantly 10 other people along for a night of classy but kinda trashy finger foods and board games. Because it's absolutely not an excuse just to have Lexa in her space again, and the other guests are certainly not a buffer in case everything is as terrible as she's imagined.

What I'm saying is that it's casual, and it means nothing, which is exactly why Clarke spends 5 hours bouncing between cooking and deciding what to do with her hair, all while rearranging the furniture in her apartment until it looks perfect.

Lexa spends those same 5 hours just trying her best to not throw up.

But it does turn out to be a nice evening. So much so, neither really know what they had to be worried about. It wasn't hard being in each other's space again. If anything, it felt like breathing for the first time in over a year. As though looking over mid-laugh just to catch the other's eyes was the most natural thing in the world. Which makes it feel all too safe to choose to stay behind when the rest of the gang announces they want to go out. It only being 9:30 by the time all the food is gone and every game is left on Clarke's dining table in disarray makes the inclination valid. Because Lexa's got an early call the next morning that she absolutely cannot be hungover for, and Clarke just isn't in the mood to turn down 30 offers from strangers to do coke in the VIP section while having her ass grabbed on the dancefloor.

So they stay behind and talk. Never straying too far from safe subjects. Work, the weather, what they'd be doing if they weren't in the industry, a few innocent tales from childhood. It naturally leads from Clarke sharing about how she'd lost her father at the tender age of 17, to recounting some of her best memories with him. That's how they find themselves huddled together in front of an old record player, thumbing through all the classics, Clarke playing song after song and sharing her memories of each one as Lexa sips her wine and listens to every single one.

It's only when the first notes of a particular song whine to life that Lexa can't really seem to help herself. Because there's just something in the way Clarke's eyes come alive when she tells her how they used to dance to that one every morning before breakfast. It's the image of a tiny Clarke, still in her footie style pjs and sporting a wicked case of baby blonde bed-head, hugging her father's legs as she danced along on the tops of his feet.

She just can't resist.

And god help her, it felt good having Clarke be that close, accepting her hand when Lexa had restarted the song and asked her if she'd like to dance. It felt good, and more terrifying, it felt right. It felt right the way Clarke tucked into her body, one hand on her shoulder, the other cupped gently in her palm. It felt right to match the sway of her hips, to match her breathing and the race of her heartbeat, to laugh as they tripped over themselves and just righted themselves again.

It felt right to pull Clarke closer when those blue eyes suddenly turned glossy, her perfectly wonderful face scrunching up in an embarrassed huff of laughter through her sniffles of, "Sorry. I just miss him sometimes. Ignore me."

So there's really nothing for it. Nothing to do but nod that she understands that kind of pain. That sense of loss, and how it can hit you at the most random of times. So Lexa hugs her right there in her livingroom, records forgotten on the floor at their feet. She tucks Clarke's head into her shoulder and wraps her arms tight around her waist, accepts every last one of her tears and carries her grief as her own, hugging her and holding her as the final chorus fades out

Because Love grows where my Rosemary goes

And nobody knows like me...

Clarke asks her to stay and Lexa does, because there's no way she can leave her like this. So sad and vulnerable and visibly raw at the edges. She sets aside all of her rules and all of her fear and takes Clarke to the couch, guiding her to lay on top of her, just to rest. To let the calm of her breathing and the steady thump of her heart lull Clarke into a tear-soddened sleep. She holds her through the night, neither saying more than a few muffled words, Lexa humming the notes of the song until they're etched into the rhythm of her heartbeat. Until she knows not a day will pass when this song doesn't bring her right back to this moment, and this woman, and this feeling of holding everything she wants but cannot let herself have right there in her arms. But it's enough just to be close, to let herself slip into this once more, and Lexa knows there's really no coming back from this.

Still, when Clarke eventually wakes up, Lexa's long gone in the morning.

#anon #starlet au

[fun-k-board]

Got a cool idea for you my friend.

The insomniac spider-men, both Peter and miles. And how they’d go when y/n offers to do a horror movie night with the likes of classics like Halloween or modern stuff like talk to me

The Insomniac Spider-Men with a horror movie night

Note(s) : I did Headcanons for how the Spider-Men are with horror movies and then a scenario at the end where the reader does the horror movie night.

I don't know anything about Talk To Me so I chose M3GAN instead, and I haven't seen Halloween in years so I'm sorry if I got something wrong.

Peter Parker / Spider-Man

I don't think Peter would really watch movies or shows all that often, he probably hasn't even finished any piece of media since before the spider bite. Even then, he was probably that kid who watched those really bad ones to make fun of with Harry and MJ.

I imagine his tolerance is most likely high, because of his real life experiences, he can handle fake blood, he can handle the fake injuries, most of them can't compare to what he's gone through.

But what he really can't handle? Psychological thrillers, and really good kid actors.

That scene in the shining where the two twins are standing there? He had to hold MJ's hand, Harry made fun of him for an entire month.

He tends to humanise fictional characters, especially the victims in horror movies. Maybe for some slashers he can understand their motives, but most of them hurt people who can't defend themselves and it makes him a little sick.

To see movies where this is used so effectively is honestly a little uncomfortable, he appreciates the mastery of how it's crafted and how realistic the pain is, but he can never watch it all the way through.

Peter's always been terrified of Carrie because he was also bullied, she, in a way, reflected on him. Of course, she also experienced abuse from her mother, unlike Peter, but the scene of everybody screaming in that hall will probably haunt him forever.

In a way, it keeps him grounded, it makes him remember Uncle Ben's words, it makes him remember to use his powers for good, and not for evil.

Miles Morales / Spider-Man

Miles and Ganke most likely sit down and watch some shows or movies every once and a while, he's never been a huge horror fan, and he's never watched any that really stuck with him.

He's mostly impressed with the art direction most of the time, the way they shot that scene in Carrie where it goes all around the prom in one, long, continuous shot?

