#this is never going to be perfect so OFF IT GOES

[qveerthe0ry]

Your Ride, Best Trip

Summary: You sleep with your boyfriend Marcus for the first time Word Count: 9,001 Pairing: Marcus Pike x f! afab! reader Rating: 18+ Explicit Warnings: 18+ mdni, first time, vaginal fingering, oral (m! and f! receiving), unprotected PIV, squirting, creampie, dirty talk, so much fluff, so much kissing Betas: @for-a-longlongtime and @perotovar as ALWAYS. Love you homies I'm kissing u both <3 A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time

Marcus Pike is perfect. 

He’s your dream man. 

He’s sweet. He brings you flowers just because, and he’s remembered your go-to coffee order, and he never goes to bed without texting you goodnight.

He’s effortlessly kind. He offers to walk your dog for you when you aren’t feeling well enough to get out of bed, and he always does the dishes when you cook for him, and he makes sure his bathroom is stocked with all the personal products you use at your own place. 

He’s fucking handsome. His smile is straight and pearly white, and his big brown eyes warm you up, and the way his broad shoulders fill out those suits he wears to work never fails to make you weak in the knees. 

He’s so smart, and he’s so funny, and he’s all yours… finally. 

See, when he hadn’t so much as kissed you by your third date, you wigged out a bit. 

How could you not? He’d been so thoughtful and caring and all you wanted was to feel those pillowy, soft lips against your own. 

So you asked him what was up, and he told you.

Divorced. Broken engagement. A whole year of therapy to pinpoint what went wrong, what he could change, and how he could do better, how he could feel better. And then, he said, he found you— like fate— when he wasn’t even looking, when he least expected it. 

You had no problem taking it slow. You’re still convinced you’d wait forever for him, as perfect as he is.

After too many little dates to count, he told you he wanted to be your boyfriend, if you’d have him.

You told him you’d love for him to be your boyfriend, of course. You’d be crazy not too. 

And then he finally kissed you.

It was slow and hesitant, but it still made your heart race, made your stomach do flips. He cut it off before it could become anything more than chaste, and left your front door with a sheepish goodnight. 

You’ve kissed a lot since then. You never really enjoyed kissing that much, before. It always just seemed like a means to and end, a formality before moving on to other things. 

But now it’s one of your favorite ways to pass the time with him. Waiting for an Uber to take you downtown, finally getting to his place on Friday after a long work week, cuddling in bed together with an old movie playing.

You haven’t made out with anyone this much since high school. And you enjoy it, you do, but Jesus Christ, he’s been your boyfriend for three weeks now and you need him. 

It doesn’t help that he touches you like you’re the last person on earth. His hands are so big and they’re gentle and electric when they find the bit of skin just under the hem of your shirt. 

You think it’s going to happen, this time. Friday night takeout has long been abandoned in the living room. You’re in his bed, in his clothes, and his pinky is teasing at the waistband of his sweats that you’re wearing. 

His tongue in your mouth is making you dizzy, and there’s no more blood in your brain with all of it rushing between your legs. You whimper, and you arch against him, and you want him so bad but you can’t say it. You’d feel bad, making him rush when he’s made it clear he wants to take things slow. 

When his lips leave yours, you open your eyes, and find his pupils obstructing all the deep, dark brown you adore. 

You have to squeeze your thighs together for a miniscule amount of relief. He notices. Of course he does. Damn that Quantico training. 

“Sweetheart—”

His eyes flicker down to your lips. You’re sure they look obscene, red and slick from nearly an hour of him sucking and nibbling on them. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

You don’t know why you say it, but you are sorry. You feel so bad for wanting him like this, desperate and aching in his bed, over eager. 

“Don’t be,” he shakes his head and gives you a reluctant smile, a smile that tells you you’re going to fall asleep extremely sexually frustrated. 

But it’s fine. He’s so worth it. 

You give him a soft smile back, and lean in to peck his lips. But he pulls away with his brow furrowed. 

“What do you want?” 

