#god sorry for these fucking tags man im just trying to make my blog slightly more organised

[morwensteelsheen]

farawyn and borodred for the ship ask game thing?

thank you so much!! :)

okay i’ll start with borodred because for some unfathomable reason i actually got there first —

1. What made you ship it?

One of my favourite Types of ships is the Elder Statesmen Of War-type set-ups, where it’s less about people brought together through theatrical romantic gestures and more about the steadiness of people who are going through similar (immensely difficult) circumstances, who know that in their hearts they’re always going to put their duty to that cause first, but still seek out human comfort in other people who will understand what their priorities are and why.

I think there’s also a lot of similarities about the kind of helplessness they both face despite having this tremendous innate strength. Both of them still have to deal with family dynamics that are complex (made more complex by the war) and that can’t be fixed just by their own sheer will power; both of them die these utterly unnecessary deaths (not that death makes a ship but I think in this instance it actually points to the constant tragedy these guys face); and both of them are meant to be the principal figures of their families and people and are ultimately sidelined by the cruel mechanisations of war and the forward march of history or whatever wanky term there is for it — my apologies to ep thompson's ghost, dont haunt me bro.

Plus there’s obviously the interesting thread raised when Faramir starts bitching about Gondor and likens Gondor (and by very explicit extension, Boromir) to Rohan. That always made me go ‘Hmmmmmm, wonder what else Boromir liked about Rohan,’ lmao.

Anyways for me the ship is the equivalent of Star Wars’ Kanan and Hera or (my OTP to end all others) Luke and Wedge, just people getting by on love and duty and without big ol fancy romance.

2. What are your favorite things about the ship?

The fanon, I think, really makes it, as with so many other LOTR ships. battlefield manners, by themightypen is essentially the definitive take for me on them — these two guys who are just so fucking exhausted, man, but still overcome by defensive love for their families, even if their (foster-)siblings are naïve fools. That I just love, love, love. Plus I think they’re unique for their ability to pretty comfortable explore the relationship between Gondor & Rohan in advance of the Ring War without having to stray too far into AU, which I always appreciate.

3. Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

Not really, tbh, except in that I don’t think Boromir is necessarily as laddy as people like to portray him. I’m happy to play into it in, say, my modern AUs because I think that’s a fun and sweet niche for him, but I am a bit 🤪 about Boromir as this kind of reckless, drunken playboy (not least because I think that’s a much funnier niche for Faramir to fill, at least when he’s younger). Chapter Four of Swaddledog’s Hearts and Minds gets my preferred Boromir characterisation absolutely spot on, I think.

And now, sigh, the ultimate OTP, Farawyn —

1. What made you ship it?

For starters, I think I am obsessed with Éowyn in a way I’ve never quite been obsessed with any other fictional character. I came to reading LOTR at this moment in my life where I was intensely frustrated about everything — trapped inside permanently (helplessly!) because of the pandemic, just starting a new political organisation that I truly believed in but that was still making me feel like shit, facing down an untenable about of work, and, fundamentally, really, really hating being a woman and what that means. And along comes Éowyn, who is bitter, who is cold, who is ANGRY, and who doesn’t perform joy or softness or gentleness just because people expect her to. She’s this seminal Woman Of War in so many ways, I think the kind of person a lot of us wish we could be. She’s got her emotional taps cut off at the source, she holds her head high and faces down unimaginable personal and political terrors, and at the end of it all still has this abiding love for her family that, I would argue, is almost unparalleled by anyone else in the book.

After all that, she gets this incredible moment of emotional catharsis (or what we expect to be emotional catharsis): “no living man am I!” She undertakes THE greatest martial act of the Ring War, and in that moment there’s this unbelievably sophisticated dialogue happening about gender (“Éowyn it was, and Dernhelm also”), and leadership (Merry finding his courage not because of the immediate scenario of the Witch-king, but because he’s spurred into it by Éowyn’s presence), and love and care.

And then we learn that no, actually, this glorious act of violence wasn’t the emotional catharsis we thought it would be. She gets to ride to war, she gets to throw herself headlong at death, and in the end that hopeless act of individualism isn’t really what does it for her. She’s still left desolate and despairing, and actually all of her problems haven’t gone away.

And then we need to rewind a bit, because along comes Faramir, who is gentle, and is kind, and does seem to believe in joy, but not because people expect it — actually it's made abundantly clear nobody expects it — but because it’s something quite innate to how he figures the world. And he’s a huge fucking nerd too. I have a lot of thoughts on Faramir’s flaws and why I find them endearing, which I won’t put here, but almost immediately you get this sense of a guy who’s quite melodramatic, good humoured, and very much not made to live in a time of war.

But he’s also clear-headed about war and what it requires (tactically, if not strategically, though that’s a post for another day), but who is kind of cynical and weary of it in his own unique way. And it’s a unique cynicism given his personal circumstances because he’s the second son of The great family of Gondor, he’s apparently — though with some big ol’ question marks hanging about the extent — very able to command some of the elite units in the realm, and what’s more than that, he’s got all these fantastical powers (the light mind reading to start, to say nothing of this apparently magical ability to command animals too. bruh.). By all accounts he should be this brazen hot mess, but he’s not. He’s desperate to claw his way out of this war-torn cage of expectation his people have for how a man should comport himself in time of war. Is it a little naïve? Sure. A little fussy? Absolutely. But does it point to that same desperation that Éowyn has? Yes! But also the practicality, like, neither of them are really enjoying the circumstances they live under, but good fucking god are they both able to Make It Work.

So finally we get to the Houses of Healing and what is the finest and most aggressively romantic writing of LOTR. Seriously, it’s so fucking much. It’s breathtaking. It reminds me quite viscerally of this fabulous quote from Les Mis:

The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.

At some point I will devote more time to talking about the two reasons line, and the blissful Queen of Gondor speech, but I think to me that big, important line is: “And then her heart changed, or at least she understood it; and the winter passed, and the sun shone upon her.”

It’s not about Éowyn changing herself entirely (though, I think, it really does bear mentioning that she does change, and that’s every bit as important to understanding that scene as it is romantic), it’s about Éowyn coming to terms with how to live with herself as herself, and how to live in communion with someone else. She can’t just cut people out anymore, and she can’t just treat them as objects of infatuation as she did with Aragorn, she has to reckon with people as they are. And that’s sort of the moment where I knew I was about to plunge fully off the deep end with these two and never know a moments’ peace again, lmao.

2. What are your favorite things about the ship?

Someone on here once called Farawyn a love letter to women and, by god, yes, exactly that. I love the capacity for emotional intimacy, that is beautiful in ways I can’t express. To me, though, my favourite thing is the promise of life they speak of. Not as in oh they shag loads and have babies (though not opposed to that, obviously), but in the sense that unlike Aragorn and Arwen, who are always going to be buried under/burdened with the crushing weight of history and tradition, Éowyn and Faramir are going out yonder those hills and they’re going to do some real cottagecore farming shit. Obviously with all the trappings of rank and nobility and whatnot, but they, unique to anybody else in the books, get to sow this new idea of what life should be. They are, outside of Aragorn, the single most powerful people in Gondor. Éowyn’s got the ear of a king, a steward (which is essentially a prime-ministerial deal here), and functionally her own prince (if the hobbits are to be believed when they refer to it as essentially hers). I suspect that, in life, there were remarkably few arguments she wasn’t winning, and that Ithilien probably trended towards the jumped up noble hippie camp Tolkien so desperately wanted Oxford to be (or, in other words — Cambridge, lol).

3. Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

Yeah, man, everybody stop treating Faramir like he’s a big fucking crybaby and Éowyn like she’s some kind of shrieking 2010-era tumblr girl.

One of the single most important lines defining Faramir’s character is when Denethor roasts his ass for always trying to appear noble and lordly, if you ignore every other piece of textual evidence we have about him, what part of that line makes you think Faramir’s some simpering daisy? And why would you want to link tremendous emotional intelligence and care with being too limp-wristed to function, lol??? Like I struggle loads with writing Faramir, because I have never once in my life tried to be noble or self-restrained, so find it hard to get into that mindset, but better, I think, to imagine him too closed off than to do this wilting flower song and dance lmao.

And stop making Éowyn out to be this over-emotional angst machine. She’s got problems, yes, and she’s sure as shit got a lot of angst, but at almost every point in the book where we’re overtly dealing with her emotions, she’s sublimating them into something else. One of the most serious times we see her cry is when she’s fighting with Aragorn about riding out, and after that moment she literally tries to kill herself. Those tears aren’t standard, man, that’s a real watershed (lol) moment for her. You have to read around what the text is saying to get a better feel why everybody’s constantly calling her cold and distant.

#god this is probably obnoxiously long because i can't do cuts on my phone #but refuse to open the tumblr website on my laptop lmao #faramir #éowyn #boromir #théodred #farawyn #borodred #god sorry for these fucking tags man im just trying to make my blog slightly more organised #i just have a lot of thoughts #i should really write more metas it would probably help my writing out quite a bit #asks #meta

[flamehairedwritings]

pls headcanons about hopper + squirting 🥺

Again, I’m so sorry this has taken so long!! I hope you enjoy and that you’re doing okay!

This HC contains swearing, overstimulation, lots of fun finger stuff, some ‘good girl’s, and a touch of praise kink, so 18+, obvs.

─

If You’ve Never Squirted Before

It started like any other night.

You and Jim Hopper are newly dating and still finding out what the other likes, and taking great pleasure in it.

‘Oh, fuck...’ you breathe as he places hungry, open-mouthed kisses on your neck, three of his thick, long fingers thrusting in and out of you, the pad of his thumb pressing down on your clit. Your hands are gripping at his hair and shoulder, your breaths coming quicker and higher as your orgasm nears.

‘Yeah, cum for me... C’mon, baby...’

When you do, slick walls gripping at him, hips arching, he’ll kiss down your throat to your chest, his fingers only slowing a little. He loves to prolong your pleasure as much as possible... but there’s something different about this time.

He usually slows gradually but he doesn’t, just continuing. Your fingers press into his skin, your mouth opening, and his lips will move to your ear.

‘This okay?’

God, you love how he checks in with you, it’s such a damn turn-on.

You nod quickly as the knot of pleasure in your lower stomach, still lingering and spreading through you, starts to heighten again, your back arching.

His head is at your chest, lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking firmly as his tongue circles it.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck...’ you chant breathlessly, one hand flying up from his hair to grip at the headboard to try and ground yourself.

‘You gonna cum again for me, baby?’ he murmurs against your breasts, mouth moving to your other nipple.

‘Mhm...’ is all you can get out, the sound short and high from the back of your throat.

His fingers fuck you through the waves of pleasure that wash over you for a second time, his arm by your head to hold himself up as your own body arches, longer moans slipping from your lips.

You try to catch your breath as his fingers slow a little again, though, again, only a little.

Hopper mouths his way up your throat to your lips, swallowing your breathless moans with light, lingering kisses.

‘You feel so good,’ he murmurs, fingers scissoring slightly inside you, flexing and rotating. ‘So fuckin’ wet for me...’

Your eyes are nearly rolling back as you groan softly, your hands now gripping at his shoulders. You’re so sensitive now, barely coming down from your first orgasm let alone your second... but it just feels so damn good...

And then his thumb starts to slowly circle your swollen, aching clit again

Gasping, your nails dig into his skin, your eyes now rolling back as you close them.

‘Oh, fu─uck...”

‘Still okay?’ he murmurs against your cheek, pressing a gentle kiss there.

It’s a few moments before you can speak, unable to stop your hips from rolling up into his touch slightly. ‘I don’t think I can... Don’t think I can cum again...’

‘Yeah, you can... You gonna give me one more?’

His eyes lock with yours... and, fuck, you want to.

‘... Yeah... Yeah, I can...’

‘There’s a good girl.’

Just those words pull a moan from you, and you feel his smile against your skin.

His fingers slide back a little, massaging, probing, curling... and he knows he’s found it when you cry out with unbridled pleasure, your head thrown back, teeth gritted. He curls them over and over, stroking and stroking as his thumb circles your clit.

‘Oh God, oh God, fuck, oh, God...’ Words and sounds fall from your lips, all you know and can focus on the pure bliss coursing through you.

And then a familiar yet unfamiliar sensation starts to rapidly build in your lower stomach.

Gasping, your eyes snap open as you look down at him, trying to find the words but you can barely speak. ‘Mmh... Think... Think I’m gonna─’

An intense flood of pleasure barrels through you as you release, gushing all over his fingers, hand and arm.

He practically growls, eyes darting from your face, to catch your every expression, to your dripping pussy, his fingers and thumb not stopping.

‘Fuck, yeah, soak my arm, baby... That’s it...’

You think you might have completely zoned out or maybe even passed out for a couple of seconds because suddenly his lips are on your forehead and his fingers are finally slowing to a stop.

‘Good girl, so fuckin’ good...’ he murmurs, his kisses so tender as his wet hand settles on your waist.

You can feel parts of his bare chest are damp, too, as he leans closer to you.

Holy fucking shit.

‘You good?’ he asks quietly, brushing his nose against yours.

‘Mhmm... Yeah... So fucking good...’

He chuckles as he captures your lips in a deep kiss.

After that, anytime you have an extended amount of time together he’ll try and make you squirt, taking great pleasure in doing so.

Which leads into...

If You’ve Squirted Before

Hopper has a designated towel for the ~ occasion ~ as he likes to call it. He just needs to appear in the door way, holding it in one hand, eyes fixed on you, and you’re already practically squirming.

He’ll watch your every reaction and expression, making sure he’s not pushing you too far, though he trusts that you’ll tell him if he is anyway.

He loves the absolute release it gives you, your entire body going slack as your mouth drops open.

And he loves it so much because he knows how much you fucking love it.

As always, he whispers the most sinfully delicious things into your ear, telling you how wet you are, to listen to the sounds your pussy’s making, to soak him and the towel, to make a mess.

Afterwards, he’ll always press the softest of kisses to your lips and forehead, giving you the time you need to come down from your high, hands stroking your thighs, stomach, waist. He’ll tell you how incredible you are, how well you did for him.

He’ll want to know exactly how it felt, how good it was.

Then, he’ll do all the cleaning up while you lie there, still trying to catch your breath, dazed. Wrapping his arms around you when he climbs back into bed, he’ll brush kisses along your shoulder and neck, ending up near your ear so he can murmur how much he loves you.

─

Reblogs and comments make my day in a way I can’t describe.

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged or removed in my future work!

Masterlist

Tagged: @herb-welch, @punkpascal @davidkharboursex, @jobean12-blog, @warmbeardsandredwine, @mademoiselle-black, @scrunchinn, @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash, @divadinag, @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan, @deepsouth, @neganslittlebae, @ashphoenix105, @alahmorah, @daughterofthebrowncoats, @letsby,  @kiwiphroot, @ashmely, @sistasarah-sallysaidso, @unicornsandgliiitter, @lucifer-in-leather,  @heyjudeinthesky, @sleepylunarwolf, @ambeazyyy, @countryfire22, @sithlordslut, @mondsafari,  @norcula, @earinafae, @beltzboys2015-blog, @jinxiejenna, @justsimplevicky, @hellosupernaturaldoctor, @ginasellsbooks, @dwarvenbunnyears, @vale0413, @mrslydiaholden, @kimberliinabox, @thoughtsmeander2tumblingblindly, @allylupin, @cant-shake-this-feeling-off, @the-bitch-gotham-deserves, @warriorqueen1991, @thesurestthing, @zuni21798,  @quietlovelovely, @maddieisaboredable, @windinyoursnail, @happy-hopper, @yedi16, @negansdirtygirl22, @slipperywhenwetsstuff, @my-rosegold-soul @madkskillz, @im-not-great-at-making-up-names, @sergeantangel, @bitchinsinclair, @dewy-biitch, @focusonspn, @wearethebrokenones, @sarcasm-is-my-native-tounge, @thatprettymvthafvcka, @pulplorrd, @gifsbysimplysonia, @opalsandlacemain @geordiequeen, @gothackedalready, @ayatimascd, @missaudreyhorney, @chiefharbour, @l0ve-0f-my-life, @saltandroot

Apologies to those Tumblr won’t let me tag!