It's beautiful, it gets him so engrossed he forgets it's supposed to be a scary movie.

Miles can't handle any that tackle and treat the loss of a parent as a main plot point, he could maybe handle it as a side plot, but it reminds him so much of how his dad's death affected him, his hands clam up, he feels sweaty, he just can't handle it.

It never really makes him connect with the story, it just makes me remember it as the 'oh God don't watch that' movie

The ones that get him truly terrified are honestly any that involve children and the elderly as the villains, that's not to say he'll be completely fine if he watches an adult brutally murder people.

Both

Peter and Miles haven't had a day off in months, they've been so focused on saving the city, helping their friends and family, they just don't have time for themselves.

Until today.

You had finally convinced the two, after hours of subtle and not so subtle convincing, they relented, under the promise that if any serious crimes were reported, they would get Ganke to check if the police have it handled or not, if they don't? They're abandoning the movie night.

Which you agreed with, because one night having fun is better than no time to yourself at all.

Peter and Miles sit down on the couch, while you make the popcorn and drinks, carrying the bowls of food and bottles of coke to the table, the microwave hums, drowned out by the two men chatting.

"Can you believe that Electro got out again." Miles sounds exasperated, and he looks it too, he and Electro had fought for what felt like hours, in reality it was only a few minutes, shocking each other until they couldn't fight any more.

"You get used to it, he'll probably stay a month in prison at most." Peter shrugs, leaning back on the couch and wincing slightly, an aching pain in his back started up again, but he was honestly too tired to ask for someone to crack it.

"This job is crazy." Miles laughs, shaking his head with an amused smile. "I can't believe it, each day, fighting bad guys, swinging for hours and hours, it's just... I love it." You cut the conversation short by bringing in the last bowl of popcorn.

"Whooo! Movie time!" You happily say, placing the bowl on the table with the other snacks and drinks, making sure it's perfectly placed before sitting on the couch. You grab the remote next to you and smile at Miles and Peter.

"What should we watch?" Before either can respond, you suddenly gasp, your eyes snapping back to the TV. "Oh! Actually, there's this new horror movie called M3GAN, I bought it a few weeks back and forgot to watch it." You ramble, turning the television on and searching for the movie.

"I guess we go with that one then." Peter mumbles, raising an eyebrow in amusement, you all haven't hung out in a while, even then, you do wish that Harry and MJ could've made it. So, it's clear you're just excited to spend time with them for once.

"It's about this robot that this lady makes after her niece loses her parents in a car accident." You cheerfully say, pressing play on the movie and taking a swig of coke. "After this, we're so watching Halloween."

The movie was something different to the two, when they think horror, both Peter and Miles would typically think 'man with knife stabs people', so it was a refreshing change.

Both men went through a flurry of emotions, the movie was sad, then funny, than horrifying, then funny, then scary, and then funny, it was a constant switch.

The fact that the girl lost her parents and she's clinging to the first thing that shows her respect, the lady stepped up at the end and proved she's a capable mother figure, it broke their hearts, but the jokes made them forget that temporarily.

They laughed, they went quiet in shock, and most of all? Peter cried, he couldn't help it, he isn't ashamed about it either, the girl losing her parents at such a young age reminds him of himself. Miles feels a similar way, he cried like a baby, he sobbed so much at that scene where the girl and the robot have that test and she breaks down.

Now it's time for the next movie.

"Halloween! You can't go wrong with the classics." You click on the movie. "Well, that's a lie, actually, plenty of classics suck." You mutter under your breath, pressing pause and turning to the two Spider-Men.

"Okay, first, bathroom breaks and refill time, you two ate all the popcorn so I'm making double." You get up from the couch and walk to the kitchen, both Peter and Miles go to the bathroom in that time, refilling their drinks with the bottle of coke on the floor, you return a few moments later with the multiple bowls of popcorn.

You all sit down, grab your bowls and drinks, and press play.

Overall, both men did enjoy the experience, they liked the costume of Micheal Myers, the mask and coveralls are iconic, they also both enjoyed the acting, if a bit subpar at times.

The plot was something they found to be interesting, the characters as well, they thought the therapist was a strange and weird character, who seemed a bit more unstable than Micheal.

Laurie Strode is a really inspiring character to the two, a survivor, someone who managed to take down one of the biggest threats her towns ever faced.

Just as the movie ends, you turn to the two men to see if they have any movie recommendations, but to your surprise, they've both fallen asleep.

Peter's mouth hangs open, his body pressed flat against the couch, his arms crossed and occasional light snores escapes his mouth. Miles is leaning his head on his arms, his body bent in an awkward position so he's sitting and leaning on the armrest.

For a few moments, you debate on whether or not you should wake them up, but decide against it. They need the rest. You gently move them into slightly more comfortable positions, placing blankets over the two, you stand up and reach for your phone.

You text MJ and Rio Morales, letting them know that the two would be staying at yours for the night.

#insomniac spider man 2 #insomniac spiderman 2 #insomniac spiderman #insomniac games #insomniac spider man #insomniac peter parker #insomniac miles morales #miles morales x reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x gn reader #miles morales x gn reader #spiderman x reader #spider man x reader #spiderman x gn reader #spider man x gn reader #spiderman #spider man #miles morales #peter parker #spiderman 2 #spider man 2

[sawyerslvt]

Johnny or Leland? | Episode 1

Previous Episode ♡ Next Episode Hiyyaa <33 This is a choose your own ending story. I'm sure this has been done before on here, but I've always been obsessed with the option of choosing your own path in stories. I wanted to make a love triangle story between Leland and Johnny but I just couldn't choose who to pick in the end so this was the best solution to my problem. I have also included links to porn in this series, for better visualization ;) I hope you enjoy the story! <3 Word Count: 1,644 Warnings: MDNI, kidnapping

You've always had such a hard time choosing. You find yourself spending ages making simple decisions and you don't understand how hard it can be… Do I want regular Coca Cola or Coca Cola cherry? You're standing in front of the open fridge at the convenience store, shutting it only after the cashier starts giving you dirty looks. You continue holding both of the glass bottles in your hand. Taking turns looking from one soda to the other. You feel this is a losing battle regardless, whatever you end up not choosing, will be the one you crave after taking one sip of your chosen drink. You take a deep sigh and don't take notice of the man approaching you. 