His voice is gentle when he asks. So is his hand on your back, under his shirt you’ve claimed. But it doesn’t stop that fight or flight response from kicking in. 

“Nothing! Nothing, Marcus, I’m okay— I’m great. Just wanna cuddle.” 

But the creases in his forehead don’t smooth out, and his hand ceases the soothing circles across your spine. 

“You’re lying.” 

You sigh and close your eyes. 

“I’m not lying, I’m just— I don’t want to push you to move too fast.” 

You expect him to be angry. But when you open your eyes again, his own have taken on that puppy-like quality you usually love. Right now, it just makes you feel guilty. 

“I’ve been lying, too,” Marcus whispers. 

It’s your turn to scrunch your face up. Your blood runs cold, waiting for him to elaborate. A million scenarios run through your head at lighting speed— all worse and worse until your breathing picks up and you beg him with your eyes to just get on with it—

“I have a small dick.” 

His face is so flushed. He can’t meet your gaze.

He’s staring at the bedsheets between you, and you’re both just silent for a long, awkward moment. 

“I mean— the divorce and all that, it’s all true. And I did want to keep from moving too fast. But— the last few weeks I guess I’ve just been… stalling?” 

He finally looks up from the threads to gauge your reaction. 

“Marcus…”

“I get it, okay? If you wanna go. I know I lied, and you didn’t sign up for—“

“Marcus.”

You watch his shoulders raise and his mouth snap shut, and he looks terrified.

“I don’t want to leave. You didn’t lie. It’s just— you really think that would bother me?” 

He lets out a big breath, and the tension in his body eases up a little. 

“I don’t know. Most people were… bothered. I guess,” he shrugs. 

You cradle his jaw in your hand, let the day-old stubble tickle the pad of your thumb as you think about how to best navigate this conversation. 

Because saying ‘I don’t care’ seems too dismissive. But you don’t. You couldn’t possibly care less about what’s in his pants, when everything else about him has made you fall so, so deep already. But you don’t want to make it sound like it’s something you have to even bargain with, like the pros outweigh the cons, like it even is a con. Because it’s not. 

“I’m not bothered,” you finally tell him. 

He still doesn’t meet your eyes, in fact, he rolls his. 

“You don’t have to lie to me. It’s okay, I’ve heard it all. I know I’ve lead you on—”

“Jesus,” you cut him off, “what did— who made you feel this way?” 

He finally looks at you. His eyes are wide and he looks vulnerable and hesitant. You swipe away some hair that’s fallen flat across his scrunched forehead. 

“Everyone?” 

You sigh his name, and you’re tentative when you lean forward to kiss him, softly, when he lets you. 

He looks less terrified when you pull back. You try to smile, but this whole interaction has left such a bad taste in your mouth that it feels more like a grimace when your lips turn up. 

“That’s— Fucking awful, to be frank. Pardon my French.”

He chuckles, but his gaze falls away from your face again. His sheets are not that interesting to look at. 

“Really, Marcus. I mean— maybe if someone’s just looking for a hookup, then I get it. You want something specific, whatever. But why would you ever think you were leading me on?

All you’ve done is be sweet to me, and shown interest in me, and taken care of me. Unless you’re like, secretly an ax murderer, or committing some kind of major tax fraud, you haven’t led me on at all.”

He’s still not looking at you. Why won’t he look at you, and believe you? 

“I don’t want to sound dismissive. I understand you’re insecure about it. I’m insecure about some things too. I don’t want to invalidate that. But I need you to know that the last thing I care about is how big your dick is.” 

There. He’s looking at you. He looks a little mortified, but he’s finally meeting your gaze. 

“Really?”

You scoff. 

“Really really.”

A reluctant smile tugs on the corner of his pretty mouth. 

“Why?”

“Because— now, don’t go getting a big head about this— you’re perfect. Like, everything about you. You’re sweet and you make me laugh and you’re gorgeous.”

His face flushes, but he lets you continue.

“And I’m in this, with you. I want this to go somewhere. And I think we’re super compatible.”