#do i do hcs or just short drabbles #jim hopper x reader #chief jim hopper x reader #hopper x reader #jim hopper #my writing #flamehairedwritings

[etherrealoblivion]

A Broken System (part two)

PART ONE

gif by @toyboxboy​

A/N: A THOUSAND FOLLOWERS!!! here’s a treat! part two!!!

tags: smut, part two.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Words: 5,930

MASTERLIST

~

“Professor Reid!” Morgan shouted, holding up his drink, clinking it against Spencer’s. 

Morgan had dragged him out the night before his first class, insisting that they needed to celebrate. Spencer didn’t really see what there was to celebrate. He’d been offered a job as a Professor at Georgetown after a particularly eloquent lecture on Criminology. At first, though, he hadn’t been too keen on the idea. He was good at his job as a profiler, why change that? It was something Hotch had said that changed his mind.

“You’re a great profiler, Reid. You’ve learned so much. Maybe it’s time to teach the next genius.”

And then it had clicked. Something about sharing his experience with bright young faces that sat where he once did, just felt right.

So he accepted the offer the week before first term, the school scrambling to get the paperwork in order and Spencer scrambling to prepare a lesson plan.

It hadn’t occurred to him that teaching would be more time-consuming than profiling.

“Whoo! Professor!” Garcia cheered, downing her fourth shot of the night. “Teach me somethin’. Now!” she slurred, spilling a bit of her drink on Prentiss.

Spencer laughed, politely excusing himself to use the bathroom.

Technically he did go to the bathroom. He splashed some water in his face, then stepped outside to call a cab. He’d go back in, say his ride was on its way, and leave. Simple. 

Before he could pull out his phone, he noticed a woman bent over in the alley, breathing heavily. Reaching out a hand, he placed it on her shoulder, trying to be comforting.

Quickly, he was spun around and slammed up against the brick wall of the alley.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Dammit. Spencer knew better than to grab some girl in a back alley behind a club.

But then he turned around.

Woah.

There was a fierce look in her eye, sizing him up. She had on a tight black skirt that perfectly accentuated her curves along with a flowy top that left more to the imagination. What really completed the ensemble was the large sash across her front that said: Birthday Bitch. She was beautiful.

No.

Spencer didn’t let himself think that. Sure, he could appreciate a woman’s beauty. But too much of a good thing…. He had to keep up his barrier. 

But then she started to talk. And he didn’t stand a chance.

The way she went on about handshakes and the dangers of going clubbing was extremely adorable. Spencer found himself unable to hold back from bantering with her. Unlike almost every single woman he’d ever encountered, she was easy for him to talk to. The occasional stutter slipped out but she just smiled when it did.

Then she kissed him. 

If he hadn’t been attracted before, he was now. Her lips tasted like bourbon and cherries. The feel of her against him was intoxicating. So he walked her home, trying his best to keep his expectations low. If she truly just wanted him to walk her home safely, that’s what he’d do, make sure she was safe and sound, and leave without complaint. If she happened to want more than that, who was he to say no?

It wasn’t like he’d never had sex. Actually, the two most serious relationships he’d had had barely consisted of touching. But he’d had other . . . experiences. The problem was, he’d only had sex with women he’d known for a day or two. Mostly in college. Sometimes online. Never at a club. 

Spencer had rules. He didn’t let himself get attached. If he started to feel a spark, he cut off contact. It was the only way to make sure no one was hurt.

But this girl…. She made him throw every rule out the window.

A deep, dark part of him wished he hadn’t asked how old she was turning. God, how wrong was that.

He should have arrested her. She had been in a club, drunk, and went home with a stranger. But she’d also kissed him. And he was pretty sure she felt his erection in the alley. How the hell was he supposed to explain that?

“Hey Morgan, I brought this girl in for having a fake ID. I figured it out just before I was going to go into her apartment and fuck her up the wall. Don’t worry she’s only fourteen years younger than me and slightly inebriated.”

That would go over great.

Okay, so he couldn’t arrest her. But he most certainly couldn’t - to be crude - fuck her up the wall as he’d planned. He’d just say that this was a terrible mistake and let her off with a warning.

It was a solid plan.

Then she called him sir.

Spencer was ashamed at the speed he gave in. Before he knew it, his mouth was on her clit and his fingers buried in her pussy. The sound of her begging him to fuck her was a sound he’d never forget.

And then he was inside her. His bones turned to jelly and his tongue melted down his throat. This had to be what heaven felt like. Pure, unadulterated, paradise.

Who was this girl?

The orgasm was absolutely earth-shattering. He hadn’t been with anyone in so long, he was surprised he lasted as long as he had. He was so pleased he’d been able to make her come. Good to know that sex skills weren’t something that could be unlearned.

When she’d asked him to stay, every bone in Spencer’s body screamed yes. He knew it was a bad idea. One of his biggest rules was don’t stay the night. He wanted to so badly, but he couldn’t. He could not. There was no way.

“I’d like that too.”

Shit.

~

His alarm went off at six-thirty. Y/N was coiled so tightly up against him that getting up seemed futile.

Apparently she was a heavy sleeper. He was able to gently withdraw his arm and check his phone.

Twenty-nine messages.

My man! It’s that Professor vibe you give off now. You got game.

Spence, Morgan told me you picked up a girl? Are you back in the game? Use protection! -JJ

Spencie!! OMG!! Do you like her? What color are her eyes? Does she like Doctor Who? When’s her birthday? What type of-

He pressed clear all, deleting the messages and getting dressed. He had his first class at seven-thirty and he really needed to shower and change. But he didn’t wanna leave Y/N.

Pulling out a notecard from his wallet, he scribbled her a quick note, kissed her on the forehead, and slipped out the door, locking it before it closed.

He was halfway home before he understood the weight behind what he’d done. He’d had sex with a twenty-year-old that he’d met outside a club. And he’d planned to meet with her again. 

What the fuck was he doing?

~

He made it to his office just in time, surprised to see that it had already been set up for him.

The desk was a dark chestnut, bits and baubles placed around it to make him feel at home. There was some paperwork in the center that he’d deal with later. Right now, he had a class to teach.

He opened the door to the lecture hall and walked in, briefly daunted by the sea of faces staring at him.

Come on Spencer, it’s just like a guest lecture.

“Hello, class.”

“Hello.”

Spencer found himself smiling at the way all of the students had chimed in. This wouldn’t be too weird.

“Please take out your laptops and create a new word document. Once you’ve done that, open your email, please.”

As the students scrambled to follow instructions, he perused their faces, making note of expressions, seat choice, and enthusiasm level.

Then his confidence flew out the window.

Seated next to a redhead in the fourth row was the unmistakable shocked expression of -

Y/N?

~

~

notes: so i am no longer doing taglists im really really sorry it’s just way too much of a hassle. BUT i pretty much only post fanfic and don’t really reblog stuff or get a lot of asks soooo if you wanna check for new content, it’ll be on my blog! sorry again <3

#spencer reid smut #spencer #spencer reid #spencer reid gifs #reid #Spencer Reid fic #Criminal Minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #Smut #angst

[icyharrington]

Is It Wrong?- Part 7 (Michael Langdon X Reader)

hello!!! so i have been trying so hard these past few weeks trying to get this final part of iiw right. i am insanely nervous to put this out there, because i don’t wanna disappoint any of the amazing people who followed this series from the beginning. i wanna thank all the thirsty hoes who have supported this fic and given me feedback, because y’all are the reason i had the motivation to finish the series. this is the most fun i’ve ever had writing anything, ever. i can’t believe this series is finally coming to an end 🤧BUTTTTT don’t forget that there will be an additional, shorter epilogue chapter! so stay tuned for that ;) I LOVE Y’ALL!!!! 

plot: michael langdon is a picture-perfect fuckboy, and, lucky for you, he’s also your stepbrother. how will you survive?

warnings: inappropriate relationships, fuckboy michael, fem!Reader, high school au, teen angst, like seriously A FUCK TON OF TEEN ANGST, fluff, vaginal fingering, handjobs, sexual intercourse, (semi?) public sex, dirty talk

word count: 12.8k (IM SORRY LMFAOOO) 

tags: @alicecooper19 @ritualmichael @blackfyrez @bbyduncan @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @michaelsapostle @trelaney @kissydevil @langdonalien @langdonsdemon @sloppy-wrist @michael-langdon-appreciation @wroteclassicaly @cocosfern @sojournmichael @starwlkers @theinevitableprophecy @sodanova @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @divinelangdon @maso-xchrist @space-princesssss @ahslangdon101 @isabellaserpentiawesson @stupidocupido @nana15774 @urlocalgothb @hexqueensupreme @gold-dragon-slayer @pr1ncessd1e @langdonsboots @langdonstrash @prophesieddarling @isoldedax @fckinsupreme @lvngdvns @hisgirlwonder @telexnesis @venusxxlangdon @obsessivenostalgicbaby @noelle525 @kleinegamerin @lambofcairo @kiiteiru @anacerta @nuke-em-from-orbit @thingsthatoncemeantnothing @littledemondani @beriveri @dcvilrising @grossgayartist @featherpool-852 @imjustasadhoe @cryptid-coalition @nu-tt @diamcndscarred @michaelsfrenchtoast @ms-mead @sarcasticbxtch20 @ringpop-poppy @coollangdon @s7venwonders @littlehouseofleaves @elvahavax @king-of-mischief-and-bitchez @alternativepetewentz @maytheforcebewithqueen

(sorry to anyone who asked to be tagged but isn’t in my tag list!! tumblr won’t let me tag certain blogs for some reason!!)

i.

“Goddamn it, how hard is it for you to follow simple GPS directions?” Miriam’s voice was pitched in annoyance as she scolded your father, whose knuckles were near white from how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel.

“You know what? Why don’t I just pull over, and you drive instead?” your father snapped. You and Michael exchanged a glance in the back seat for what seemed like the thousandth time since you’d all loaded into the car several hours before.

In celebration of summer vacation, and you and Michael’s recent graduation from high school, your father and Miriam had decided to arrange something of an impromptu vacation. Your father was far too cheap to travel anywhere of any significant distance, so he’d decided that the next best option was to take a road trip down to Myrtle Beach, Florida.

“Oh my god, yes,” Michael had said to you after your parents had broken the news to you both. “Do you know how many half-naked sluts we’re gonna see there? Myrtle Beach is like, white trash central.”

That comment had been the fuel for one of the many arguments you and Michael had engaged in following graduation; there was tension in the air, hanging thick and heavy over your heads as the days crept along, and the mindless bickering between you and Michael was at an all time high.

Not that it stopped either of you from having sex. Quite the contrary, in fact— you and Michael had been having so much sex that it was maybe even getting a little ridiculous.

“Seriously, Michael?” you’d said after his crude comment, your tone far whinier than originally intended. “Go fuck one of those half-naked white trash sluts instead of me, then.”

It’d taken him several minutes to convince you that he’d been joking (even though you were still fairly certain that he’d been dead serious) followed by some admittedly top-quality make up sex, which proved to be enough to convince you to move on.

Maybe something was in the water, you thought. Even Miriam and your father had seemed to be fighting constantly as of late, and the stressful atmosphere of the household made you feel constantly on edge; it almost felt like there was an impending disaster coming, one that was impossible to prevent. You only hoped that whatever disaster might be on its way would avoid you and Michael.

Right now, Michael was leaning with his forehead resting against the window, a bored look on his face as he skipped through the music playing on his phone. He only had one earbud in, the other draped over his shoulder (presumably so he could eavesdrop on your parents’ ridiculous arguments), dressed casually in light gray sweatpants and a faded Jimi Hendrix shirt.

Fuck, he looked good. He was jostled slightly with each slight motion of the car as it moved forward, the muscles in his arms subtly flexing as he reached up to run his fingers through his soft, tousled blond hair. For a second, your mind was clouded with images of a beach-bound Michael, his tanned, water-speckled torso lean but still toned, swimming trunks clinging to the lowest point of his narrow hips and leaving almost nothing up to the imagination. Your mouth watered.

“You know, if I’d driven, we would’ve actually arrived at the hotel by the time the GPS said,” Miriam said.

“So why didn’t you!?” your father exclaimed.

You locked eyes with Michael yet again, whose pale eyes glimmered with slight amusement at the nonstop back-and-forth between your parents.

“Because you insisted on driving.”

“Insisted? All I did was offer to drive out of the kindness of my— oh fuck, I think we just passed the hotel.”

“We did,” offered Michael flatly from the backseat, the soft glow of the neon hotel sign reflecting in his pupils as he craned his neck to follow the building.

“Goddamn it,” your father muttered, scanning the road for somewhere to make a U-turn.

“Nice going,” Miriam muttered under her breath, crossing her arms over her chest.

You were jerked forward as your father abruptly turned the car around in an act that you were ninety-nine percent sure was illegal; in a matter of seconds, the car was parked in the hotel parking lot, officially marking the end of the several-hour-long trek. Everyone seemed to let out a unanimous sigh of relief.

“Fucking finally,” said Michael, opening the door and swinging his legs outside so his ratty Converse sneakers made contact with the asphalt. You followed suit, making your way around to the trunk, which you popped open to retrieve your colorful travel bag.

The sound of crickets chirping through the mild Florida night was soothing despite its incessantness, and you found yourself smiling idly, a warm breeze gently caressing your face. So maybe you weren’t in the goddamn Dominican Republic, but you were still prepared to enjoy your time here.

Once everyone had taken their respective belongings from the trunk, your father led the way to the front entrance of the hotel.

The hotel lobby was nice, but certainly nothing special; it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the sole reason your father had chosen this place above all others was because it was the cheapest. Your father, weighed down with his overstuffed black bag, trudged over to the front desk with a pained look on his face.

“Imagine this place is infested with roaches,” said Michael lowly, flashing you a shit-eating grin when your face paled at this terrifying prospect.

“Shut up. My dad isn’t that much of a cheapskate.”

“Or what if it’s haunted?” he said, furrowing his brows to mimic a deadly serious expression.

“It’ll be haunted by your ghost in about five seconds if you don’t shut your mouth.”

“I saw this thing online about a girl who went missing, and then they found her in the water tower of the hotel,” he continued, and you rolled your eyes. It wasn’t at all surprising that he was trying to scare you. “And like, all the people staying there were showering and stuff, but little did they know they were washing themselves in dead body water.”

“Can you shut up, please?”

His plump lips contorted into a devious smile. “What, am I scaring you?”

“No, you’re just being really fucking annoying.”

“Aww, don’t worry, (y/n). I’ll protect you from any ghosts or cockroaches that might be here.” He pulled you into a side hug, squeezing you against him with an iron grip as he nuzzled the top of your head with his chin. You pulled away, exerting minimal strength but still managing to evade his grasp.

“Are you going to be this obnoxious the entire trip?” you said, watching as your father appeared to be looking for something in his pockets. After patting himself down for several seconds, he said something to the man behind the front desk; whatever it was that he’d said resulted in Miriam’s face contorting into a look that could easily kill anyone three times over.

“Here we go,” Michael whispered, mouth twitching at the corners as he averted his attention away from you and onto your parents instead.

“You’re an idiot,” Miriam was saying, practically seething as she spoke. “A goddamn idiot. How the hell did you manage to forget the credit card?!”

Your father’s mouth opened and closed as he attempted to come up with a response good enough to satiate his fuming wife, but of course there was none.

“How did he forget the credit card?” Michael said.