“Havin’ a hard time deciding?” Your gaze shoots up from the bottles and you're met with a young man smirking at you, leaned up against one of the soda fridges. “uhh, yeah… which one would you pick?”, you tilt your head curiously. You just want this small inconvenience to be over with already. “I'm more of a classic guy. Don't like cherry too much. Go with the original”. He’s confident in the way he’s speaking. “Well, I do like cherry. I just-” He cuts you off, “cherry it is then sweetheart, come on, i'll get it for ya”. He opens the fridge and grabs the original coke from your hand to place it back in its place. You feel his hand graze yours, making your eyes shoot up to look at his face. He’s close to you as he reaches into the fridge. You get a whiff of his cologne and he smells really good. 

He walks over to the cash register and you place the cherry coke on the counter. The man pulls out his wallet and flips through his cash to bring out a dollar bill. You haven't stopped staring since the first time you laid eyes on him, he’s beautiful and the way he occasionally licks his lips makes you feel some type of way. He finally takes notice, and as the cashier collects his change, he looks over to you to shoot you a quick wink. He lets his head drop, chuckling and your cheeks burn hotter than the sun. The cashier is unamused, rolling his eyes at the cheesy scene unfolding before his unfortunate eyes. You grab your drink off the counter while your head stays down to hide your hard blushing. 

He holds the door open for you and gestures for you to walk in front of him. Once you exit the store, you're met with the cool night breeze. The sun has already set so it doesn't burn your skin to be outside, but you still feel that damn heat nonetheless. “Thank you for the drink, sir. You shouldn't have” your voice is sweet and gentle, you appreciate his kind gesture. “Sir?! alright, please don't tell me I look like a sir to you!”. His mouth is left agape but you see him smiling through his shock. You giggle at his reaction… it was intentional, he didn't look old at all but you just couldn't refrain from teasing him. “Oh, I don't know. Why don't you introduce yourself?”. You look up at him with a warm smile and he laughs, loving your playfulness. “Well darlin’, since you asked so kindly. The name’s Leland, I'm not a sir and I’d love to get to know a beautiful woman like yourself”. He looks down to your blushed face and smirks, loving your mannerism every time he directly flirts with you. 

You look down at the ground but he steps closer to you, bringing his hand to your chin to have you facing him again. “No need to act all shy with me, sugar”. He’s only inches away from your face. You feel the warmth of his breath bounce off your lips. He’s still holding onto your chin and staring directly at your lips, making you lick them to prepare for him. He looks into your eyes briefly, smirking, then quickly pulls in to connect his lips with yours. His lips are soft and you feel like you're melting into the strangers arms as he uses his free hand to pull your waist closer. You shoot your eyes open as you hear a tree branch breaking behind you. It sounded close enough for you to turn around completely, facing the direction of the noise. 

Leland looks at you with a raised eyebrow, wondering what's with the theatrics. “Did you hear that?” Your voice is almost whispering. “It was probably some squirrel. What? You're scared of some cute critter?”. He teases you and you laugh, playfully hitting his shoulder. He makes a face, pretending you hurt him, holding his shoulder and letting out fake pained grunts until he eventually also breaks into laughter with you. His teasing made you let your guard back down. He gently turns you back around and pulls you in again, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched as you continued kissing him. You were most likely paranoid due to the pitch blackness of the forest behind you. Anything could lurk in the shadows and your fear of the unknown is taking a toll on you, it was probably nothing. You feel a chill run up your spine, making you shiver and hug yourself. Leland notices your discomfort and  pulls away from the kiss. He places both his arms around you, covering you like a warm blanket. “...you wanna warm up in my car?”. He looks down at you with his kind eyes. You nod into his chest and look up at him giving him a warm smile. He returns the smile and keeps one arm around your shoulder as the two of you walk over to his car. 

Once both of you are seated in his car, he looks over to you. Your hands are tucked between your thighs, partially because of the dropping temperature. But it was also a way to calm the butterflies going wild between your legs. Just looking at the man made your thoughts act up. His lips were softer than cotton and thinking about them again made your lips tingle. Your thoughts get interrupted by his hand making its way to your thigh. His hand gives you a gentle squeeze as it rests warm and soft on your thigh. “You’re beautiful”. His words escaped him as if he was nervous. There were no hints of nervousness coming from him from the second you met him. You look at him and there is innocence to his mannerism, you find yourself smiling over his sweetness. Without saying anything, you lean in and let your lips find his. Your hands rest on his lap and he has one of his hands wrapped around your waist while the other is behind your neck. 

You deepen the kiss, squeezing your hands in his lap. Your hands are resting close to his bulge and you feel how big the curve is. You moan into his kiss and he responds giving you a deep groan. He introduces his tongue and you gladly welcome it inside your mouth. Your spit and tongues swirl together and you can tell he’s experienced. You feel your pussy get wetter as you kiss him but break away from it to look down at his growing bulge. You look into his narrowed eyes and you can tell he wants you badly. You stroke the print of his shaft from the outside of his tight fitting jeans. You bite your lip as you continue stroking and he leans his head back, releasing a wonderful groan to express how good your soft hands feel on his clothed cock. 