“Me too,” he whispers.

“Good, so… we’re on the same page then.”

You watch him lick his lips, and his hand that’s been loosely draped over your waist finally starts back up, drawing little circles across the base of your spine. 

“And… There’s other reasons,” you mumble, voice low with a hint of mischief.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah… For one, your hands.”

“My hands?”

He emphasizes his question with a squeeze of your hip, and you giggle at the way it tickles, and also with a bit of embarrassment. 

“Yeah… They’re uh… big. I look at them a lot. Honestly surprised you haven’t noticed.”

He huffs, lets his big hand travel further up the shirt on your back. 

“Your nails are always trimmed, and— your fingers are long and thick. I’ve thought about them a lot.”

He breathes your name, and now you realize you’re the one avoiding eye contact. When you look back, his pupils are all blown out again, and it spurs you on.

“And I love to give head.”

“Jesus.”

“And the bigger it is, the quicker I get tired. I could stay down there all night, if my jaw didn’t get sore.” 

“Sweetheart—”

“Really, it’s one of my favorite things, making someone fall apart under my mouth. But I hate gagging and choking my way through it. It’s tedious.”

He says your name again, this time with a warning tone. 

You bite your lip to keep anything from tumbling from your mouth unwarranted. 

“You’re not lying.”

His eyes dart back and forth across your face, and you shake your head in lieu of opening your mouth again. 

“Fuck.”

It’s the first time Marcus has cursed in front of you. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and your clit throbs. 

“I’ve thought about you so much. Your lips, you have to know, right? How plump and full they are… I think about them at night, when I’m touching myself.” 

That’s convincing enough, apparently. Before you can embarrass yourself any further with your confessions, he surges forward to press those plush lips against yours and groans into your mouth. 

His hand flattens against your back and pulls, manhandling you closer to him. Your fingers find his silky hair and tangle in the strands, holding on for dear life at this shift between the two of you. 

You can’t muster up an ounce of shame. Finally, you have Marcus where you want him, pressed against you. You hike a leg over one of his, getting it between your thighs for even the smallest amount of friction. 

You feel him gasp, chest inflating to press even closer against yours. It’s a rush, finally getting this after waiting so long. 

Your hands scramble to get under his white t-shirt. His skin is hot, even against your sweaty palms. There’s so much to feel, the slight swell of his stomach, and the muscle of his flank, the soft but firm pecs. 

You whine when he pulls away from your lips. He shushes you gently, and you open your eyes to watch his slick lips and his hooded eyes and flushed face disappear briefly, just quick enough to shed his shirt. 

Smooth, is the first thing that comes to mind. His tan skin has no hair above his belly button, just the errant freckle here and there. His nipples are peaked, and you reach out to press your thumb against one before your mind catches up to the action, before you realize you’re gawking. 

But when your hand stutters against his skin and you look up at him, he’s smirking, amused and turned on. You falter a bit, mouth open while you search for something to say, some sort of excuse as to why you’re devouring him like you’re starved. 

He saves you though, with his low, grumbled voice. 

“I think about you, too. All the time.” 

You dig your nails into his soft skin at his admission, scraping against his chest. 

“You know that? You think I haven’t had you a million different ways in my head?” 

Your heart stops beating, and you stop breathing, and the heat between your legs only gets heavier and wetter. 

“You want me to show you, sweetheart?”

Your heartbeat comes back as a rush in your ears, and you squeeze the meat of his pec as you nod. 

He kisses you again, licks at your lips until you suck his tongue into your mouth, and now it’s just filthy. No more pretense, it’s been months of pretense, and neither of you have any more patience. 

His fingers seek out your own nipple, a tight bud protruding through cloth, and he rolls it between his fingers gently over the material of his shirt. 

“You come over and wear my clothes like this, and you think you don’t drive me crazy?” 

The words are grumbled into your mouth, against your cheek, then your jaw and your neck as he seeks out more of you to kiss. 

“I don’t wash them when you leave. I wear them and I smell you all day and it makes me feel insane.”