You shrugged.

Miriam huffed loudly as she began to dig through her purse, shooting your father a contemptuous glare when her hand emerged, leather wallet in tow. You watched as she pulled out her credit card, handing it over the front desk to the visibly uncomfortable man standing there.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the muscles in your arms starting to burn from the weight of your travel bag.

Michael, having apparently lost interest in your parents’ altercation, suddenly turned back to face you. “You think I’ll be able to pass for over 21 at the hotel bar?”

Before you could respond, your father was making his way over to you, brandishing two key cards in either hand. “We decided it’d be best for all of us if you and Michael had your own room. You guys don’t mind, do you?”

He handed you a card, and as you looked it over, you tried your hardest not to pay any attention to Michael.

It was truly astounding how clueless everyone seemed to be in regards to your relationship (if you could call it that) with your stepbrother, but you definitely weren’t complaining. Just the thought of having a room all to yourselves was enough to make your heart race.

“Of course we don’t mind,” you said with a smile.

“Just— y’know. Miriam and I have some things we need to work out, and, well, I don’t want you guys swept up in any of the drama,” said your father.

“Totally understandable, dad,” said Michael, beaming as he snaked his free arm around your shoulders. “I’m sure we’ll be able to manage. What do you think, (y/n)?”

Michael widened his eyes at you, the contorted features of his porcelain face dripping with faux-innocence.

“Yeah, I think so,” you said, tone cheerful and sweet.

In unison, you and Michael looked away from one another and back to your father. His eyes were shadowed with deep rings, and he looked more like he was about to head off to a 9-to-5 shift at a dead-end job rather than a vacation with his family. “You kids be good, all right?”

“Don’t worry,” you said, ripples of electricity making their way up your spine as Michael lightly stroked your shoulder with his calloused fingertips. “We will.”

ii.

“Room number 69, huh?” Michael said with a quirk of his eyebrow, licking his lips as he plucked the key card from your hand and slid it into its designated slot by the door. “It’s like they knew we were gonna be staying here.”

“You are eighteen years old,” you said in a monotone, though secretly Michael’s immature sense of humor and silliness were qualities that never failed in making your heart swell.

There was a subtle beep as the light next to the slot flickered green, and Michael pushed open the door with one shoulder, the other occupied with his bag. “How fucking awesome is this?”

You followed him into the modestly-sized room, discarding your bag at the end of one of the two pristinely made beds. Michael did the same, and without even giving you time to settle into your new surroundings, he pushed you firmly up against the nearest empty wall.

Even despite the fact that he’d been sitting in a hot car for several hours (unsurprisingly, your father was very stingy with the air conditioning), Michael still managed to smell good; the intoxicating mixture of his shampoo, paired alongside his boyish deodorant and woodsy cologne, was dizzying from such a close proximity.

“You didn’t waste any time,” you chuckled, cheeks flushing as he began to pepper kisses along your neck and behind your ear, lifting one hand to brush your hair over your shoulder.

“Why would I?” he said, his voice low and seductive. He took a moment to playfully nip at your earlobe, and you squealed, wrapping your arms around him so you could pull his firm torso closer to yours. “What else are you supposed to do when you’re left all alone with such a pretty girl?”

As much as you weren’t willing to admit it, your heart soared at this validation- Michael thought you were a pretty girl. Those words, coming from that perfect mouth, made you feel a childish sense of giddiness, gave you butterflies in the pit of your stomach like an innocent playground crush.

Michael wandered one hand up over the curve of your hip and onto your waist, lips still moving open-mouthed against your jugular and around to the front of your throat. Reaching up to the back of Michael’s head, you took a fistful of butterscotch-colored hair at the root, using it to guide him back towards your face. Then you kissed him, hard and passionate, your fingers threading easily through his waves as his tongue slipped past yours and into your mouth.

Ding!

You assumed Michael’s phone had just gone off, but neither of you paid it any mind, your breath hitching as Michael slid one veined hand up under your tank top to grope your left breast.

Ding!

“My pretty baby sis,” Michael breathed, swollen mouth slick with saliva. Panting softly, he continued to ignore his phone, tugging his t-shirt over his head and tossing it behind him haphazardly.

With his upper body exposed to you now, you took the opportunity to trace your fingers down the length of his subtly defined abs, stopping just beneath his navel. Just below that, after the cute trail of fuzzy blond hair that paved the way to his v-line, was the low-hanging waistband of his gray sweatpants; you hooked your fingers there, just barely pulling the fabric down as you eyed the mouthwatering bulge prominent in the front of his pants.

You couldn’t help yourself- biting your lower lip, you brought your hand between Michael’s legs and grasped his semi-erect length through the soft material of his pants.

Ding! Ding!

Michael hissed, but he seemed to be somewhat distracted now; you knit your eyebrows as he twisted around to face the source of the interruption- his phone, which he’d left on one of the beds.

Ding!

“What is that?” you asked, frowning. It wasn’t often that Michael tolerated anything getting in the way of his hookups, so you found it mildly concerning when he broke away from you entirely to go and grab his phone.

His tongue poked out of the corner of his lips as he looked at his screen, and you could tell that he was stifling a smirk. “Oh. Uh, it’s nothing.”

You moved from your place against the wall, approaching Michael with your arms crossed in front of your chest. Sure, maybe it was none of your business, seeing that you weren’t Michael’s girlfriend or anything, but he’d piqued your curiosity.

Ding! Ding! Michael fumbled with the phone for a second before turning it on silent.

You cocked your head to one side. “No really, what is that?”

Michael had hidden his phone behind his back now, bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet.

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

Okay, now you had to know.

“C’mon, lemme see,” you said, trying your hardest not to sound upset. Why were you upset, anyway? You reached around Michael to take his phone from his hand, which, surprisingly, he allowed you to do without much protest.

You looked down at his phone, jaw dropping as you began reading over the several notifications stretching down the length of his screen.

NEW MATCH! With Sofi

NEW MATCH! With Katherine

NEW MATCH! With Kristen

NEW MATCH! With Mallory

NEW MATCH! With Caitlin

NEW MATCH! With Anna

Your eyes flickered up to Michael’s face, down to the phone screen, and then back again, unsure of how exactly you were supposed to react to such a discovery. Michael just offered you a sheepish shrug, somehow only pissing you off further, and angrily you shoved his phone back into his hands.

“Are you fucking kidding? We’ve been here for less than an hour and you’re already trying to find hoes on Tinder?”

“Well, I mean, that’s one way to put it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just wanted to see what kind of girls live around here, I swear. I wasn’t actually gonna-“

“-Whatever,” you mumbled, bending over to unzip your travel bag. It wasn’t like you had any sort of right to be pissed- Michael could do what he wanted, and if what he wanted was to hook up with random Tinder girls, then so be it. Still, though, you couldn’t help but feel a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

You rifled around in your bag until you came upon the neat ziploc bag full of travel-sized shower essentials, which you tucked under your arm. “I’m gonna go take a shower. I feel gross.”

“Wait, (y/n). Are you mad at me?” You weren’t sure if he actually cared about hurting your feelings, or if he was worried that you wouldn’t want to fuck him anymore; either way, you didn’t think right now was the best of times to be honest about your feelings.

“Why would I be mad at you?” Your voice sounded dangerously close to breaking, and you knew it (and so did Michael, most likely).

“Well… I dunno. You seemed pretty pissed just now.”

“No, no. Do whatever you want. Fuck as many Tinder girls as your heart desires. It’s not like we’re exclusive.” You continued to search through your bag, pulling out your pajamas and hair towel and tucking them alongside your shower supplies.

“Someone sounds bitter,” Michael mused, causing you to narrow your eyes at him in a focused, pointed glare.

“I thought it was sort of established already that this-“ he motioned at himself, and then to you- “isn’t gonna go anywhere. So I don’t really see the harm in looking around.”

Instantly, you felt a lump form in the back of your throat.

He was right. You’d even said it yourself, that nothing good would ever become of this thing you had with Michael; as much as you wanted it to, it was impossible. So why did it hurt so bad to hear it coming from him?

“Which is why I’m not mad,” you said, swallowing thickly. “Do what you want. I don’t care.”

But, like the cliché you were, you did care. Thinking of Michael with anyone else made you feel sick to your stomach. But what were you supposed to do about it? You were his stepsister.

God, if only things had been different. If only the universe hadn’t brought you together in the most inconvenient and unconventional of ways.

You turned on your heels, leaving Michael behind as you made your way to the bathroom without another word.

Once you’d started the shower and adjusted the temperature, you stripped down, catching a glimpse in the mirror of the many marks adorning your body that Michael had left behind at some point or another- hickeys (some bright lilac and navy blue, while others were fading shades of yellow and pink, all speckled down your chest and over your breasts), fingerprint-shaped bruises, shallow scratches.

And those were just the physical ways that Michael had marked you; you were sure that if you turned yourself inside out, there would be thousands more markings to be found.  

You thought maybe this was exactly what you needed right now: a long, hot shower to clear your head. Maybe, if the mood struck, you’d even cry a little bit, just to get your emotions in order.

You stepped into the shower, flinching at the intensity of the stream as it cascaded relentlessly over your body. Shutting your eyes, you ran your palms over your face, skin prickling at the pleasant warmth of the water. After you’d allowed your hair to get sufficiently soaked, you reached for your travel-sized bottle of shampoo, squirting some of the coconut-scented gel into your hand and working up a lather.

You were halfway through your usual hair-washing routine when you heard the bathroom door open; you opened one eye, hardly wider than a squint, to see a tall, blond-haired figure through the steamy glass shower door entering the bathroom. Though the thick layer of steam on the door heavily obscured the intruder, you were still able to see that whoever had entered was butt fucking naked.

Fucking Michael.

There was a metallic squeak as the shower door slid open, revealing an image to you that must’ve been hand-delivered by an angel. There, in all his naked glory, stood Michael, one hand positioned by his side and the other gripping his impressively hard cock.

It was a miracle you didn’t slip and crack your skull open right then.

“Hey,” said Michael coolly, a smug smirk appearing on his lips when he noticed you staring at his length.

“Michael, what are you doing?” you asked, attempting to sound just a little less eager than you were feeling. You tilted your head back, quickly washing away the excess shampoo in your hair, and as you did this, Michael joined you in the shower.

“Saving water,” Michael replied, pulling the door shut and enclosing the two of you within the stream.

“How environmentally friendly of you.”

“Aww, are you still mad at me?” You tensed as he grabbed your hips and brought you closer to him, the head of his cock brushing your stomach and sending chills throughout your body.

“I was never mad at you,” you said flatly. You kept rinsing your hair, refusing to give Michael the attention he clearly was so desperately seeking (not yet, at least).

“You were a little jealous though, weren’t you?” he teased, squeezing your tits without warning and making you jump. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ve already told you before that your pussy is my favorite.”

“I was never worried,” you snapped, but you couldn’t deny the arousal that immediately resulted from Michael’s words.

“Whatever you say, baby,” said Michael, spinning you around so that your back was pressed against his bare chest. You shivered at the feeling of his big cock on your ass, and all at once, whatever snarky comeback you’d been formulating disintegrated into nothingness.

Your eyes fell shut as Michael’s hands traveled over your body, his touch gentle but still possessive; he stopped at your tits, kneading the smooth peaks in both hands until they stung, kissing your shoulder when you squirmed at the slight discomfort. “Just relax and let your big brother take care of you.”

He retrieved your body wash off the ledge in the shower, gathering some in his palms and returning his attention to your tits. You leaned back, resting the back of your head on his broad shoulder as he began rubbing the body wash all over you (mainly focusing on your breasts, because what else would you expect from Michael Langdon?).

His slippery hands felt like heaven on your tits, pinching and toying with your nipples just the way you liked. It wasn’t until his hand began dipping lower, though, that your breath caught in your throat.

His fingers trailed past your stomach and down to cup your cunt, goosebumps erupting across your skin as he hummed in your ear. Your entire body reacted to his touch, muscles tightening and thighs trembling, hips rolling back so you could better feel his deliciously thick cock against your back.

“You like that? Like how I touch you?” he murmured, his words reverberating against your throat and igniting a fresh wave of arousal between your legs.

With one hand, he used his fingers to splay apart your outer lips, gathering some of your wetness by stroking up and down your slit while his other hand worked at your tits. A familiar heat began to spread from behind your navel, and paired with the near-scalding warmth and great pressure of the shower stream, you felt your head start to spin.

You laid your head back on Michael’s shoulder, trusting him to keep you balanced as you reclined limply against him. His fingers moved upwards again, using the sticky arousal on the tips of his fingers to massage slow, lazy circles over your aching bud; you let out a gravelly moan just as Michael administered a sharp pinch to your hardened nipple.

“Fuck, Michael… feels so good.”

You were well past the point of preserving your pride, bucking your hips against Michael’s hand while trying to squeeze your thighs shut around it, keeping him close to you.

“Hm? Is that right? You like when I touch your pussy?” His voice was husky, rich and warm like a roll of tropical thunder; swallowing noisily, you bobbed your head up and down in agreement.

Garnering what little energy you had left, you extended your arm behind you, spreading your fingers in search of Michael’s erection; tongue darting out to wet your chapped lips at the feeling of his stiff, smooth skin, you followed the slightly jutting vein that wound up the side of his length, stopping at the head of his cock and running your thumb over his leaking slit.

He groaned at the sensation, encouraging you on. You returned your hand to the base of his cock, grazing your fingers along his sensitive balls before taking a firm hold of his shaft, pumping your fist up and down his length with as much vigor as you could manage.

“Fuck,” he grunted, and although he now had the added task of awaiting his own impending orgasm alongside bringing you to yours, his fingers did not falter between your legs. Every throaty groan passing his lips seemed to drive his fingers into more of a frenzy, forming fast, sloppy shapes on your aching bud until you were crying out.

“That’s a good- fuck- girl. Keep jerking your big brother’s cock, just like that. Feels so fucking good,” he breathed against your skin, making you shiver even despite the heavy, humid warmth of the bathroom. You could no longer see anything through the glass door, which had become entirely overtaken with thick fog; for a moment you felt like this was the only place on earth that existed- a closed-off world of steam and water and porcelain made just for you and Michael.

With your eyes shut tight as the coil in your belly prepared to snap, all you could do was listen to the melodic blend of sounds enveloping the small space and attempt to move your body in time with the makeshift rhythm. Not one sound fell upon deaf ears- you were hyper-aware of every vulgar, human noise; every breath and every moan; every squeak of wet feet on the slick white floor.

This might be the most beautiful song you’ve ever heard, you thought.

“Fuck, Michael— more.” Stretching your other arm back to desperately grab at Michael’s damp mop of waves, you allowed yourself to come undone, arching your back so your erect nipples were pointed up towards the ceiling.

Michael brought his free hand away from your breasts, instead using it to brace himself against the shower door, creating a hand-shaped imprint in the steam that immediately began to drip with condensation.

Without thinking, you let go of Michael’s hair to join his hand on the glass; lacing your fingers through his, you worked at his cock with your opposite hand until his breaths grew ragged and choppy- a sure-fire sign that he was about to cum.

“Fuck, (y/n), keep going,” he moaned breathlessly, pressing his thumb harshly against your clit and nearly causing your knees to buckle underneath you. “Gonna- fuck.”

His cock twitched in your hand, and with that, he was cumming, shooting his thick load all over your ass and lower back. Miraculously, even as he recovered from his orgasm, he still continued to touch you; his fingers were like magic on your clit, and within a matter of seconds, you, too, were being sent over the edge.

“Oh god, Michael—“

Even during an earth-shattering orgasm like the one you were experiencing, you still were able to notice the way that Michael had switched spots on the glass with you, his large hand enclosing around yours and squeezing.