He lets his head return to meet your gaze and in that moment it was just you and him. Both of you were completely unaware of your surroundings as you started to unbuckle his belt. You unzip his jeans, breaking away from the kiss to focus on the zipper for a second. To your absolute horror, you hear the driver’s window shatter, and before you realize what had happened, you see Leland’s head collapsed on the steering wheel and blood gushing from the back of his head. You see the stone that was used to break the window and a faceless man rushing behind the car to make his way to your side. 

“Leland!!! Please wake up!” you try shaking him but your desperate pleas prove to be useless as he’s knocked out cold. Your fight or flight kicks in and you unlock the door to get away before the man gets to you. You swing the car door open, crying as you feel horrible for leaving Leland behind. You run but your heart skips a beat when you hear heavy footsteps chase after you. You’re smart enough to not look back and continue running for your life, screaming for help as you try to make it back to the convenience store. You had no idea how close the man was to you but you become very aware the second he manages to hit you across the back of your head, making you fall to the ground. Your head is pressed against the concrete with his big hands, making it impossible to move and your vision starts to blur until everything fades to black. 

Previous Episode ♡ Next Episode

credit for dividers: @y-onb @plutism <3

#tcm #texas chainsaw game #texas chainsaw massacre #texas chainsaw massacre game #ff #writing #fanfiction #johnny #johnny slaughter #johnny sawyer #johnny tcm #smut #fem reader #johnny smut #johnny slaughter smut #johnny slaughter x reader #fluff #romance #x reader #leland mckinney #leland tcm #tcm game #choose your own adventure #choose one #you choose

[panicpixieplaygirl]

modern!han hc's f!reader – compilation of thots shared in the dms with @harrisonbrainrot

my playlist my pins ✻ bex’s pins (playlist coming soon)

each updated regularly! nsfw under the cut

sfw

✻ STUPIDLY smart, talented, & knowledgeable. can tell you what’s wrong with your car just by listening to it, can identify a plane in the sky by the sound, can give you exact directions from anywhere to anywhere in the city. started college, didn’t finish.

✻ his day job is a mechanic and sometimes framing. general handyman. if you need a job done, he can do it. definitely the type to say “don’t pay somebody, i got it, jesus…” & immediately fixes shit for you

✻ lando is a detailer, washing & waxing, but what people come to him most for is his pin-striping and airbrushing. very creative eye. definitely has locs. works across the street from the mechanic shop han works at & you KNOW they send each other business

✻ good friends, but not best friends. criminal, scoundrel bastards who go way back. lando gambles & drug deals on the side, han drug deals & gambles on the side.

✻ han is VERY good at poker. won his car (classic red chevy bel-air) from lando. bad bet. lando is still bitter. han takes good care of her tho.

✻ fridge is consistently empty. he usually eats at bars and gatherings and rarely at home, & if he does, it’s quick & easy, like TV dinner & beer. but that doesn’t mean he can’t cook

✻ falls asleep on the couch 5 days out of the week. bed is used for fucking alone, until you come along. bed is used for sleeping more.

✻ very affectionate texter for a 30-something year old man. will send you cute pics when he’s missing you or thinking of you (see: the pinterest. ask me for my faves PLEASE!!!!).

✻ generally more romantic than you’d expect him to be. leaves little notes in any notebooks you have laying around, take you to gorgeous spots just to smoke on top of his car, light candles & play music when you fuck.

✻ more nurturing & caring than he recognizes himself to be or lets himself come off as. will convince you to stay holed up in his house as much as possible & do as little as possible while you’re on your period so he can have you around to take care of (and fuck) all week long. surprisingly good at comforting you through tough times. very broken man with a lot of love to give if you let him. secretly soft-centered

✻ psychedelic camping trips. that’s it that’s the whole hc

✻ exclusively drinks mexican coke. if not alcohol, or water because it’s technically necessary for life, it’s a glass bottled mexican coke.

✻ despite his love for beer, he knows how to enjoy a good cocktail.

nsfw

✻ rarely wears underwear. too much laundry, and too many layers to put on and take off.

✻ similarly, only wears button flys. no zipper to dig in to his bulge, and they just pop right open too easily. he stays ready.

✻ absolutely loves to get messy & filthy, especially when he’s been drinking. does not shy away from spit; will spit in your mouth, let you spit in his, spit right on you or himself as lube & smear it with his hand. loves covering your face in cum, tasting himself on your mouth or the cigarette you share afterward

✻ loves false lashes for that^ reason. more on that here

✻ loves booty shorts. pajamas, daisy dukes, anything. the tease of just barely seeing the curve of your ass, being able to sneak his fingers inside you without undressing you, feeling your skin and seeing the reddening of your ass when he smacks it

✻ keeps his nails short, neat, and cleanly. any version of han solo is incredible at and prone to fingering you at any given moment. again, he stays ready.

✻ loves being call sir, daddy, boss, professor. any authoritative figures. it’s validating to feel like you trust him to lead you, to know you’re listening to him. obviously it also makes him hard to have you ready, willing & desperate to meet his every command. anything from the obedient ‘yes, sir’ or ‘please, daddy’ to the teasing ‘whatever you say, boss’ or ‘sure thing, professor’ is enough to get his blood pumping

✻ exhibitionist. especially if he’s been drinking; he will fuck you anywhere. car sex. outside sex. sneaky bar oral under the table, holding you close with his legs and a hand to the back of your head, muffling his own sounds with a tight jaw as he cums down your throat. party sex, making out against a wall and shoving your dress up your thighs, swallowing your moans with his mouth as he fuck into you hard & quick. “everybody’s gonna see what a filthy fucking slut you are for me if you can’t keep your mouth shut, sweetheart. needed it right here, huh? couldn’t even wait to get home to take my cock. so needy, lucky i can’t resist this little pussy.”

✻ QUICKIES!! at parties, bar crawling, will lean and whisper in your ear: ‘wanna step out?’ and you can hear in the tone of his voice what it is he wants. bend you over a sink, pin you against the door, have you coming apart under him in 15 minutes or less every time. always leaves him feeling refreshed and energized.