You mewl at his admission. Everything he says now is so fucking raw, now that you’ve broken down his walls. He shushes you again, grabs the hem of his shirt to help you pull it over your head. 

He curses when he sees you. It’s the first time. You’ve both been toeing this line of modesty, and maybe you’d be more nervous if you weren’t careening toward the pleasure he’s promised you. 

He coaxes you to lie on your back beside him, and his mouth works a slow trail down the side of your neck, nipping and suckling until he finally gets your nipple in his mouth. You arch into it, encouraging him with a hand tangled in his thick hair. You feel his groan reverberating around your rib cage when you scrape your nails back and forth across his scalp. You need him, like nothing you’ve ever craved before. 

“Marcus—”

“I know, I know.”

His syrupy voice isn’t as soothing as his lips, though, when he cranes his neck back up to kiss you again. He nips there, a sneaky distraction from the way his fingers trail down to circle your navel, and then even farther, teasing the hem of his sweatpants you’re wearing. His featherlight touch makes you jolt when it finally registers, your stomach jumping under his fingers. 

“Can I?”

You’re nodding against his lips, into the kiss, and then whining when his hand breaches the waistband. Those thick, long fingers flutter across your mound. Your breath catches on every wiggle. But when his fingers splay out, half on one side of your slit and half on the other, teasing your lips, you exhale hard and press up into his touch. 

“Oh, are you that sensitive?”

His voice is half-teasing, half-shocked, as he mumbles into the tingling skin of your neck. 

“It’s just you.” 

And it’s true. There’s no ego-stroking here. You’ve waited too long to get this and now you’re fiending, any touch is a relief. 

And he’s huffing into that skin under your ear, like you’re playing it up too much, but he bites down on the skin anyway and groans. 

“So sweet, huh?”

You make a disgruntled noise but there’s not enough blood in your brain to get your point across. Instead, you wrap your hand around his meaty forearm and force his fingers lower, where you know your underwear is a soaking, sticky mess. 

He curses and pulls away from his assault on your neck to look at you. You’re certain you know what he sees, blown out pupils and sweat-slick forehead and bitten, shiny lips. 

“That’s all for me?” 

There’s a sly smile tugging at one side of his mouth, just barely there, but you see it in the way one dimple grows more than the other. You nod in answer, scrape your nails up the hair on his arm and watch him shudder.

But he retreats from between your legs, and chuckles when you squeeze his forearm tighter in protest. The sound makes you shiver, all low and gruff and teasing. But he softens the blow with another one of his kisses, heated and sloppy and needy. His hands, always so gentle and careful and big, find the creases between your hips and thighs. It makes you arch up into the touch and whimper again, and you wonder briefly if you’ll ever not be desperate for him again. 

He watches your face twist up when he pulls away from you, watches the way your breasts move with every heave of your lungs. His dark eyes travel lower, where his thumbs sear circles into your hips, and his tongue swipes across his lower lip. 

“Can I take these off, sweetheart?” 

The tenderness in his voice fills you with a completely different warmth, white hot flames simmering into a blaze of feelings you aren’t sure you’ve ever truly experienced before. You let it consume you. 

“Yes, please.”

He hums a satisfied little noise as his fingers hook under the waistband. He takes his time, making sure to catch your underwear as well. It’s a sight, his huge hands working your only remaining cover down, down, until you’re bare to him and he’s gently cradling each of your calves to fully remove the last of your clothes. 

Those hands work their way back up, attentive, memorizing the valleys and peaks of your flesh, the nuances of your skin, the way it bends over your joints. Before you know it, he’s propped himself up beside you once again, one arm supporting his weight so his other hand can work its way between your thighs. 

You drag your eyes away from his fingers to look at him, only to find him focused on your face. 

It’s a few long moments before either of you move or speak or breathe. It’s you who breaks the spell, only because you know you’re at the very edge of control. 

“You sure you’re ready?”

You reach up to cradle his neck in your hand. It’s hot to the touch, and so are his ears, the tips of them burning a cute pink where your thumb grazes them. His eyes get softer and crinkle even more around the edges.