He didn’t remove his hand from between your thighs until you were twitching and overstimulated, and once he did, he pulled you into a hug, his strong arms cradling you against his chest.

Your eyes fluttered open and shut again, like a person caught between life and death, when he planted a tender kiss to the top of your head.

“I’m never gonna find anyone else like you,” he said, hardly louder than a whisper. You weren’t sure whether it was a reassurance to you, or a solemn statement of distress.

Either way, you swore you could hear something like sadness behind his words.

iii.

Since Miriam and your father were too preoccupied with their arguing to arrange any family excursions, you and Michael were left to your own devices.

Those next few days in Florida, your life was about as close to a teen romance movie as it could get. You and Michael spent the days exploring the nearby towns, trying out restaurants (it’d taken a startlingly long while for you to convince Michael to try out one of the local cafés for breakfast instead of McDonald’s, which had been his original idea) and going shopping; on one occasion, you shared a joint with Michael before dragging him to the local aquarium, which he’d pretended to be entirely disinterested in (even though you could see the wonder and fear in his eyes whilst staring at the shark exhibit- what would happen if the glass broke? he’d asked, nervously drumming his fingers on the paneling as a particularly large shark swam by).

You shared ice cream with him on the boardwalk, licking the chocolate soft serve that had melted off the cone and onto Michael’s hand off his fingers; you rubbed sunscreen on each other at the beach (although Michael wasn’t nearly as thorough as you were, and most of the time you’d wind up with a nasty sunburn thanks to his negligence); you bought 99-cent popsicles from a vendor, making out with cherry-stained lips while the sun went down.

At night, you’d sit on the beach, sometimes stoned, talking and laughing as the waves rolled in and out on the shore.

It was 3 am on your last night in Florida, and you and Michael had snuck out of the hotel room and walked down to the beach, large checkered blanket and a bottle of red wine in tow (Michael had charmed the woman behind the counter in a sketchy liquor store in order to obtain this). You were sitting side-by-side, thoughts clouded from the effects of the alcohol with your knees drawn to your chest, when a sudden realization washed upon you like one of the rumbling waves breaking against the shore.

You were in love with Michael Langdon.

This was an unwavering, undeniable fact; you were in love with him. You loved him, even the parts of him that, at one point, you had hated. The realization was both peaceful and upsetting.

“Michael,” you said, huddling closer to yourself as a cool breeze cut through the night. What were you going to say to him? You couldn’t very well tell him about the epiphany you’d just had- he’d been on Tinder just a few days ago, for god’s sake. But, still, you felt compelled to say something.

“Hmm?” He stretched out his legs, running his palms up and down his sand-covered calves. In the darkness, you could hardly make out the features of his face, save for the sparkling reflection in his eyes as he looked out towards the ocean.

You licked your lips, taking a swig from the half-empty bottle of wine that had been positioned upright in the sand. You winced at the bittersweet taste washing over your tongue, the blood-colored liquid sloshing noisily against its glass confines as you brought it back down to your side.

“I don’t know,” you said, suddenly feeling stupid. “It’s just- I don’t want this all to be over.”

“Me either,” he said, putting his arm around you and drawing you closer to him. You inhaled sharply, breathing in the scent of wine and stale cigarettes and salt water like it was oxygen and you’d just been saved from drowning. “I didn’t think I would, but I had a really great time this week.”

You shook your head. “I’m not just talking about this week. I just mean in general. I feel like it’s all ending so soon.”

“Oh.” He took in a breath, an especially large wave hitting the shore with a startling crash. “God, this fucking sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Michael, I-“ I love you. The remaining words settled on the back of your tongue, refusing to roll off, but perhaps it was for the better. “-I think in another life, we could’ve worked out. Could’ve been something more than what we are. You know?”

If only, if only, if fucking only.

“Lucky us, being born in the universe where we’re fucking step siblings,” Michael laughed, but there was a deep sadness in his voice that you’d never heard before. “But, (y/n). Even though shit isn’t working out the way we wanted it to, and even though it’s gonna hurt when we both go away to college, I’m still so glad that I met you.”

“I’m glad I met you, too.”

There was only silence for a long moment as Michael reached for the wine bottle and took an indulgent sip. “There’s so much shit I wish could’ve been different,” he said finally, angling his head up towards the velvet blackness of the night sky. “I wish I’d treated you differently. I wish I hadn’t been so fucking scared of feeling something.”

You ran your fingers through the soft sand, forming meaningless patterns there as you listened to Michael open up for what felt like the first time since you’d met him.

“I used to lie awake at night and think of how fucking unfair this all is. That the one girl I’ve ever really wanted is the one girl I can’t have. I used to think if maybe I pushed you away, treated you like shit, that everything would hurt less. But it just hurt me more, seeing you in pain from the shit I put you through. And now I realize that it’s all gonna hurt the same either way. ‘Cause I’ll never have you the way I want.”

You felt a well-known pinching behind your eyes, and you blinked, silently willing away the tears that were threatening to escape. You kept your eyes on the drawings you’d made in the ground, knowing that if you were to look into Michael’s eyes, you’d probably break.

“What’s gonna happen to us, Michael? We can’t just wait for each other while we’re away at college and miss out on life. But god, I wanna be with you,” you said, voice quivering.

“I don’t know,” he said softly, shaking his head. “I say we just…live our lives. And if it’s meant to be, it will be. One day.”

You nodded, dragging your fingers through the sand and destroying the mindless spirals and swirls you’d formed. “One day.”

“But enough with all that sad shit,” said Michael, taking your chin in hand and moving it so you were looking at him. “What’s important is that we have each other right now. So let’s make the most of that, hm?”

The look in Michael’s eyes told you right away what he meant by making the most of your time together; your cheeks were hot, prickling from the red wine, fingertips burning to touch something. So you did- you grabbed the front of Michael’s shirt, yanking him towards you and placing a haphazard, open-mouthed kiss on his lips.

The kiss was aggressive and feverish; it didn’t take long for Michael to lay you down on the checkered blanket, his hands wandering your body like it belonged to him (and, in a way, it did).

When Michael broke away to catch his breath, panting, you decided to try something new: with all the strength you could muster, you pushed Michael off of you and promptly rolled on top of him instead, straddling him with your knees on either side of his torso.

In the faint glow of the silvery moonlight, you could see an indistinct smirk playing at his lips; it wasn’t often that you were the one to take control, but it was obvious, from the growing protrusion in the front of his pants, that he liked the change.

You leaned down to reattach your lips to his, hips rocking back and forth over his bulge until the friction sent shock waves up your spine. With you bent forward, Michael was easily able to slide his veined hands up the back of your short skirt, taking two greedy fistfuls of your ass.

Almost frantically, you tore your shirt off over your head, not bothering to worry about where it landed. Now, the only thing separating your breasts from the nighttime air was a thin lace bralette, which Michael took to palming you through.

“Fuck, (y/n),” murmured Michael, rolling one of your hardened nipples between two fingers. “You have seriously got the best tits.”

“Yeah? You think so?” you said, a twinge of playful mocking to your voice; you wrapped your fingers around Michael’s wrists, maneuvering them so that both his hands were fondling your breasts.

“Fuck yeah, I think so,” he said, and you only wished there was just a bit more light so you could properly admire him in his disheveled, lustful state.

“Even better than those girls on Tinder you matched with?” you taunted, grinding your hips down hard against Michael’s erection. “I wonder what they’d think about all the times you’ve been balls deep in your stepsister.”

At this, he tightened his grip on your tits, twisting them almost painfully before hoisting up the thin fabric of your bralette so your nipples were exposed. You helped him in removing the garment, pulling it off and throwing it alongside your shirt, never once ceasing the motion of your hips against his clothed, twitching cock.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” Michael said, running his thumbs over your nipples. “Otherwise I’d take you over my lap and spank your ass raw for being such a little bitch.”

“And you’re lucky you have a big dick,” you shot back, words catching in your throat when he tugged hard on one of your nipples. “Otherwise I never would’ve given your fuckboy ass the time of day.”

This was a lie, of course, but your lighthearted tone of voice was enough to let him know that you were only messing around.

Michael scoffed. “No, I think you’re the one who’s lucky that I have a big dick, considering that you’re a total fucking cock-hungry slut.”

You stifled a laugh. Well, he’s not wrong.

“Is that a complaint?” you said, lips quirking as you scooted your body slightly downward, giving yourself room to pull Michael’s now-fully hard cock out. Sinking your teeth into your lower lip, you took the pulsing length in hand, moving your thin panties to the side and repositioning yourself so that the head of Michael’s cock was nestled just barely against your entrance.

Michael shook his head rapidly, a throaty grunt passing his lips. “Obviously- fuck- not.”

It was almost amusing to you, the way you and Michael had gone from having a heartfelt conversation to teasing each other relentlessly, but you supposed that was what you loved about your dynamic anyway. Unable to hold off any longer, you guided Michael’s cock inside you, gliding down easily on his length until he was fully seated inside. Your mouth fell open, and as you began to properly ride him, he brought his hands to grip your hips with a tight, bruising hold.

“Fuck, Michael,” you sighed, tits bouncing as you rolled your hips forward, increasing your momentum. Michael slid one hand from your hip to your inner thigh, pinching the tender skin before bringing his thumb to your clit and rubbing firm circles over it.

A pleasant, salt water-scented breeze passed by as you rode Michael, further disheveling your hair, which you ran your fingers through; the lewd noises of your body connecting with Michael’s were overtaken by the unmistakable sounds of the tide.

“Good girl, riding my cock so fucking good,” Michael breathed, lifting up his free hand so he could push two fingers into your mouth. Your eyelids fluttered at the salt of his skin, lips instinctively wrapping around his calloused digits and sucking.

Swirling your tongue over Michael’s fingers, you continued riding him, swaying your hips in figure-eight motions; the thick girth of his cock stretched your tight walls, and from this angle, you could practically feel him in your stomach.

The pad of Michael’s thumb pressed against your clit again, and as electric pleasure rippled up your spine, it took everything inside you not to cum right then and there. Your pussy was clenching tight around him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to let go—you didn’t want to be apart from him. Not yet.  

For a second, you could see every contoured feature of Michael’s face illuminated in the pale light of the moon, the exaggerated shadows and highlights coming together to form an image that was almost otherworldly. His eyes were droopy-lidded, so much so that you might’ve thought his eyes were shut if it weren’t for the glint of his pupils; he’d sucked his full lower lip into his mouth, nibbling on the rosy pink flesh as he admired your curved, supple figure on top of him.

I love him, you thought, matter-of-fact, as he pulled his spit-soaked fingers from your mouth and dragged them down between your tits, leaving a shiny trail of saliva in their wake.

I love him, you thought, bowing your body forward to kiss him hungrily, moaning into his mouth as you hurried your pace on his cock.

I love him.

Why the fuck did you have to love him? It wasn’t fair. Your insides churned with jealousy at the thought of all the other teenage girls who were currently experiencing their first love; you thought of the constant Instagram posts of girls in new, happy relationships, the public displays of affection against lockers between classes. Those things, so seemingly insignificant, would never become a part of your reality (or at least not any reality involving Michael).

In another life you’d have Michael over for dinner to meet your father, holding his hand under the table when you’d notice his thigh jiggling anxiously. You’d kiss him freely without the underlying fear, swirling deep in the pit of your belly, that someone might catch you. You’d be his prom date, match your gown to his bow tie and take awkward pictures with him, his strong arms holding you from behind.

In another life, things would be normal. In another life, you and Michael would be happy together.

“(Y/n),” groaned Michael; the sound of his raspy voice calling your name was enough to send you over the edge, bracing your tense body with one hand next to his head as you rode out your orgasm.

You were able to move even faster now, both of his hands holding your ass as you leaned far enough forward that you could bury your head in his neck. The feeling of his cock pulsing inside of you was almost too much now that you’d orgasmed, but you didn’t stop, eager to witness Michael drift into his own realm of bliss.

“Fuck—“ was all that could leave Michael’s lips before he came, using your ass to hold you in place as he spilled his warm load inside of you. You  didn’t move, keeping your face by his neck so you could listen to him catch his breath.

When you finally picked yourself up, Michael looked down to his shoulder and furrowed his eyebrows. “Were you just crying?”

Fuck. Yes, yes you were. Tears had apparently leaked from the corners of your eyes without you realizing, wetting his neck and the cotton fabric of his t-shirt. You said nothing, pulling off him to retrieve the clothing articles that you’d discarded in the sand earlier.

“Just a little,” you said, embarrassed, shaking the sand off your bralette and putting it on. “Red wine makes me angsty.”

“Oh.” There was a pregnant pause as Michael cleared his throat. “C’mon, (y/n), it’s not so bad.”

There was wavering uncertainty veiled beneath the confidence of his words, and you could tell he was trying to convince himself of this sentiment just as much as he was trying to convince you. Your back was to him as you slipped your shirt over your head, willing yourself not to start crying again.

“(Y/n)?”

His hand was on your back, the tips of his fingers circling lightly over the fabric of your shirt. You turned to face him, slowly. “Yes?”

“I…” He halted for a moment, contemplating something. “I really, really like you. More than I’ve ever liked anyone before.”

“I really, really like you too.” Somewhere, a chorus of crickets were unknowingly performing a custom symphony for your own teen romance movie moment. Michael took your hand in his, lacing his long fingers through yours, and you swallowed.

He looked down at your joined hands, an almost solemn look on his face. “Just. I don’t want you to forget, all right? No matter what happens.”

No matter what happens. You didn’t want to think of what he could mean by that.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered, as if to shield your words from the ocean’s prying ears. “I won’t forget.”

And that, you knew, was an irrefutable fact.

iv.

Late August hit you like a truck, coming by so unexpectedly that you thought surely you’d been caught in some kind of time slip. Your college move-in date was a week before Michael’s, and so Michael had spent the days leading up to your departure helping you pack (he’d also, of course, made plenty of time for “breaks” throughout the process, one of which consisted of you being fucked on the floor amidst the vast array of brown moving boxes).

Your bedroom was now a shell of what it’d once been- the comfortable teenage clutter you’d been so accustomed to was now gone, and you’d finally gotten around to throwing out the pictures and stickers you’d had on your wall since freshman year. It was depressing, hollow.

On the morning of your move-in date, your father helped you bring your belongings to the car and load the trunk. The car ride was going to be fairly long, and you were dreading it, especially since Michael wasn’t coming along. He had his own matters to attend to, what with his own move-in date creeping near, and the car would be far too crowded with all your things there anyway.

You were scheduled to leave at 9, and downstairs you could hear your father and Miriam shuffling around as they prepared for the trip. You sat at the edge of your bed, surrounded by the pale purple sheets you’d had for as long as you could remember, idly scraping the toe of your sneaker back and forth along the wooden floor.

You weren’t ready to say goodbye to all of this, but when had you ever been ready for anything life had thrown your way? You hadn’t been ready to fall in love with your stepbrother, and yet that had happened all the same.

From across the hall, Michael’s bedroom door cracked open, and out he came in his flannel sleep pants and plain white t-shirt (which now perfectly complemented the slight summertime hue of bronze to his skin), blond hair in beautiful disarray. Your heart ached- you were going to miss seeing him in the morning, all sleepy and soft, voice pitched lower than usual from sleep.

You recalled all the times you’d passed him as he stood at the counter in the bathroom, brushing his teeth; he’d look at you with a lazy half-smile, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, his elbows resting on the edge of the sink. He always looked so handsome even when he wasn’t trying, a quality you almost envied him for.

He noticed you watching him from the corner of your bed as he approached the doorway, waving at you as he balanced his shoulder against the frame.

“‘Morning,” he said, his bleary-eyed gaze meeting yours. He looked tired, dark rings prevalent beneath his crystal blue eyes, and you briefly wondered if he’d gotten much sleep the night before. “You should be grateful that I got up at the ass crack of dawn to say goodbye to you.”