✻ definitely a voyeur. total show off. has multiple mirrors in his bedroom to watch you both while you fuck. he likes mutual masturbation, but what he likes more is for you to just watch him. seeing the needy look in your eye as he strokes himself right by your face, how badly you want to touch him, to touch yourself, but he won’t let you, only letting you look at him as his cock starts to drip, working himself up while he watches the wet spot in your panties spread in the mirror behind you

✻ loves leaving marks on you, very possessive and territorial: hickies, red marks on your ass, creampies. similarly being marked: scratches, hickies, lipstick stains. he loves to feel like he belongs to somebody & like you belong to him.

✻ loves to take pics of you. will pose you to the exact image in his mind, real filthy, but tasteful, playboy magazine xxx style. keeps a foldout of you in his wallet.

would absolutely elaborate on any of these. definitely not all the thoughts we’ve had but some good highlights. hope y’all love him as much as we do

#han solo x reader smut #modern!han #han solo smut #han solo x reader #han solo headcanons #alternate universe #au

[underscorehealy]

birthday wish: matty's 35th birthday fic 1

wc: below 1k i think

cw: just pure fluff, typos

an: hiya everyone!! this is the first fic in a 3 day span because of matty's birthday bash!! these were so much fun to write, and thank you to halla and vee for organizing this and making the prompts!! i hope you guys enjoy these little fics <3

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

you've awaited this day you're entire relationship simply just because you two started dating 9 months ago, but you both couldn't be more in love.

april 8th, 1989 was the day the love of your life was born. so in preparation, you ordered a cake (though you had to ask george what his favorite flavor was), shopped for some gifts, and you wanted to make a nice dinner for the two of you.

matty's been in the studio all day working on their next album so you had a good amount of time to work on everything to make his birthday memorable. you don't consider yourself a chef in the slightest so for dinner, you decided on something classic yet still delicious: spaghetti and meatballs. you set up the table with a candlelight room, carefully put together a vase of flowers in the center, and hung the banner that said 'happy birthday' in gold lettering above the window in your dining area.

you're still cooking dinner when you hear the front door open. you stop what you're doing and embrace matty in a hug and kiss "hi, baby!! how was the studio? how're the boys?" "eh, same old, same old. made some concepts for album art and stuff. nothing compl- oh my god." he stops in his tracks into the dining room and you can't help but smile like a fool. "you like it?" you ask with rosy checks and a cheeky grin. "oh love, this is amazing. thank you so much." he says in the most loving and soft accent. his cheeks become just as red as yours and he pulls you in for a long kiss.

as soon as dinners ready, you set both of your plates and place them at the table where matty is already sitting with a bottle of coke cola next to him. "alright. i tried my best so i hope it's good enough for the birthday boy." matty giggles at the response and you can't help but look into his dark brown eyes and notice them glowing and you can't even believe how you got so lucky with him.

after dinner, you pull out the cake from the white cardboard box and put the numeral 35 candles in the middle along with a few rainbow ones. you light the candles and place the cake in front of him and sing happy birthday. the candle glow brings out his coffee brown curls in the most beautiful way possible and makes everything from his eyes to his neck look bright and welcoming. the glow in his eyes look like the eyes of a puppy dog; the cutest you've ever seen. he blows out the candles so you ask the age old question: "what did ya wish for, healy?". "you know i can't tell you or it won't come true." he says slyly. you both sit there silently smiling at each other waiting for him. "fine then. i wished that i would get to be with you for the rest of our lives and i'll get to love you forever and ever." you're almost brought to tears with that response as you can feel your throat tightening. "i love you, matty, so much. happy birthday love."

#matty35 #matty the 1975 #matty #the 1975 #drive like i do #bfiafl #at their very best #iliwysfyasbysuoi #matty healy #matty healy x reader #matty healy fanfiction

[friendly-neighborhood-boricua]

The Bookshop

Summary: Bouquet in hand, Sirius feels slightly more prepared to see her. A lot has happened in the last five years, and the two have a lot to catch up on.

Notes: Harry Potter universe, famous!AU, rockstar!Sirius x reader, oneshot; part two of The Linguist. Let me know if you like it! Part three coming soon ...

Part 1!

Fistfull of flowers collected and paid for, Sirius continued down the cobblestone alley, eyes peeled for his destination. He had visited Teliska & Rook’s Rare Books once before, when Y/N had first acquired a job at the small shop, but unfortunately hadn’t had the chance to revisit the cozy corner of Paris since. 

Sirius’s heart stuttered for a moment as he rounded another corner and spotted the bookshop; the sign’s gold lettering was crisp as ever despite the faded evergreen color surrounding it and the bay windows framing the tall oak door could probably do with some dusting, but otherwise, the shop was just as Sirius remembered it. He squinted at himself in the reflection of a bakery window, fixing his hair and rolling his shoulders back to fix his posture, holding the bouquet tightly in his left hand. With a breath that Sirius hoped sounded more confident than he felt, he made his way to Teliska & Rook’s Rare Books.

The heavy door opened with a groaning creak and the light tinkling of bells, and Sirius was immediately hit with the scent of old books. He nearly sneezed as a cloud of dust furled up from the ground, rubbing his nose furiously to rid himself of the feeling. 

Once he had recovered his bearings enough to look around, Sirius was surprised at the familiarity of everything. The shop was organized in the same manner it had been nearly five years ago, with one corner designated to modern reads, another serving as home to a cluttered cedar desk where patrons could check out, and the rest of the small building crammed full of bookshelves that reached from floor to ceiling. 