“I’m positive… can’t believe I psyched myself out for so long.”

He huffs and shakes his head at himself. You’re ready to kiss that apprehension away again, but his hand on your thigh pulls, as gentle as everything else he’s done, to spread yourself open for him. 

The cool air makes your breath catch in your throat. Or maybe it’s the anticipation. So close to what you’ve thought about every single night for weeks. Months– since the day you first met, if you’re being honest. 

He keeps his eyes on you, and you hold his gaze even though it burns. But only until his fingers brush you. Your eyelids flutter shut at the feeling, mouth open wide in shock at how electric just one simple touch feels. 

His finger glides so easily around your opening, and you hear him gasp as he explores all the slick.

“You’re soaked.” 

His voice is thick with awe, as another finger joins in on the fun, gathering up your arousal. But they don’t breach, and you feel like he’s teasing, readying a whine in protest. 

The noise gets stuck in your throat when they trail up, gliding through your swollen folds. They find your clit, full and begging for attention, and circle with hardly any pressure. 

Oh, he’s fucking good at this. 

There’s no apprehension in his movements. It’s like he’s read a fucking manual on how to press all your buttons. The light, slick touches are building up that heat in your gut quicker than you can ever remember with anyone else. 

You’re stunned silent, eyes pinched shut and your head tilted back into the mattress, digging in for even an ounce of grounding. 

“That feel good, sweetheart?”

Your vocal chords come back to life, finally, as you whimper from the gentle drag of his fingers. 

“You have no idea.”

He chuckles, and you open your eyes to see his own still trained on your face. 

“I think I do,” he mumbles.

He shifts, presses his hips into you, and the hard line of him digs into your side. 

You clench around nothing, and your clit pulses under the pads of his fingers. He curses and responds to the needy little bud, applying more pressure and speeding up those little circles. 

All the while he grinds his hips into you, soft little movements that sync up with his hand, and you want him so bad. You’re losing patience by the second, the only thing keeping you from pouncing is the way his fingers work you over so perfectly it’s like you’re touching yourself. 

You’re not, though, and that becomes perfectly clear when one thick, long finger presses lower and slips into you. It slides so easily, despite how much girth it has on one of your own. You both make stuttered noises at the feeling, and Marcus’ lips capture your own to let them mingle together. 

Your hips egg him on, lifting and shifting, but he is teasing now. It’s a slow drag in and out, his finger pin straight, and if he hadn’t been so diligent this entire time you’d think he didn’t know what he was doing. 

But you whine, a soft plea of his name into his mouth, and he obliges. That thick finger crooks up, just as the heel of his hand flattens against your clit, and stars bloom behind your eyelids. 

You groan, and he laps it up before his lips leave yours. 

“That’s it. This what you needed?”

A pathetic whimper comes out in response as you nod your head. His finger presses harder into that perfect spot, and his palm slides over your wet clit. You’re clenching around him, savoring the feeling of being filled by him, working your hips down and back to meet his motions. It grows and grows, that feeling in your gut, so close that you can’t be bothered to worry about what needy noises you’re making.

He mutters another frantic curse, and his hips jump to press his cock into you harder. 

“I gotta taste you, sweetheart. Can I? Will you let me?” 

You nod so fast you’re surprised your head doesn’t detach from your neck. He soothes that frenzied part of your brain with another kiss, slips his finger out of you, and moves to get between your legs. 

You thread your fingers through his hair to keep him still, even if it’s just for a moment. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and the drag of his sweatpants across your sensitive center makes you arch up into him for more, to seek out more friction. 

He just huffs a laugh against your lips and angles his hips away, denying you the simple pleasure of grinding against the tent in his pants. 

“Not yet. Let me take my time with you. You’ve waited so long, right? I’ll make it up to you, you just gotta let me.” 

You huff. 