“The ass crack of dawn? Michael, it’s 8:45,” you said, and if you really tried, you could almost pretend that this was a regular conversation between the two of you, and not the very last time you’d be interacting face-to-face until November.

“Yeah, well, 8:45 is the ass crack of dawn to me,” he said, and you stood up, meeting him halfway in the middle of your barren room. He flashed you a grin, but there wasn’t much happiness behind it, and you could see that he was… uncomfortable? Sad? Angry?— you couldn’t quite tell— from the way he’d folded his arms in front of his stomach. “So yeah. I, uh, wanted to say goodbye. And also remind you not to fuck too many frat guys. You could, like, catch something.”

“I’ll try not to, but I can’t promise anything,” you joked, following the sentence with a forced-sounding chuckle. “Bye, Michael.”

You stepped forward, winding your arms around Michael’s waist and placing your head against his chest; you could just barely hear his heart beating, the warmth of his skin touching your cheek even through the fabric of his t-shirt.

“I’m gonna miss you,” he murmured, his chin resting on the top of your head, strong arms holding you to him in an unyielding embrace. “So much.”

There were too many things you wanted to say, racing through your mind so quickly that it’d be impossible to articulate them aloud. Instead, you let out a shaky sigh, eyes falling shut as you tried your hardest to immerse yourself completely in Michael’s touch. Sometimes, there didn’t need to be any words for you to understand each other.

“Don’t be sad about this, (y/n). When you’re at college, you’re gonna meet so many guys who are so much better than I am. And you’re gonna wonder why you ever were hung up on a dumbass like me.” His tone was lighthearted, but you knew better than to really believe that he was unbothered. “But I don’t think I’ll ever find someone better than you. I’m so fucking lucky that you gave me as many chances as you did. I didn’t deserve them.”

“You’re wrong,” you said, pulling away so you could look pointedly into Michael’s eyes. God, his eyes were beautiful, and you drank in the moment, knowing this was your last chance to really look into them face-to-face. “I gave you those chances because even though you acted like a total fucking asshole, I still knew there was good in you. I could just… feel it.”

He cocked an eyebrow skepticall y. “No, you gave me all those second chances because I give good head and have a big dick.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, maybe those were contributing factors, but they weren’t the only reasons I stuck around.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said, licking his lips and settling his hands on your hips. “For the record, your pussy really is my favorite. Like, I wasn’t just saying that.”

“I’m honored.”

The interaction was cut short by the sound of your father calling you from downstairs, indicating that it was time to leave, and your heart sank deep into your stomach. Standing up on the tips of your toes, you planted a chaste kiss on his lips before hurrying out into the hall, waving over your shoulder as you went.

“Bye, (y/n),” Michael said, not moving from where he stood in your bedroom. He’d dug his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, shoulders slumped forward as he watched you go. For a moment, you wished you’d hugged him for longer. “See you in November.”

“See you,” you called back, imitating nonchalance to the best of your ability, only averting your gaze when you felt tears wobbling along your waterline, threatening to overflow and spill down your cheeks.

In that last moment before you turned, you could almost swear that he had tears in his eyes, too.

v.

When you finally made your way up those familiar porch steps again, the November air chilling you slightly even despite the thick sweater you wore, you felt like an entirely different person.

Those first few months of college had been a blur; your life was far more interesting than it’d ever been while you were in high school (if you didn’t count the whole ‘fucking your stepbrother’ thing), with a surplus of boys at your disposal at all times. You’d gotten perhaps a bit carried away with the dating and partying and hookups, but you figured you were simply making up for all the experiences you’d missed out on in high school.

Michael was a thought that you trained yourself to keep tucked away. During those first few weeks, you’d spent several nights crying yourself to sleep, the stiff dorm room bed so uninviting compared to the way Michael’s arms had always felt around you. At parties, you’d scan the crowds for boys with blond hair and blue eyes, hoping that one of them could temporarily stand in for Michael during your time away from him. None of them fulfilled the requirements, of course- you’d come to realize early on that nobody was quite as good as Michael Langdon. It took a while for you to stop searching for Michael in every boy you became acquainted with, but with practice, you became rather skilled in the art of forgetting.

You and Michael kept in contact, albeit only sometimes. His messages to you were comprised mainly of memes he’d found on Instagram that he thought you’d appreciate, along with the occasional drunk text late at night (‘Cna you send me a pci of your tits/??? Lmfao’ was one of your favorite messages from him that you’d received thus far). It made you feel special to know that he was thinking of you, even despite being surrounded by girls like you assumed he probably was.

You tried not to think of him too much, though- you knew you’d drive yourself crazy if you did.

When Thanksgiving time rolled around, you were confronted with the fact that you’d be seeing Michael again for the first time in months, a prospect that ignited your nerves far more than you were willing to admit. As excited as you were to see him, you also couldn’t help but worry: what if he announced that he’d found a girlfriend? What if he wasn’t attracted to you anymore? What if you weren’t attracted to him anymore?

It probably would be easier for the both of you if things played out that way, but you didn’t want things to be easy. It was unrealistic, but part of you was praying that things would be exactly as they were before you’d gone away.

Your hand trembled a bit as you raised it to the doorbell, and you braced yourself before jamming your finger into the button. From inside the house, you heard the muffled, off-key tone as it resounded throughout the upstairs area, followed by bounding footsteps down the stairs that you pinpointed as belonging to your father.

The front swung open and there was your father, a wide smile stretched across his face as he ushered you inside, taking it upon himself to bring in your travel bag for you. “(Y/n)! Finally! How was the train ride?”

“Not bad,” you said as he pulled you into a hug. As soon as you were apart, you started up the stairs, your pulse quickening as you came closer and closer to the moment you’d been anticipating for months. “Did Michael get back already?”

“Yeah, about an hour ago.”

Your heart skipped at this revelation; your legs couldn’t bring you to the top of the stairs fast enough, and, sensing your heightened enthusiasm, your father chuckled from behind you. “Hey, hold on a second. I haven’t seen you in months.”

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” you said breathlessly, the rubber soles of your sneakers making noisy contact with the wooden upstairs floor. You supposed that maybe you should’ve spent more time greeting your father, but you could no longer contain yourself- you needed to see Michael.

Leaving your bag at the top of the stairs, you hurried to the hallway where your bedrooms were located, unable to stifle your eagerness. You felt like a starved animal, finally being presented with food by a pair of benevolent hands, and you were ready to devour.

You didn’t bother knocking on Michael’s door when you approached it, bursting in with such force that you stumbled over your feet. The room was dim, what with the blinds being open so only a few rays of late-afternoon sunlight could peek through; seated in front of his once-cluttered empty desk, now occupied only by a laptop, was Michael, massive headphones positioned over his ears as he fixated on whatever stupid game he was currently playing (does he still play fortnite? you wondered).

The sound of your intrusion was loud enough to catch his attention, and as his head turned from his computer screen to your face, something shifted in his eyes. Immediately, he tore off his headphones, jumping to his feet so abruptly that they clattered to the ground. “Holy fuck, (y/n).”

It was evident, from the way you fell easily into his arms, that the attraction hadn’t faded. If anything, the distance apart seemed to have only made the magnetic connection between you grow even stronger.

Your lips clashed together feverishly (you had no idea who had been the one to initiate this— it seemed that you’d both moved in perfect unison into one another), hands wandering freely over each other’s bodies and teeth bumping against teeth. When you broke away, a string of saliva stretching and breaking between your faces, Michael beamed down at you.

The slight layer of baby fat that had once rounded out Michael’s cheeks appeared to have dissipated, his cheekbones even more pronounced than you remembered them being. His sharp jaw was shadowed with the smallest touch of brown stubble, (which you assumed was there because he’d been too lazy to shave), but you thought the more mature look suited him well.

“Jesus, (y/n), I missed you.” His voice was like smooth velvet; you’d inject it into your bloodstream if you could. “You’re even more fucking beautiful than I remembered.”

“Oh, good. I was worried you’d be grossed out by my freshman fifteen,”  you laughed.

“Fuck no. The fatter the ass, the better,” he said with a devious smirk, running his long fingers through his overgrown mop of blond hair. He smelled just like you remembered, a mixture of cinnamon gum and cigarettes and cologne (and the faintest hint of marijuana, of course), and you wished you could bottle up his scent and take it with you.

“So you’re still a fuckboy, I see,” you teased, twisting the front of Michael’s t-shirt in your hands and pulling him towards you. “Some things just never change, I guess.”

“Guess not.” He was speaking lowly now, assuming the smooth tone he always used when he was attempting to seduce you, and as if on cue came a dull, throbbing ache between your legs. “I wonder if your pussy is as good as I remember?”

His fingers found their way to the bottom of your sweater, fumbling with the chunky fabric and swiftly maneuvering it off over your head. You mirrored his actions, pulling off his shirt and exposing his torso, pressing your lips back against his with urgency once his upper half had been disrobed.

“Fuck…” you breathed against his parted mouth, palming the growing erection in the front of his pale gray sweatpants (your favorite pair of pants that he owned). “Need you to fuck me, Mikey…”

“Is that right?” He tilted his head to one side, kissing you deeply as he bent his knees, using his own weight as leverage to lift you up. You intertwined your ankles behind Michael’s back, securing your place in his toned arms as he carried you over to his bed; the vulgar, wet sound of your tongues melding together filled the room as he laid you down on his checkered comforter, your legs still wrapped snugly around him. “Did my baby sis miss having her pussy split on her big bro’s cock?”

“Mhm,” you purred; there truly was no man in existence better at dirty talking than Michael. You tensed in excitement when he began fumbling with the top button of your jeans, proceeding to deftly work the form-fitting denim material down your thighs once he’d freed it from its hold. “Can’t wait to feel you inside me.”

Impatiently, you reached between your bodies, your fingers coming upon the thick outline of his bulge as he peppered your throat with sloppy kisses. You moved your hand up to the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging the elastic as far back as you could; this resulted in him chuckling against your flesh, your body erupting in goosebumps at the sensation.

“So needy,” he mumbled, the vibrations of his plump lips traveling straight down to your cunt. “Did you touch yourself when you were away at school, thinking of me? Thinking of how good I touch you, how hard I make you cum?”

“M-Michael,” you whimpered, rolling your hips in melodic time with his, his clothed cock making friction against your thinly veiled pussy. “C’mon, just fuck me already. Please.”

“I like it when you beg,” he said, smug, standing so he could pull down his sweatpants and boxers, putting his long, weighted cock on display for you. You lifted your knees up for him, and in one swift motion he stripped you of your flimsy black thong. “Beg me again.”

You squirmed, sliding your flat palm down your stomach so you could touch yourself between your parted thighs; slowly, you coated your fingers with your own sticky essence, looking up at Michael from under a canopy of thick lashes. “Fuck me, Michael. I need you.”

“Ask nicely,” he chided, hoisting your thigh up to drape around his waist, eyes darkening as he observed your fingers spreading your slick wetness around your folds.

“Pleeaaaaseeee, Mikey,” you pleaded, syllables so drawn out that it almost sounded like you were singing. “It’s been so long.”

“Fuck.” He brought his lower lip into his mouth, sucking for a moment as he lined the flushed head of his cock up with your dripping entrance. When he released it, it was several shades darker than it’d been before, completely swollen and glossy with spit. “I’ve been thinking about this since the last time I saw you.”

Taking a firm grip of your thighs, he slid effortlessly into your tight heat, your jaw unhinging at the intrusion; you’d definitely be feeling him for the next few days, his thick shaft stretching out your narrow walls to the point where it was almost painful. You liked it, though, liked the delicious burn that only he could create, reminding you of who you belonged to.

“Shit,” he hissed, pausing momentarily to compose himself before assuming a deep, hard rhythm to fuck you with. “You’re so fucking tight. Must not’ve fucked anyone as big as me while you were away.”

All you could manage was a broken moan, your head lolling back towards the ceiling. He bottomed out inside you, bringing himself down to press his chest against yours, indulging in the feel of your warm, wet cunt as it spasmed around his massive length. When you started whining for more, he retracted his hips back until only the head of his cock was inside you, slamming back inside so hard that you were sent halfway up the bed.

“Oh god, Michael…” Your fingernails scraped aimlessly along the warm skin of his back, eyelids flickering open and shut in a fucked-out daze. You’d slept with a handful of guys at college, but none of them even came close to fucking you the way Michael did. He was just… special.

Fuck, I love him.

The thought startled you; you’d almost been able to forget about the little epiphany you’d had, that night in Florida when you and Michael sat side-by-side by the ocean. But now that you were with him— under him, taking every last agonizing inch of his cock, it became obvious that those feelings had remained stagnant.

After all the boys you’d been through at college, you still loved him.

God, were you fucked.

“Missed my baby girl so much,” Michael murmured, tucking your hair behind your ear and peering down at you. His forehead was glowing, the sides of his face framed with cute, damp curls of blond hair; he was so beautiful, you thought. How had you survived so long without him?

He impaled you again with a sharp upwards thrust, a string of expletives passing your lips and mixing with the lewd sounds of sex swimming through the air.  “I missed you— fuck!— too.”

“Yeah, I could tell,” he said, tucking his head into the crook of your neck and running his tongue along the salty skin. “Your pussy is fucking dripping for me.”

“Keep going,” you panted, wetting your chapped lips; with each brutal thrust of Michael’s cock, you bucked your hips forward to meet him halfway, desperate for all that he had to offer. “Feels so fucking good.”

“Yeah? You like that? Like how I split you open?” His hips pounded against yours with a bruising intensity, his chest pinning you down as you writhed beneath his lean frame. His voice was becoming hoarse, breaths short and choppy, letting you know that he was close.

“Yes, yes, yes, please, more…” Your affirmations were like a prayer, encouraging Michael to fuck you even deeper, his torso making electric contact with your clit as he moved his body in time with yours. “Make me cum, Mikey, please..”

The wind was knocked from your lungs each time he pumped his length into you, and by the time the coil in your stomach was unwinding, you were struggling to catch your breath. You ran your hands through Michael’s sweat-soaked hair, letting the strands stretch around your fingers as you tugged at the root; Your toes curled when Michael administered a particularly hard thrust inside you, your lips falling open in a silent scream; there was a burst of brilliant colors behind your eyelids as you finally reached your climax, your thighs shaking as they clasped firmly around Michael’s waist.

Like a perfect teen-movie cliché, Michael came just as you did; the feeling of his hot load as it spilled deep inside your cunt was a welcomed one, and your spongey inner walls instinctively clamped down, milking his cock for all it was worth.

With a throaty grunt, Michael pulled out of you, his cum dribbling crudely down your inner thigh and onto his bedspread, which he didn’t appear to pay any attention to. Lying down beside you, he sighed, bare chest shining with slick perspiration.

“I missed doing that,” Michael rasped, eyes focused up towards the ceiling rather than on you.

“So did I,” you said, tracing idle patterns along the expanse of Michael’s torso, watching his stomach rise and fall with each breath he took. “I can’t wait to have you all Christmas break.”

Michael’s lips turned downwards at the corners, his eyebrows knitting together in a pained display. “Oh. Yeah.”

It seemed as though he’d wanted to say more, but he pressed his lips shut into a thin line, Adam’s apple bobbing. What the hell? All at once you felt nauseous- there was something about the way he’d said those two words that made you very, very uneasy.

You sat up, your mind already starting to overflow with horrid possibilities. “What, Michael?”

“I, um. I have to tell you something.” Michael’s eyes darted throughout the room before settling on his palms. You frowned, mouth going dry at his apparent reluctance to talk to you, thoughts racing in all directions to try and pinpoint what exactly he might say.

“Michael…”

“So. Um.” He was stalling, extending his arms up so his palms were flat on his forehead, still refusing to look at you as he contemplated his words. “So you remember over the summer when I spilled Red Bull on my laptop?”