Closing the door behind him, Sirius tentatively stepped into the shop, which seemed alarmingly empty, and peered around. Truthfully, it seemed as if no one had stepped foot in the place in years. Sirius peered down one aisle of bookshelves, then another, until his eye caught on a familiar spine. Twelfth Night. Y/N’s favorite. She always found the classics a bit ridiculous, as her Muggle mother had made her read them all when she was of age, but Twelfth Night was “far too funny not to like”.

Sirius’s lips quirked up into a little grin, and he slid the volume off the shelf, opening it to a random page. To his mild surprise, this edition came with illustrations, though, upon closer inspection, Sirius guessed it wasn’t bought that way. Its previous owner seemed to have doodled the scenes in the margins, turning the book itself into a piece of art.

“Sérieux Noir?” An elderly man—Teliska of Teliska & Rook, if Sirius’ memory served him right—peered around the corner of the aisle in which Sirius stood, wide eyes magnified by Coke bottle glasses. “Sérieux, c’est toi?”

Sirius grinned. The man was very French and never could grasp that his name was ‘Sirius Black’ rather than ‘serious black’. 

“Oui, Monsieur. It’s been a while.”

“So it has, mon fils, so it has!” The lean man hobbled down the aisle towards Sirius, squeezing his shoulder with a falcon’s grip once he was within range. He looked to the bouquet in Sirius’ hand. “I assume you’re looking for our Y/N?”

Sirius smiled subconsciously. “Yes, I was.”

Teliska smiled knowingly. “She’s in the back. Elsie’s been getting sicker lately, so Y/N’s been drowning herself in work. You know how she gets.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sirius said as the old man guided him down an aisle, then down another towards the back of the shop. “Tell Ms. Rook I send my love.”

Teliska peered at Sirius, magnified eyes holding a grave sort of look, but nodded nonetheless. “I will.” The odd pair stopped at a plain oak door with a brass knob tucked away in the furthest recess of the bookshop, and Sirius’ palms began to sweat. He wiped them hastily on his trousers, exchanging the bouquet from one hand to the other. “She’s just through there. Working on repairing some ancient tome for the Sorbonne. They’re working her to the bone these days—far too much for what they’re paying her  …” 

Teliska muttered on as he hobbled back towards the front of the shop, and Sirius watched the old man’s thin frame as he went, silently begging him to turn around, come back so he could put off the meeting he knew awaited him beyond the oak door with the brass knob. 

But the old man was out of sight soon enough, and Sirius was once again alone in the bookshop, surrounded by books and dust and everything Y/N loved. He faced the oak door again and bit the inside of his cheek. Why was he so nervous? He and Y/N were never really together, so why did he feel bad? What did he even feel bad for?

Sirius huffed out a sharp sigh and forced himself not to think. Just open the door. Open it. And he did. 

If the rest of Teliska & Rook’s was dusty and crammed with books, the back office hadn’t been dusted since the store’s opening and had to be waded through due to the sheer volume of books piled on the floor, in cabinets, on shelves and countertops—any and every square inch of would-be free space was occupied by a book. This time, Sirius did indeed sneeze when he was hit with a waft of dust, cringing immediately after at the harsh disruption to the otherwise silent back office. 

Shutting the creaky oak door as gently as possible, Sirius blinked several times at the maze of stacked books that lay between himself and where he knew Y/N’s desk resided. He was a relatively thin and quite well-built young man, but these narrow, precariously constructed corridors of books weren’t exactly something he had expertise in navigating. Nevertheless, Sirius would try. 

Each step was made with bated breath as Sirius expected any second for half the books in the room to come crumbling down around him, and each time they didn’t was a small miracle. He snuck about the back office for several minutes, trying to find his way towards Y/N’s desk until finally, he came upon a small clearing in the paper forest.

Y/N sat hunched over her desk, eyes focused on the ancient, half-rotted book in front of her as she traced line after line with a latex-clad finger. Sirius found himself unable to move for several moments, simply watching the young woman read through the ancient text, scribbling away what he assumed was the translation without so much as looking at her hand. 

It was only when Y/N’s focus switched from the ancient text to her own notes that she noticed a pair of black combat boots planted at the mouth of the book maze, and her head whipped up to look at the intruder. Sirius and Y/N simply stared at each other for several minutes, Sirius anxiously awaiting Y/N’s reaction to his presence, before Y/N’s shoulders dropped, and the corners of her mouth drew barely upwards.

“Sirius.”

Sirius took the fact that she didn’t seem to despise his very presence as a good sign. “Hi,” he said, and immediately regretted sounding so dense. “I—I brought you these,” he said hastily, an even poorer attempt to rescue the conversation from its already awkward start, and thrust the fistfull of flowers out at Y/N, who huffed out a small giggle. 

“Oh, thank you,” she said simply, rummaging around her desk until she found a small drinking glass filled with water that was probably a day old. She took the flowers from Sirius’s hand—Sirius was struggling more than he had anticipated to keep from hugging the living daylights out of her—and placed them in the makeshift vase before turning back to him. The two stood awkwardly across the small office from each other, the books keeping them from maintaining any real personal space, and Y/N coughed lightly. 

“Can I … can I give you a hug?” 

Sirius blinked dumbly. 

“Ye—of—yeah! Yeah, of course—! Of course.”

Y/N smiled, and the two met in the middle, embracing each other tightly. Sirius sighed into her hair, nose pressed into the crown of her head, and felt his heartbeat calm. They were fine. There was no need to worry—though his throat did swell up slightly when thin fingers found their way over his shoulders and towards the top of his spine. 

Sooner than Sirius would have liked, Y/N pulled away, gazing up at him with a lovely look in her eyes. Now that he had a good look, Sirius began to notice the little changes Y/N had taken on over the years: her hair was, oddly, shorter, as well as choppy, as if she had cut it herself; her eyes were lighter from the sun; the skin at the outer points of her eyes just barely hinted at crows feet. 

“It’s good to see you, Sirius,” Y/N said, lips closing around her beaming smile. 