You raised an eyebrow. Where exactly was he going with this? “Yeah?”

“And remember how I would borrow my mom’s laptop to play video games while I was waiting for it to get repaired?”

“Yes, I remember. Can you just get to the point?” You were growing impatient, the anxiety increasing with each additional second that Michael continued to leave you in the dark.

“Okay, well…” He inhaled sharply. “I was borrowing her laptop one night and ended up looking at the search history because, well… you can probably guess why. Anyway. I ended up seeing all these searches for, like, new apartments and divorce lawyers.”

Oh shit. Divorce lawyers? Was he about to say what you were thinking he was about to say? “You mean…?”

Michael held up a hand as if to say let me finish, and you held your tongue. “So like, I asked her about it. And she told me that her and your dad are, like, splitting up or whatever. But she told me not to mention anything about it in case they ended up working shit out.”

You didn’t understand— wasn’t this good news? If your parents divorced, wouldn’t you finally be able to be with Michael the way you wanted? You forced down the giddiness that started to bubble up from your stomach and into your throat, knowing that there had to be a catch if Michael was acting so serious.

“So our parents are getting a divorce?”

“Well… there’s more.” He licked his lips, finally gathering the courage to look at you, the expression on his face so grim that it scared you a little. “She found an apartment in California. And she’s moving us there next month.”

California!?

No, this couldn’t be happening. How could this be happening? This was perhaps even worse than the predicament you were already in. If Michael moved to California, it was pretty fucking likely that you’d never see him again.

“I… what? And you’ve known all this for how long!?” Your voice was pitched several octaves higher now, eyes watering uncontrollably, and you felt as though you were on the brink of having a total fucking meltdown.

“I always thought there was a chance they’d get things worked out, or that my mom would change her mind about moving so far away. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I already knew you were sad about us going away to college, so I just thought-”

“-Answer the question, Michael! How long have you known this for?” Hot, angry tears were falling down your face and onto your bare chest, your entire body shaking with an overwhelming mixture of rage and despair.

He sighed. “Since August.”

Your mouth fell open in disbelief. How could he have hidden this from you for so long? “And you never thought to tell me? So I could at least come to terms with the fact that I’ll probably never see you again once you move?”

“I didn’t wanna ruin the rest of our time together,” he said softly, eyes glossy with tears that were still yet to fall. “I fucked up, okay? I should’ve told you as soon as I found out. But I kept thinking that maybe something would change, and…I don’t know. I’m sorry, (y/n).”

“Fuck,” you mumbled. Your limbs felt numb and heavy, your heart hollow. “Why did your mom have to choose fucking California, of all places?”

“I dunno. I think it has to do with this weird religion thing she’s into,” he said. “Look, (y/n), if I had any choice, I’d stay here. But you know I can’t afford my own place right now.”

“I know. It’s just-“ you collapsed backwards, your back making contact with the bed below with a soft thud. “This is so fucking unfair. We’re finally able to be together- like, really be together. But of course there has to be a catch.”

“Remember what I said, (y/n)? How if things are meant to be, they will be?” It sounded to you like Michael was attempting to make sense of a senseless situation, but you let him speak, somewhat comforted by his words. “I only have to stay in California until I can afford my own place. And I’ll still be going to the same college, so we won’t be too far from each other during the school year.”

Your college was a five hour drive away from Michael’s. Would he really be willing to make such a long trip up to see you? Would you be willing to take a trip to see him, with the new knowledge looming on your conscience that he would no longer be an arm’s length away once the school year was up? You wanted to be optimistic, but how could you be? A fresh wave of tears escaped your eyes, blurring your vision, but your cries faded to soft whimpers when Michael pulled you up against his chest.

You tried not to remind yourself of the fact that this would likely be one of the last times you’d be able to feel him there against you, one of the last times you’d absorb the heat from his skin, his distinct scent overtaking you like a natural aphrodisiac, intoxicating you.

You tried to reason with reality: if the universe had tried so hard to keep you apart all this time, maybe you and Michael being together had simply not been written in the stars (or at least that’s what you tried to convince yourself— how could a connection so strong not be meant to be?, you asked yourself dejectedly). The way you felt for Michael was special, unlike anything else you’d ever experienced before. He was a natural high, a gust of fresh springtime air, a golden ray of good in a gray-black world of bad.

But, as the saying went, all good things must come to an end. Don’t they?

Perhaps you’d always known, in the very back of your mind, that things would never work out. Perhaps you’d always known that your heart would wind up broken (no, not broken— incinerated). The cards had never been in your favor, and there had been a hundred million warning signs that you’d blatantly ignored time and time again.

But it hurt.

And you doubted it would ever stop hurting. The pain of losing Michael might one day fade from a stabbing agony to a dull ache, but that initial wound would likely never heal completely.

The only thing left to do now was stay entangled in Michael’s warmth for as long as possible, and make weary peace with the tragic ending your time with Michael had come to.

“If we survived being stepsiblings, we can survive this,” Michael said, his lips against your knotted hair, firm arms holding your naked body with a delicate tenderness that you weren’t used to. “You know that when I want something, I make sure that I get it. And what I want, (y/n), is you.”

You nodded, curling into Michael, your bodies fitting together like two perfectly-cut puzzle pieces.

“And I’m gonna have you.” You felt his hand smooth your hair out, and then he placed a kiss on your forehead, as if to imprint his words into your brain. “One day.”

Your eyes fluttered open, and all at once you were lost in a rushing sea of crystal blue, like the one that had lapped against the shore that night you’d fallen in love. As you reached up to caress Michael’s porcelain cheek, thumb grazing the rough stubble that had gathered along his jaw, you couldn’t help but believe him.

One day.

#mine #michael langdon #michael langdon fanfic #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon smut #cody fern #Duncan Shepherd #american horror story #ahs #ahs smut #ahs imagines #michael langdon imagines #michael langdon imagine #ahs season 8 #apocalypse #ahs apocalypse

[pietrotheavenger]

roommates (bucky barnes)

LAUNDRY DAY

summary: the mundanity of being roommates with bucky.

pairings: au!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: slight sexual content, swearing

a/n: oof i kind of didn’t post for like two months

series masterlist

once every two weeks, y/n and bucky would strip their beds and go down the elevator to the laundry room. they would shove their sheets into one washer and their clothes into another. then, they would sit for two hours and wait.

she would usually bring a blanket with her, as the laundry room was insufferably cold. bucky would sit on top of an empty washing machine. sometimes he would sit on the floor, back against the washer. she would curl up into a ball in the old chair.

the two hours was a good time to catch up with each other, if they hadn’t had time to in the previous weeks. they were sitting in their spots, chatting about the stark industries christmas party when one of their neighbors came in with their own laundry.

that neighbor being steve.

y/n’s head had been hanging over the arm of the chair, as her eyes ran over the ceiling tiles. she had been ranting when he entered. “the new personal assistant brought her step kids to the party. i don’t know why ms. potts is so obsessed with hiring a new personal assistant every time i fucking breathe. she makes ME train them. what the hell did i get my masters for? to train a personal assistant?”

bucky cleared his throat, causing her to whip her head up. she caught sight of steve in the doorway. “oh my god!” she exclaimed. she attempted to sit up but managed to tangle herself in her blanket and fall onto the ground with a loud groan. bucky suppressed a laugh, deciding against embarrassing her further in front of their attractive neighbor. he made a move to help her, but was beat by steve.

“y/n, are you okay?” he questioned, helping her sit up. his eyebrows were knitted together with concern, one hand on her shoulder.

she blew a piece of hair out of her face. “just peachy,” she deadpanned. the hair fell back into her face. he brought his hand up and brushed it away.

“i’m sorry if i scared you,” he apologized, standing up.

“oh, that’s okay, steve,” she waved him off.

“i came down to do my laundry. i hope i’m not interrupting you,” he looked between bucky and y/n.

“it’s okay, man. we only have fifteen minutes left.” bucky crossed his arms over his chest, slightly flexing his muscles.

y/n noticed. she rolled her eyes.

steve noticed. he shifted his weight from foot to foot, uncomfortably.

“i’m just gonna toss this load into the washer and then check my mailbox,” steve stated after a moment of awkward silence.

bucky and y/n made faces at each other behind steve’s back as he measured out laundry detergent. when he left, with a quick wave and a small smile, she exhaled loudly.

“what?” bucky snapped.

“jealous much, buck?” she teased, raising an eyebrow.

“you’re the one who fell out of a chair, babe,” he bit back, a hint of mischief glittering in his eyes.

“touché,” she laughed.

“you know he’s just trying to get into your pants, right?”

“you are ridiculous, james buchanan barnes,” she rolled her eyes again. “he literally helped me up because i fell out of the chair.” she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. he subconsciously mirrored her. her voice dropped an octave and turned into a whisper. “but if he did want to get into my pants, i would let him.”

he sat back suddenly, his face flushing red. she howled with laughter, throwing her head back and shoulders shaking. he pouted, crossing his arms over his chest again.

twenty minutes later, they were closing their apartment door behind them. “can we put my sheets on first?” bucky asked, dumping the laundry basket onto the couch.

y/n dropped her keys on the counter, picking up her lip balm. “why, so you can immediately fall asleep and conveniently not be able to help me with putting my sheets on?” she quirked an eyebrow, swiping her lips with the balm.

“oh, c’mon, babe. i was tired. i got home late the night before,” he said, exasperatedly, spreading this fingers out in front of him, palms up.

“sure, buck. of course,” she rolled her eyes. she began walking to his room and turned towards him when he didn’t follow. “let’s go, doofus. we have to make your bed.”

he smiled to himself before saying, “i’m right behind ya’, dollface.”

permanent tags:

@ssweet-empowerment ; @httpmcrvel ; @stardustandbucky ; @almighty-rogers ; @iamkingkillmonger ; @abuckyrogersworld ; @freightcarcap ; @mal-functioning-writer ; @c-a-v-a-l-r-y ; @coffeebooksandfandom ; @somethingmoreclever ; @2dreamcatcher8 ; @illegalportkey ; @uservalkyrie ; @fuckthatfeeling ; @xxashy999xx ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @tuliptx ; @wwhitewwolff ; @kingdomcage ; @thisismysecrethappyplace ; @appreciating-chase-brody ; @renanyx ;

roommates tags:

@goodiebluebox ; @tuttigunner ; @wisestydia-15 ; @leaningtowerof-not-pisa ; @callmedaddys-blog ; @letsbestupidforever ; @highfuncti0ningfangirl ; @liffydaze ; @capisicles ; @randomfangirl1701 ; @redstarstan ; @justreadingthesefanfics ; @wearemightyghosts ; @directionerfae ; @coonflix ; @aurorcarter ; @caurerphernelia ; @anastassimuse ; @bllaackkgliiitterrr @maladaptive-ninja-returns ; @mybearyarmy ; @lokissoul ; @xnegansgirlx ; @shaboibucky ; @steve-hasmyheart ; @awwwwinnn1 ; @everythingbooknerd ; @the-whitewolfie ; ​@jepenner ; ​@im-a-light-child ; ​@captainam-erika-trash ; @​sadanddeadsoul ; @​feelmyroarrrr ; @infinity-star-wars ;

#bucky barnes x reader #the avengers #marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #bucky barnes #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #the winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes roommate

[jack-kellys]

thank u, next: finale part 1

hey everyone ;)

thank u, next is finally back and this thing I wrote is so long that it's TWO PARTS LONG!! isn't that EXCITING?? (it's only two parts because tumblr won't let it fit but it's fine)

all previous chapters are at the bottom of my masterlist—read for a refresher if ya need lmao it's been a while

here we go!

————

LAST TIME ON TU,N: al and race had their first date, al revealed some of his history, both boys admitted they loved each other (essentially), and race mentioned something about needing to stall....

words: 1527

warnings: cursing, death mention, cliffhanger?? :0

———

Five, Part One

“I think it’s ready.”

Race tilted his head to face his boyfriend as he said this, hands placed neatly over his stomach as he laid on the bed. Race’s quiet demeanor was misleading, as usual—a storm was roaring inside, a hurricane spinning and making his chest tighten in apprehension.

“What’s ready, Al?” Race asked.

Albert turned his head to the side as well, gazing at Race with a new light in his eyes. His smile was so wide and endearing that it nearly broke Race’s heart.

“The apartment, stupid,” Al scoffed. “We fixed it up, cleaned it, I got all the papers ready, my stuff’s all ready…” Al grinned. “I’m ready to move into it.”

And then Race’s heart did break.

Al looked so, so happy. Race knew that for Albert, getting his own place was a bigger milestone than it already would be for the average person. It meant something more than just a second floor apartment—it was a freedom Al had longed for since he was twelve, he'd said. A freedom that would rip whatever freedom Albert currently had away from him.

“You sure, baby?” Race whispered, trying not to let his voice break. “Everything’s done? There’s nothing left to prepare, nothing left to pack up?”

“Nope!” Al shook his head, eyes glinting as he leaned over to Race. “It’s done. Everything’s done. It’s gonna be mine, Antonio. All mine. Just like you.”

He pressed his lips hard onto Race’s, Race eagerly tangling his fingers into Albert’s red hair. Al’s hand was warm against his cheek, his thumb rubbing softly against him despite the intensity of the kiss. Race lost himself in Albert more than usual, hyper-focused on every detail—every freckle, every hair out of place, the feel of his hands on him, the taste of his lips and tongue, every small sound he made. Ironic how Al called him perfect, since the opposite was true.

After a while, Race was tracing his fingers over Albert’s stomach as the man rambled about how he wanted to set up the place, Race nodding every so often.

How Race’s heart shattered for him—this most undeserving man who had been nothing but endlessly interesting and funny and warm to him. Yes, Albert’s infatuation was mostly false, but Race could feel the deep friendly affection Albert harbored for him as well, one Race harbored right back. Only once before had Race let himself do that—in 1905, a boy named Sean Conlon walked into that same apartment door with a skeptical glance and narrowed eyes, and to Race’s dismay, they were friendly as well as intimate. It had broke him then, and it was breaking him now.

Through the rest of the week, it would continue to break him. Race helped Albert move into the place, not allowed to let Al get any suspicions as to why Race might have seemed gloomy. Moving in was tragically fun, the two of them laughing as they dropped boxes, picking up their contents and talking about nothing and everything. Race was surprised at his ability to keep the lump in his throat down enough to even talk to Al. Lucky, too—Albert was rather smart at figuring when something was wrong.

“I think that's everything,” Albert huffed, smiling and wiping his hands on his jeans. “I can't believe it.”

“Neither can I,” Race laughed, shaking his head. “Fast, huh?”

“Yeah, thank God. I thought that was gonna take so much longer. I'd assumed the worst,”

Al shrugged. Then he grinned, doing a small spin with his arms out in the center of the room. “But this is so great! It's all mine, and I'm responsible for it, and I make the rules—well, technically not, but still…”

Albert’s rambling faded away slightly as Race felt something in his chest. A sort of tug, like something was trying to get out of him

His heart stopped. That was so soon. Surely he had a little more time? An hour at least? He still had to tell him everything.

His change in demeanor must have been noticeable. Al was practically scanning him, analyzing anything that could be wrong.

“Babe, you oka—”

“I lied to you,” Race interrupted.

Albert went silent. His head was cocked slightly, that skeptical frown of his making Race’s heart skip a beat, that frown that meant Al wasn't just some pawn in Race’s wretched game.

“About what?” Albert asked slowly, eyes narrowed. A pang of guilt jabbed Race through the ribs as he remembered Al’s shitty past with relationships. This would be one for the books, Race supposed.

“About me. About who I—well, not about who I am. I lied about what I'm here for,” Race confessed.

“About why your mom left you here,” Al concluded. “What you're saying is that you ain't here to protect the people who buy this apartment, like you’d said to me.”

Race couldn't help but be slightly impressed. Albert’s expression remained rather neutral, his actual anger probably fighting with his infatuation with Race. Al was doing a good job at not letting either side win.

“No, I'm not here for that,” Race sighed. He had to get this over with. Maybe it'd hurt less that way. “When my family first moved to New York, my mom was at a loss as to where to go. Not many people just welcomed immigrants like that, y’know? And then we found this apartment. The landlord charmed my ma’s pants off—he was the first nice person to us in the city. But then he changed.

“He stopped caring about us. He didn't get anyone to fix anything when things were broken, no one cleaned anything. He took advantage of the people in this building, knowing no one could go anywhere else. He just took our money and kept the place in shambles. And so I died from the conditions—that part’s true.

“As I was dying—stay with me here, Albie, we don't have much time—my mother cursed me with haunting this apartment, and….making anyone who walks into the door with intentions to buy...instantly fall in love with me. It keeps me alive—the more people, the longer I get to live.”

Race hugged himself, willing the feeling in his chest to wait. Albert looked paralyzed, with fear or confusion or anger Race couldn't tell.

“So...so none of this was real? I-I don't...I don't love you right now?” Al questioned, eyebrows knit together.

“It's real to an extent,” Race explained, his heart cracking as Albert’s face dropped further. “I just...I gave you the initial infatuation, and then amplified the feelings you caught for me.”

“The feelings I caught?” Al scoffed. “Like you don't have them.” Then Albert froze. “You don't have ‘em, do you. You never did. That was just my stupid head telling me that you did, wasn't it.”

Race shook his head wildly. This was going worse than he thought it would. “No! No, Al, I promise you I do. I fell for you, I didn't mean to, but I—”

“Didn't mean to?” Albert seethed. If he was this worked up, time must really be up soon, Race noted sadly.

“It hurts less that way,” Race decided to admit. “I've been doing this for centuries now. My Ma wants revenge for eternity and I'm the pawn she needs to play it out.”

“This is fucked up,” Al said, tone decisive and expression stiff. “You're fucked up. Get the fuck outta my apartment, right now, you lying sonofa—”

“I’m afraid I can't do that,” Race said, the words coming out of him rather than him actually saying them. He was starting to feel a little distant, but he had to hold on. Just a little longer.

Albert’s eyes narrowed. “You're not physically attached to the place. Your words, not mine. Get out.”

“Can't leave this time,” Race shook his head solemnly.

“Then fuck you. I'll leave,” Albert bit out. Approaching the door, he scoffed, “if I didn't fuck a ghost, then you must be a goddamn demon, fucking prick.”

Race didn't say anything—couldn't, rather, as Al tried to open the door. He jiggled the knob a few times, then looked at Race.

“I didn't lock this,” Al stated. His eyes were wide. “Did you?”

“Not exactly,” Race murmured, looking at his feet. “I can't leave, which means you can't leave, either.”

“Race?” Albert breathed, back flush against the door as fear flashed in his eyes. “What are you saying.”

“I’m running out of time,” Race said instead. “I just...I need you to know that I've loved you. I'm in love with you, I swear on my mother’s soul I am. And I'm sorry you have to pay for it. I'm so, so sorry…” He felt tears slide down his cheeks.

“Race, for what?” Albert demanded. “What's- what’s going to happen?”

“I'm not part of what comes next, okay? I don't want this, I don't...want this…please…”

The tugging was too strong. He'd pushed it off for too long; he was out of time. Race felt his mind slip away from him, and then he was gone, torn away from Albert and leaving him to go through what was next alone.

———

haha what the fuck does THAT mean? read part two to find out!

TAG LIST

@suddenly-im-respecsable @cream--rises @bencookisagod @felix-loves-albert-and-ralbert @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @stopthe-presses @technically-whizzy @papesdontsellthemselves @starrysence @seasickdolphin @iamliterallyaghost @beep-beep-byler @the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog @thomasbeingthomas @the-king-of-brooklyn @sunshine-e-cigarettes @thebroadwayaesthetic @spot-me50-papes @i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing @iwontfallinlovewfalling @timehops @kingofsantafe @we-dont-sell-papes @eveningpaper @sure-as-a-star @godhatesjordan @awkwardstranger98 @ireallyloveiainyoungwow @big-potato-asshole @have-we-got-news-for-you @bxnesof92 @backgroundnewsies @orollyitsracetrackhiggins @a-most-auspicious-erster @modern-race-owns-airpods @asphodelnerd @infinity-fandom-trash @whateva-ya-want

#thank u next series #my writing #yayeet #wild huh #get ready sisters lmfao #albert dasilva #racetrack higgins #ralbert #newsies au #newsies #newsies fics #fizz freaks

[writing-in-riverdale]

partner in crime | jughead jones x reader

request

written by: rosie

edited by: rosie

anonymous said: can you do a fic reader x jughead when the reader joins the serpents with/for jughead (to be with him and kinda keep him out of trouble?)? sorry if this has been requested before

chapter song: swish swish / katy perry

✘

i cuss slightly under my breathe as i mount my bike, i was a freaking southside serpent yet i was stuck baby sitting our newest recruit; the boss’ sixteen year old son.

i’d been working under FP since my father passed away, he was killed by the big c, cancer. i was sixteen scared, alone and fatherless.

so the serpents did what they do best, protect their own. so i became a serpent, serving loyally under the jones man as two long years passed.

ever since FP was thrown in jail i was left to babysit the newest snake, brining me to why i was cursing, what the boss says goes. leading me to where i am now, my bike.

there was something about riding around town, the wind in my hair as i zip around the small town, hands gripping onto the handles as i start my search.

i spot the brunette boy amongst the crowd of serpents pulled off the side of the road leaning against their bikes.

i grin, speeding toward them pulling up in front of the large group of leather clad boys. i dismount my bike pulling the helmet from my head, allowing my locks to flow down my back.

my boots crunch in the dirt as i approach, the group turning as i walk toward them.

“boys” i greet with a stern expression.

“jones lets go, now” i huff lowly ruffling my hair out

the group let out a low ‘oo’ sensing that the younger boy was in trouble if i was looking for him.

i was somewhat infamous in the southside of town, one of the most respected serpents -well- by the older serpents. the younger ones seemed to need more maturing.

constant snickers and whistles as they try and pick me up, it never worked. i was a cold hearted bitch, but it worked. you see you can’t have your heart broken if you don’t have one.

“and what if i say no?” he snickers crossing his arms across his broad chest.

“forsythe pendleton jones-” “the third” he corrects me triggering an eye roll.

“im under orders from your father, you need to go back to headquarters, let’s go” i push the helmet into his chest hard.

“you want me to ride on the back of your bike?- atleast buy me a drink first” he chuckles the whole gang laughing with him.

“i promise you jughead jones you don’t want to mess with me, your father is being released i need to get you back” i seethe my temper growing shorter by the second.

“my fathers getting release-d?” he’s voice picks up slightly before he lets out and low cough and clears his throats repeating the same words, stronger this time.

boys and this no emotion things was getting boring fast

“as much as i love riding around half the town because i was left to babysit a sixteen year old i actually have better things to do” i sass walking back over toward my bike.

i mount my bike slipping on my helmet as i glance back over to him “let’s go bad boy” i smile sarcasm oozing from my words.

the guys behind him rile him up, whispering god knows what into his ear.

my stare hardens as i watch his adam’s apple bop figuring out his next move before he walks over and secures his helmet before slipping onto the back of my bike.

and with one swift flick of the wrist we were hurling forward causing the boy to grab at your waist afraid he’d be sent hurling off the back.

“you’ve got a iron grip don’t you jones” i joke, his warm hands seemed to loosen but still sat on my waist, my skin pecking out from my jeans and my jacket.

we’re half way to the bar when my bike lights up, beeping like crazy, i hastily pull over the both of us hoping of the motorcycle.

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” i cuss kicking the dirt as the engine light flashes, not enough water in the engine.

i bend over examining the bike when i catch the younger boy step back taking a long glance at what my ass looks like in my black denim jeans.

“jones” i warn fiddling with the bike hoping i could magically fix it and then get back to headquarters.

“im just enjoying the view” i don’t even have to see his face to know that the infamous jones smirk was plastered on his tan face.

i straight up lifting the bottom of my shirt up to dap the beads of sweat off my forehead, out of all the times my bike decides to brake down it chooses today.

the hottest day of the year and with the worst company i could dream of.

i pull my hair tie off my wrist throwing my hair up into a messy bun as i retrieve my phone from the back pockets leaning against the bike.

“no signal great” i cuss under my breathe as i slip the device back into my pocket.

i glance as jughead paces pulling out his own phone “good thing i have two bars hey?” i move away from the bike trying to grab the phone from his grasp.

“oh how the tables have turned” he smirks triumphantly

“just hurry up and call help im sweating” i complain removing my jacket and letting the small breeze relieve me ever so lightly.

he walks off exchanging a few words before walking back over to me, “helps on its way darling”.

i roll my eyes picking myself up off the floor dusting the dirt off my clothes “who’d you call?” i pause as the roar of engines flood my ears.

“you’ve got to be kidding me” i groan glancing as the horizon fills with 8 bikes- jughead posse from earlier.

i share a look of displeasure with the raven haired boy as he greets his friends mounting his own bike “my lady” he holds a hand out to me.

“what about my bike?! im not just leaving it here!” i argue looking wearily at the group.

“i called a tow, now c'mon we wouldn’t want to keep my father waiting would we” i roll my eyes walking over to the boy trapping his shoulder as i pull myself up.

“hold on” he whispers a shiver running up my spine as i wrap my arms reluctantly around the boys waist.

“i hope you know how to drive this thing” i huff as he flys forward, the others following behind us as we lurch toward the local bar we called home.

we come screeching to a halt outfront of the small car park, bikes littered the entrance.

i swiftly jump off the bike happy to be on the ground again, i swivel and punch the raven haired boy in the arm “drive like that agin when im on the back, ill kill you”.

he rolls his eyes placing his helmet on his bike.

“i think i did good -we- did good, we’re like-” he pauses his mind wondering “partners in crime” he sing songs a smile working it way onto his face.

i roll my eyes and turn to walk away when his hands clamps around my wrist and pulls me back forcing me against the warm bike, his body trapping me.

his hand jump from my wrist to my neck as he presses his rough lips on mine catching me completely off guard, im taken back at how good the boy kisses i let out a moan.

he smiles into this kiss and pulls me up by my thighs resting me own the bike as my legs snake around his torso. it’s like my mind shut off as i continue to make out with the younger boy.

something clicks and my hands are on his chest pushing him away breathless, you glance to see the older jones man standing outside the bad his arms crossed.

“son, y/n” he states a smirk on his lips, jughead turns and walks away heading over to his old man as he slings an arm around his son guiding him into the bar.

leaving me slumped against his bike my checks red and a knot in my stomach. what had i gotten myself into

tag list: @hauntedcherryblossompuppy @hauntedcherryblossombanana-blog @sadbreakfastclb @jugandbettsdetectiveagency @kindfloweroflove @fragilefrances @mydelightfulcollectiontyphoon @onceuponagladerhead @natalieroseg @sardonic-jug @hiimalyssawriter

#jughead jones imagines #riverdale imagines #imagines #riverdale #riverdale x reader #one shots #requests #jughead jones #jughead imagines #jughead x reader

[flamehairedwritings]

hi! could you do some hcs about hopper and his gf going to a fancy event and him being all handsy?

I’m so sorry this has taken so long!! Thank you so much for requesting this, I hope you’re doing okay!

NSFW below the cut!

Hopper hates going out.

Actually, hate is a strong word.

He hates going somewhere he doesn’t know. He doesn’t like going out. If he could, he’d hole up in his trailer until the end of time with beer, his record player, crime novels and a TV.

That was before he met you. When he did... well, he kind of started to like going out, as long as it was with you. In your first few months of dating, you went to the cinema, to restaurants, to shops, to his favourite bar, over to his colleagues’ houses for BBQs and dinners and he found that maybe, slightly, a little bit, sometimes, he enjoyed himself. As long as you were back at his or yours by midnight.

‘oKaY CiNdErElLa’ you are oft to say as he pulls his jacket on and eyes up the door.

The Hawkins City Hall Gala is an event that happens every year, once a year to celebrate the bravest and best of Hawkins, with some citizens invited who are honoured, and officials and those from the police, hospital and fire department also in attendance. It sounds fancy? It isn’t. As much as Mayor Kline likes to put on a show, get all those invited dressed up to the nines and free champagne going, it’s just an adult version of a school awards assembly.

Hopper has to go. Has to. When he once tried to decline, Kline sent a huge gift basket to his trailer and to the Station every day until he called and said ‘ACTUALLY YES I WILL COME’.

Usually he goes with his work buddies and they bring their wives or girlfriends and they’ll hang around in a corner drinking and eating until the awards ceremony starts and then they’ll all sit together at the back bored out of their minds.

You’ve been dating for nearly six months when it comes round to it, and he invites you, in the way that Hopper would invite.

‘It’s just a shitty little ego parade thing for Kline, some people are good there, they deserve the awards sometimes, but more often than not it’s just some kids and old people gettin’ ‘em for living a long time or doing the most paper rounds or some shit like that, but the food’s good and the drinks are free ‘cause Kline wants everyone to have a good time and it finishes at about 11 and then there’s the after-party which is usually shitty, too, so we can just come home or go to a bar with the guys and their girls or just come home, I don’t mind.’

‘... So do you want me to come.’

‘Yeah. If you’re not busy or have anything better to do ‘cause really it is so shitty─’

‘I’ll come.’

‘You sure? It’s really shitty, it’s just the worst─’

‘Stop, I’m coming.’ you will be

On the night, you’ll be dressed up to the nines like everyone else, wearing your favourite outfit, which also happens to be Hop’s favourite outfit on you, but he likes anything on you so it doesn’t exactly count, and he’s in a suit, one hand in his pocket, the other holding yours.

After being greeted by Kline and his wife on the steps, the Mayor’s constant grin verging on maniacal, Hop’ll make a beeline for the nearest drinks and you’ll just have caught up with him when he’s heading to a corner, his colleagues already there with their partners. They’ll have hoarded some food and beer and champagne bottles already and you’ll resign yourself to the not so terrible idea of just hanging out here all night.

Hop’s hand will settle on your lower back and a conversation with start up about the food or the drink or Kline, in hushed tones, and that’ll be it.

Except you start to feel Hopper’s hand drifting down a little.

And then a lot.

Your back is to the wall, so no one can see, but you’re very much hoping no one notices your slightly widening eyes, your lips parting then quickly closing, and the hitching in your breath.

Hopper, on the other hand, is cool as a cucumber, nodding and carrying out a conversation with Powell without missing a beat. His hand is now fully cupping your ass, fingers splaying and gently caressing. You have to fight very hard to stop your back from arching.

You bastard...

What is it about him and his touch that has you turned on in seconds?

His fingers drift lower, sliding in until they’re near your covered pussy, and damn him...

Your attention is drawn away, momentarily, by someone standing at the other end of the room calling for everyone’s attention. As the preliminary speeches start, your little group quietens, but Hopper’s hand doesn’t move.

It slides even closer, his fingers caressing in slow, light circles.

You have to fight so hard to keep your breathing even, your hands clasped tightly in front of you.

Hopper shifts his stance slightly, his head leaning down, and he murmurs into your ear so only you can hear;

‘I bet you’re wet already, aren’t you.’

Oh, fuck.

Clearing your throat, you smile politely at your group and excuse yourself quietly, saying you need to use the restroom. Hopper’s hand slides off your ass, but not before his fingers give a slight squeeze.

Message received.