“It’s good to see you, too,” Sirius said, much more softly than he had wanted as Y/N stepped out of his arms and resumed her spot at her desk.

“How’s your tour going so far?” she asked as Sirius found a wooden stool and dragged it up to the desk’s side. 

“You know about that?” he said, a sudden pressure in his chest beginning. 

Y/N’s brows furrowed. “Sirius, I know I spend all my time on the other end of a book maze—” she motioned to the mass of books he had traversed, “—but I don’t live under a rock.”

Sirius laughed, an embarrassed blush descending on his ears. “Right, right. I mean, I don’t like to assume. You never know.” Y/N nodded in understanding. “But it’s going well. Yeah, it’s fun. Remus has been working on something he won’t show the rest of us—we all think he’s seeing someone on the side—James is finally getting somewhere with Lily—”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Sirius chuckled. “It’s a miracle, truly. We’re all amazed. And … did you hear about the whole deal with Peter?”

Y/N nodded, and Sirius was thankful there was minimal pity in her expression—though there was something he couldn’t quite identify. “How are you all doing after that?”

“Eh, as good as can be expected,” Sirius said with a shrug. “Dorcas’s been on drums for us ever since. She and Marlene are still going strong.”

“Of course they are,” Y/N said with a hint of pride. “The relationships I put together always last.”

Sirius laughed lightly, eyes drifting through the room without really seeing before they landed again on Y/N. 

“And what about you? How’ve you been fairing?”

Y/N shrugged. “Ah, you know, the usual. Helping around the shop, doing some freelance work for the Sorbonne.”

“Mr. Teliska said something about how they don’t pay you enough,” Sirius mentioned, eyeing her with brows raised, and Y/N sighed, irritated. 

“Okay, listen,” she started, and Sirius laughed. 

“Had this conversation a lot now, have you?” he said, and Y/N rolled her eyes. 

“You’ve no idea.” Once Sirius’s giggling subsided, she continued. 

“Ivan thinks that because I’m basically doing research for the Sorbonne, I should be paid as much as a researcher—that I should be paid a salary—but, as I’ve explained to him countless times,”—Sirius began to laugh once again—“I simply don’t have the level of education that the Sorbonne is looking for in their faculty and therefore can’t be paid a faculty salary. I simply don’t have the financial means to go to school again.”

Sirius’ laughter had barely subsided when Y/N was finished, and he nodded understandingly. 

“You know, I could always just give you the money,” he suggested.

Sirius had never heard Y/N laugh so hard in his life. He laughed as well, though to a much lesser extent as he watched her hair bounce through peals of giggles.

“Oh please, Sirius,” Y/N said, delicately wiping a tear from her eye. “That’s absolutely ridiculous.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is,” Y/N insisted, letting out an incredulous breath. “Sirius, I am absolutely not going to take money from you. And I don’t have to work at the Sorbonne anyway. I’m getting by just fine with what I’ve got.”

“Y/N, life isn’t about getting by, it’s about enjoying yourself,” Sirius said, and Y/N shook her head. “Love, you can’t expect me to not try to help you when I’ve got the means to.” The pet name slipped without Sirius’s permission, but he stood his ground as Y/N sunk further into her chair. He knew her well; at the beginning of their friendship, she would have insisted on refusing, and he would have asked if she would do the same in his position, and she would go silent, and Sirius would have won. But Y/N was the smartest person Sirius knew. She didn’t need to go through the whole conversation to know what would be said.

But Y/N’s mildly defeated look made Sirius’s mind itch uncomfortably; he didn’t want to make the rest of this visit awkward or weird in any way.

“Have you eaten today?” he asked, commandeering the conversation away from whatever it was before. Y/N peered up at him, biting her cheek.

“I had a coffee this morning,” she mumbled, and Sirius’s face fell into a disapproving frown. 

“Merlin’s beard, Y/N.”

“Do you want to get lunch?”

“Will you eat something if we go get lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s get lunch.”

Y/N nodded and the two stood, Y/N finding a thin jacket and Sirius standing at the mouth of the book maze as he watched her pack her purse. 

“Ready?” she asked, throwing the strap over her head. Sirius simply nodded, and Y/N drew her wand from her pocket. With a simple wave of the thing, the books blocking the floor between the two and the door flew into the air, some stacking onto other already-precarious piles and others floating close to the ceiling, creating a sort of paper-and-ink trellis under which Y/N walked. Once at the door, Y/N peered back at Sirius, who was looking at the floating books, jaw hanging open. 

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

#sirius #sirius black #sirius black fluff #sirius black imagine #sirius black x reader #sirius black x y/n #famous!sirius #famous!sirius black #famous!sirius black fluff #famous!sirius black imagine #famous!sirius black x reader #famous!sirius black x y/n #sirius x reader #sirius x y/n #rockstar!sirius #rockstar!sirius black #rockstar!sirius black fluff #rockstar!sirius black imagine #rockstar!sirius black x reader #rockstar!sirius black x y/n #rockstar!sirius fluff #rockstar!sirius imagine #rockstar!sirius x reader #rockstar!sirius x y/n #marauders #marauders fluff #sirius x you #sirius black x you #famous!sirius x you #famous!sirius black x you

[b4mpyre-k1zz3s]

Life of the Party

Steve meets the love of his life in a way only he could.