You have to ask one of the staff where the restroom even is, hoping your slightly flushed and faintly jittery attitude will just be interpreted as confusion and a desperate need to go.

She points towards a grand staircase and tells you to go right before it. You do, your heart pounding with anticipation.

God, this place is fancy.

Hopper mutters all the time about how Kline has poured the majority of the town’s money into this place, and, hell, next time he mutters you’re going to join him.

There are three doors, all having a gold ‘W/C’ on them. You open the furthest one at the end of the corridor and step in, quickly closing the door behind you and leaving it unlocked before you survey the room. It’s very fancy.

Gold everywhere. Gold everything.

You pull a slight face at trying to take it all in, the slightly dim lighting shining off of it all.

Then, the door opens behind you.

Turning, you watch Hopper step in, your breath catching in your throat. His eyes are on you, darker, focused. Closing the door, he doesn’t even blink as he locks it.

‘Are you?’ he asks in a low, gravelled tone.

Your three seconds of silence are just to tease him.

‘Yes.’

He closes the distance between you in two seconds.

Hands cupping your face, he captures your lips in a fierce, demanding kiss, long fingers spreading across the sides of your neck. You return it instantly, hands gripping at the back of his suit jacket to both steady yourself and keep him against you.

He’ll take you hard against the counter, your hands having to grip the sink as he thrusts into you from behind, hands tight on your hips.

‘Look at me...’ he’ll growl, and you’ll lift your gaze, meeting his in the reflection of the gilded mirror as moans tumble from your lips. ‘... Yeah... Look at me while I fuck you, sweetheart... while my cock’s deep inside you... I want you to look at me while I feel you cum...’

No one will notice that it takes you both ten minutes to return, and that you’re still trying to catch your breath, and his shirt is rumpled, tie now knotted too tightly.

It’ll only take a few moments for his hand to return to your ass, and a smile will pull at your lips, his last words to you lingering in your mind.

‘Oh, you just wait until we’re home, sweetheart...’

—

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#chief jim hopper x reader #jim hopper x reader #hopper x reader #are we easing back in still? #we're easing back in #jim hopper #my writing #flamehairedwritings

[drugrattes-blog]

repost don’t reblog!

tagged by: @overoutrage ( yells thank u ) tagging: steal it if u want we can be thieves ... together...​

GENERAL

name:  vera birthday:  16 / 06 sexual orientation: hetero p much ye ye school status: third year of highschool ( idk how it is in english lmao ... )

YES/NO

drink?:  i taste n’ try smoke?:  nope eat cake?:  when i can, yes! believe in true love?:  frankly i’ve never had any kind of experience and i’m still sixteen so? i don’t know? i’m not even rushy about it lmao, i just wanna have a super chill relationship when it comes, if it comes soon enough. so my answer is shrug emoji afraid of the dark?:  not really cat person?:  i love ducks fuck me on a fridge ( yes i love cats & i have one too ) virgin?:  yepperoni

FAVORITES

shampoo: anything cheap for curly hair disney song: friends on the other side - princess & the frog / hellfire - the hunchback of notredame !! actress/actor: jake gyllenhaal, edward norton, emma stone and um... idk !! car: i dont care about cars enough person:  ahh eh... irl people? i dont have favourites ( im sorry im not good at socializing ) but i quite like my friend sofia, my two friends rebecca’s ( they’re named both rebecca yes ) and most of my female classmates, along with diego i think, and my mom’s boyfriend type of weather: i hate all weathers. all of them. but i like slightly chilly weather color: salmon pink -- tho i love all colors 90s sitcom:  i never watched any... :’)

QUESTIONS

what is your special talent/skill as a roleplayer?   do i even have any tbh. i just write whatever flows to me? i try to both be active, as in i try to write and make sure my muse does something ( unless the thread’s based heavily on thoughts / speech / psychological stuff ) , all while still trying to make sure their emotions and thoughts show. im not sure if im good at achieving that but well, i have fun writing, and i like what i write, so it’s okay, i think?

what is your favorite type of roleplay genre, and why?    fluff... cute shit... romantic ... friendships... but also DEVELOPMENT! i also have a soft spot for gore-heavy themes ( physical stuff more than the psychological sutff, tho i’d like to explore that maybe? sometime? maybe by drabbling for myself smth ) , and i like making my muses grow, even if subtly. i also live for threads that involve arguing that leads to somewhere, even arguing that leads nowhere, tho, if that makes sense. AND FUNNY COMEDIC SHIT, I LIVE FOR THAT, I LOVE WRITING FUNNY THINGS!! all while hoping its not fun just for me ofc lmao

why did you pick your muse?    oh man, joan was just a side-character to another muse? franziska? but then i thought, hey, what about i try to rp this jackass, and whoops. there she is, miss america. i’m debating wether or not trying to give her some sort of story or just keep her as a ‘mascot’, i don’t know, but she’s being put so much effort in it feels almost like...  voidly to me to just do nothing else with her. she’s just so fun to write and draw.

if you could write any other muse - but know you don’t have the muse for him/her - who would it be?    a lot. a lot of my ocs. my dr ocs, my psg ocs, my indie ocs, the trash sisters convict & trash star along with the clumsy dj double, sandra, mr. zoe!! and tracy and all of my muses from my own canon! and lilith and wolfie aahh even if lilith and wolfie are quite nsfw due to the fact they’re prostitutes so-- i mean, in short, i’d write a LOT of muses, if i could. i have a lot of ocs.

what is one thing you think you need to work on as a partner?    heck im terrible at convos? like i’m shit bc i tend to drop them at some point, if i dont feel like replying... or just dont know HOW to reply. plus i drop silently threads, im a bit guilty abt that, even tho i think it’s necessary for me to decrease stress sometimes. i mean its not a bad thing but?? im too anxious to go up and say ‘hey wanna do another thread bc im dropping x this one’ just ? HECK

what would be your warning label to other roleplayers?   im a fluff monster and i fucking love ducks oh my god

what is your favorite episode/scene of your muse?    oh man. oh man. i dont have it... yet. i mean, there is one, but it has yet to happen. i’m plannin’ it tho. also tbh, joan’s relationship with drugs is in general... my fav thing. like it may seem such a filmsy reason to others as to why she does drugs, but for me? i think it’s essential. i’ve watched movies and read stories about drug addicts that got into it the way a kid usually gets into cigarettes -- either to be part of the group or either because they needed some relief, a detachment from reality, and like... it’s always been interesting to me. i’ve never did this kinda stuff, heck, ofc i don’t plan to out of my simple choice ( cigarettes mostly, drugs r srs danger wtf ) , but i’m trying my best to interpret this mindset of joan. plus the fact she’s been actually influenced by her own interests to do so, to be like others in order to stick around others, is interesting in itself. along with joan and her parents’ relationship, and their subtle pressure they put on her, unknowingly. it’s just. whoa. fucking hell.

what crack!ships do you have for your muse?   joan and rehab, joan and mac and cheese, joan and an healthy ring of friends, joan... joan and cats as a hateship.

what is your senpai blog?   none! i consider everyone equals to me wtf.

#|| who's this fuck ( ooc ) || #AAAAAAA THIS WAS FUN.. #and long. #|| ooc ||

[jack-kellys]

“You were my hero.” with jack and crutchie please?

this is literally such a great prompt like I wanted to write it for so long but then like I kinda died in general BUT IM BACK

shout out to @cream--rises for quickly blurting that I should write from crutch’s perspective

————

capeless superman

words: 1340?

warnings: cursing, race instead of crutch is in the refuge au, yeet

————

The street was finally empty; all the newsies practically vanished out of Medda’s theater. No one had looked happy, of course. The whole rally had been a sham. Jack had caved, Jack had sold them out, Jack was a sellout, he was..

Crutchie’s own brother was a sellout.

He tried to block out his anger and replace it with confusion, limping alone down the street he saw Jack turn onto. The burning question of ‘why’ felt branded on his heart, its imprint scalding. Even if Jack told him why he had caved for the money, there was no way Crutchie could ever bring himself to understand it. It just didn’t make sense. That wasn’t Jack.

And he knew Jack.

Jack was the one who gave every hand-me-down he could find to any kid with a hole in their shirt or pants. Jack passed around food from the nuns to the rest of the kids, a big grin on his face in the morning even though Crutch knew he hadn’t slept for a minute the night before. Jack would fight anyone who roughed up one of his kids—he had, Crutchie reminded himself, only the day before; it was only a day before—even if he was one of the worst fighters Crutchie had ever seen.

Jack wasn’t any of the words Spot Conlon had called Jack as he had run the theater, screaming after him those terrible things. That Jack was a coward, and weak and useless, and a traitor—how could Jack Kelly be a traitor? How could Jack Kelly be a traitor?

…Was he?

Crutchie gripped his crutch harder as the thought entered his head. That couldn’t be it. Yes, Crutchie knew, the Santa Fe prospect was often mentioned between the two of them…and maybe the money would cover it…but that had to be just a dream. Every newsie had their own Santa Fe in a way. Finch wanted to be a pitcher one day. Mush wanted to be a real doctor. Henry wanted to make his father’s restaurant into a chain all across the country. It wasn’t any different. Couldn’t be.

Crutch saw the flash of a shadow ahead of him, and without thinking, called out to it.

“You gotta tell me, Jack, right fuckin’ now,” Crutchie cried up the block, watching Jack freeze. After a few moments, Jack retraced his steps, facing Crutchie with tired eyes.

“Tell you what?” Jack said, but it sounded rehearsed.

Crutchie stared harder. “That it didn’t mean nothin’. That you ain’t cavin’, not for just some money—“

“It’s not just some money, Crutch,” Jack interjected. “It’s…enough.”

Crutchie took an involuntary step back. What was he saying? “You’re not leavin’. You’re just not, Jack, that money’s too dirty. It,” Crutchie bit his lip, but continued his words stronger, “that money pays to keep places like the Refuge in business. It pays to keep where Race is hurtin’ in business,” Crutchie choked out.

Crutchie’s other brother, Racetrack, had been dragged to the Refuge just the other day. Actually dragged, too, Crutchie had glimpsed it briefly; Race was out cold thanks to Oscar and lugged into the wagon like he weighed nothing. Like he was nothing.

Jack couldn’t think Race was nothing all of a sudden.

“Crutchie,” Jack whispered, his eyes never leaving the ground. “You knows better than anyone that I gotta get outta here.”

“No,” Crutchie croaked. “This ain’t you, not really. You always think about us first—we always think of each other first.”

“Crutch, I can’t, I—“

“Yes you can!” Crutchie blurted, unintentional emotion trembling in his voice. “Why wouldn’t you. We’re all here, Jack. We ain’t out there. This’s your family, why, why…”

Crutchie scrubbed his eye, looking up at Jack with a small glimmer of hope. There had to be a why, even if he couldn’t figure it himself. Jack always had a reason, if not always a plan. He was an artist; he was full of passion. And though that passion branched into many different areas, Crutchie knew that his newsies were at the heart of it. They had to be. They were all Jack had. They were all any one of them had. At least a third of them would probably be dead without the lodge—Crutchie knew he probably would; he accepted that a long time ago. He was a fighter, sure, but some things were just out of his control.

But Jack was in control. At least, he could have been in control, easily. And yet decided not to, instead turning on his brothers.

“Why?” Jack scoffed. “Why? ‘Cause I don’t wanna any of yous ending up like Racer! I don’t want any more asses beaten so hard into the ground that we’s gotta peel ourselves off’a it! Crutchie, I can’t watch that. I can’t let any ‘a you get...I can’t let you die over this.”

Confusion burned in the back of Crutchie’s throat. “Like we wouldn’t die of starvin’ on the streets with these prices so high or somethin’,” he found himself blurting. “We already got all five boroughs on our side, Jack, a city-side strike could end it, and…”

“No it wouldn’t,” Jack said with force. “Pulitzer don’t give a shit about us, Crutch, he’d keep those prices until we can’t take beatings no more. He thinks this is a war, and he ain’t plannin’ on losin’.”

Something about that struck Crutchie as a little more than strange. A bit personal for just some money. “How...how long didja talk to him?” he asked slowly.

Jack hung his head. “Ain’t gonna lie; it was a while.”

Crutchie stumbled back, incredulous.

“Jack, w-what’d he do to you?”

Jack took a step towards Crutchie, who chose to move back yet again. This wasn’t his Jack. “We just talked, Crutchie,” Jack muttered. “‘S all.”

“It ain’t,” Crutchie could’ve laughed in disbelief. After all this time, Jack still thought Crutchie couldn’t see through him. “You’re lyin’, to me, oh my god. I can’t believe this, I…” Crutchie shook his head, mouth slightly agape.

Jack Kelly was a traitor.

The boy who had never once lied to his face was standing a foot away from him on a street corner in the dark with the guiltiest expression Crutchie had ever seen.

“Crutchie,” Jack was pleading now. What kind of topsy-turvy nightmare was Crutchie living in? “Please. I’m sorry, you gotta know that, but I had to. I had to. I had to do it.”

“No you didn’t,” Crutchie scoffed, a faint ironic smile on his face. This was unbelievable. “No you fucking didn’t. Coulda rejected the money right in front ‘a Spot, shown ‘em all you were on the right side—“

“I’m on your side, Crutch, c’mon—“

“—and instead you cave, man. Caved for those fuckin’ monsters at the top.” Crutchie scrunched his nose slightly. “Jack, I wanna trust ya, but that’s dirty, you know that.”

The look on Jack’s face made Crutchie’s heart sink, but he willed his expression to stay strong; stay strong like he didn’t care that he was losing his brother.

“I’m so sorry, Crutchie,” Jack choked.

“But you ain’t, I mean,” Crutchie let out a bitter laugh, “that wad ‘a cash must feel pretty great in you pocket.” Crutchie’s skin was beginning to crawl just talking to Jack and hearing him flat out lie to him. He had to get out. He couldn’t hide his breakdown for long, and he couldn’t let Jack see that. Especially after the night’s events. “You were my hero, Jacko.” His own voice was too devoid of emotion; it scared him.

“If you’d just let me explain, Crutch, I swear you’d understand,” Jack sounded too desperate, it couldn’t be real, “please, man.”

“Go get your Santa Fe, Jack,” Crutchie muttered, acquiescing to the new reality of Jack’s new backward personality. “We’ll still all be waitin’ here with ours.”

With that, Crutchie adjusted his crutch and turned around, heading back to the lodge, trying to block at Jack’s desperate calls after him, pleading with him to stay, to believe him, to trust him. But Crutchie had to start forcing himself to face the truth.

How could you trust a traitor like Jack Kelly after what he’d done to them?

————

YOWCH get em crutch

TAG LIST

@suddenly-im-respecsable @cream--rises @bencookisagod @felix-loves-albert-and-ralbert @spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn @stopthe-presses @tommy-boyyy @papesdontsellthemselves @fameworks-quicker @seasickdolphin @iamliterallyaghost @beep-beep-byler @the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog @thomasbeingthomas @the-king-of-brooklyn @sunshine-e-cigarettes @thebroadwayaesthetic @spot-me50-papes @i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing @fellthroughableedingtrapdoor @relmer @kingofsantafe @we-dont-sell-papes @bouncyscreamingnewsboys @sure-as-a-star @godhatesjordan @awkwardstranger98 @newsies-and-peggy @big-potato-asshole @have-we-got-news-for-you

#oh hello: i LOVE WRITING HIM #crutchie morris #my writing #fizz freaks #yayeet #newsies #newsies fics #jack kelly #this aint ship btw #idk how to feel abt this fic. inlike the concept but im very unsure if i did it justice #my main thing was that i wasnt gknna let crutchie cry. i sont think he would #he didnt in the refuge; he was making JOKES in there i mean.....he wouldnt cry in this if he didnt cry in the refuge sorry #anyway #i have a lot of opinions abt crutchie im realizing. oop.