Steve-O X Fem!Reader

(Fluff, Angst)

1.2k Words

Warnings: Suggestive content, heavy drug use, alcohol, crude language, bimbo y/n, makeouts, minimal plot, blood

An: This fic was inspired in large part by this song! Besides liking Nu-Metal, I have a passion for 90s rave tracks and accidentally stumbled upon this song one day. I had wanted to write a fic about Steve and a fun, party girl who could match his energy for a while, but this one took a bit of a dark turn while I was writing it! I’m on a Steve kick what can I say XD Nonetheless, thank you for requesting fics and please keep the requests coming! :)

“Yo, yo- dude.” Out of the blue, one of Steve’s buddies pulled him aside in the midst of some house party with a hand on his shoulder, “I got this chick you gotta meet.” Normally he would be pretty annoyed at this- there was a whole crowd of people around him waiting for him to down the thing of bong water he was holding, but he was feeling nice and had enough booze in his system to make him chill but not enough yet to make him an asshole. Fuck it, why not? So he followed him, squeezing past dense crowds while wondering why this dude seemed so damn excited to introduce him to this lady.

That’s when Steve saw you, leaning against a wall with a bottle of something dark in your hand. Looking you up and down, he felt compelled to make himself presentable by dusting off the little bits of burnt hair on his scalp from the backflip moneyball he did when he jumped off the roof earlier. Big hair, shiny red high heels, leopard print mini dress- this girl was classy, the splitting image of the kind of girls that usually go for him. Your gaze flitted over to him as he approached you and whatever conversation you were having was immediately halted. “Oh my god- are you Steve-O?” Chuckling, he nodded, your excitement doing wonders for his ego, “Yeah, baby! You a fan?” Splaying out your glittery manicure on his chest, your dark, mascaraed eyelashes flared out around your saucer-big eyes as you leaned in, “Of course! I love you!” Christ. Well it’s not like he could say no to that. Steve grinned, “You wanna go have some fun?”

“I would love to!” You giggled, lifting up the bottle in your hand, the amber liquid sloshing as you held it out to him, “Can I buy you a drink?” Raising his eyebrows, Steve took the bottle from you, bringing it to his lips and taking a huge swig before throwing his arm around you, sighing. He dragged you over to the couch, flashing that sweet, boyish smile of his as he plopped down andfished around in the pocket of his camo shorts, wordlessly pulling out a ziploc baggie full of blow. Fuck yeah. There was something in the way your face lit up when he took that shit out that made Steve think that maybe this chick could keep up with him. “Whats’ur name?” As you sat down, he started drawing up a line with a credit card, licking the plastic edge clean once he got it how he wanted, and you were nearly drooling. Sure, booze was all nice, but after you had tried just about everything under the sun, you always thought coke was a classic and a necessity at parties like this. You spoke over the loud party music, “Y/N.”

A few hours later and shit started getting really fun. Steve couldn’t keep his hands off of you and you didn’t care, finding it really sweet when he asked to hold your hair back when you did your next line. “Don’t worry ‘bout it- I gotcha, baby…” His fingers tangled in your hair as he wiped the remnants of his last one from the bottom of his nose. You leaned down, inhaling deeply and feeling that telltale burn deep in the back of your throat. Pulling yourself up, you sniffed a couple times, your eyes watering as you felt something warm on your upper lip. A grin spread across Steve’s face as he reached out, gently grasping your chin to tilt your face towards his, smearing the blood that began to trickle from your nose, “Atta girl.” He thought it was cute, how blown out your pupils looked as you stared back at him with glassy eyes.

The sting all melted away both by the aid of the bottle the two of you passed back and forth until it ended up sitting empty on the coffee table and the rough kiss Steve then pulled you into, his tongue sloppily intermingling with yours. His mouth tasted like Jack Danniel’s and Newports, but you didn’t care. Your hands ran up and down his torso, hurriedly trying to find somewhere to stay. Steve smirked against your lips, pulling you closer as his hands slid down to your lower back. Your heartbeat picked up as he started to place open mouth kisses down your neck, not a single person at the party batted an eye at the obscene display the two of you were putting on. “Fuck…” He murmured against your chest, looking up at you with half lidded eyes, “Can I do one, like- off your boobs?” Giggling, you wrapped your arms around the back of Steve’s head. This guy was just too sweet.

He must’ve really hit the jackpot for this one. Never before in all of his years of being a guy on tv who liked to party sometimes had he met a girl so giddy for him to do blow off her tits. You laid back on the shitty couch someone probably found on a curb and Steve tugged down the top of your dress a little to get better access to your cleavage. It was weirdly sexy, watching how focused he looked as he lined it all up with that credit card from before, not even bothering with the rolled up dollar the two of you had been using. Sternum to collarbone, Steve did the massive line in one go before quickly capturing your lips in another fervent kiss, snaking a hand up the back of your neck to tangle into your hair and pull you closer. As he pulled away after what felt like forever, your breath came out in little pants against his skin.

Pulling Steve up to his feet, you wobbled a little, leaning against him to stabilize yourself as you murmured into his ear, “Y’wanna fuck?” His eyes went wide as he chuckled a little at the gall of this woman. Of course he did. Without hesitation, you two ducked down some hallway, running off to a secluded bedroom that belonged to whoever to continue what you were doing in private. The sounds of the party still filtered in after you closed the door, somewhat muted through the thin walls as you tumbled on the bed. Steve didn’t even bother to turn the lights on before he was on top of you, slotting himself between your legs as his hand found its way to the black lace hem of your skirt. You were clawing at his shirt and you had gotten it about halfway off by the time your dress was hiked up around your waist, the air swimming with hormones and human heat.

Suddenly, Steve felt you freeze before going limp underneath him. Confused at your reaction in contrast to your previous eagerness, he stopped for a second, trying to listen for any repose or signs of life. You were breathing, but pretty softly- did she…? Oh shit. This girl just fell asleep after doing three lines. Steve would be impressed if you hadn’t passed out right before you were going to fuck him. Groaning, he rolled over to lay next to you, wiping away the red lipstick that was smeared across his face and thinking about how he bet this kind of shit doesn’t happen to Chris as he slowly drifted off to sleep himself.

#jackass #steve o #jackass fanfiction #jackass fanfic #fluff #angst #jackass x reader #steve o x reader #all of my Steve fics are actually inspired by music now that I think about it #huh!