You should’ve known Marcus would be just as much of an infuriating tease in the bedroom as he is outside of it. The trivia dates and the cocky smirk he always sported when he won, the little bets he’d make on how a movie’s plot was going to twist, the refusal to ever let you pay for dinner— it’s all adding up now, and you can’t believe you didn’t expect it. 

Marcus Pike is a smug little prick underneath the humble, sheepish grins, and it’s hot and it’s yours. 

“Put your money where your mouth is,” you breathe. 

He chuckles and trails said mouth down the length of your naked body. You watch his plump lips explore your skin and leave wet patches littered in their wake, shiny little stakes claiming you. His five o’clock shadow is just long enough to abrade your skin a bit, delightful little pricks that make your muscles jump involuntarily.

He makes it to your mound before looking up at you. His brown eyes are mostly obstructed by his pupils, but they shine all glassy in the dim lamplight of his bedroom. His shitty grin has faded and he looks determined, and it steals the breath from your lungs. 

He teases some more, of course he does. His lips peck and tickle the creases of your thighs, the skin of your outer lips, and the very tip of your hood before you finally see his pink tongue slip out. 

All of a sudden you can’t watch, can only let your head fall back and close your eyes and drown in the anticipation. 

The pointed tip of his tongue just barely grazes you, tracing a razor-thin line from your dripping hole all the way to your mound. It tickles, and your breath comes in faster as he does it again, and again, and again. 

Just before you can beg for more, he flattens his tongue and drags it up your slit. He laps at your folds, slow and calculated, and the satisfied noises tumble out of you as you feel his taste buds glide against you. 

All you can think to do is find his hair and use it to hang on. Your legs spread wider, and he takes the encouragement. His tongue finds your clit, so swollen and sensitive with need by now. He circles it, then wiggles his tongue back and forth, playing with it, playing with you. He shakes his head from side to side to give you more, presses even more firmly, and the heavy feeling in your gut tightens tenfold. 

Your hips start to move on their own, rocking up into his face, helping his motions along. He groans with it, muffled and wet between your legs. 

A delirious thought gets stuck in your horny brain. You don’t know how you’ll ever let him leave this spot between your legs now that you’ve finally got him here. It’s so wet and warm and incredible, and your nails dig into his scalp to drive the point home, to try and lock him here forever. 

His voice snaps you from your reverent thoughts, thick and deep. 

“Fuck, sweetheart. You taste so good, looks so fucking pretty.” 

You brave a glance down at him, his red soaked mouth and his dark eyes that are boring holes into your pussy. One of his hands releases its grip on your thigh to glide across the dripping mess of your center. He toys with you, spreading you open with splayed fingers, watching the way your folds bend to his whim. With it exposed and protruding and aching for his touch, he leans down to wrap his plush lips around your clit and suckle. Curses fly from your lips at the concentrated attention, and it’s so so so fucking good you’re sure you’re going combust. 

His hand slips lower, and his mouth doesn’t stop, and you’re dangerously close to tipping over the edge. And then two thick fingers slip easily into you, immediately seeking out that spot inside you and tapping there. 

It’s blinding pressure overwhelming the two places you need him most. He drums up a rhythm that would remind you of a dance, maybe, if your brain were cognitive enough to form a coherent thought. Down with his head, engulfing your clit, and up with his fingers, squeezing that spongy spot inside you. Over and over, he works you with soft grunts against your cunt until your fingers lock up in his hair and your hips start to shake. 

“Please don’t stop,” you pant, “I’m so close.” 

To his credit, and this is more than you can say for the majority of men you’ve been with, he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow down, nor does he speed up. He keeps at you exactly how you need it, moaning strung-out little noises into your center until you’re dropping. 

All the wind is knocked out of you. Your hips jolt into his face and he takes it in stride, lapping at your clit when the seal of his lips is broken from your erratic movements. You tremble through it, clench around his fingers, and squeeze his head between your thighs as you ride it out on his tongue. 

As the shivers roll through you, Marcus’ fingers slow, and though he can’t remove his tongue from you because of how your legs have him in a headlock, he stills his tongue so you can take the last bit of what you need from him. 

His breathing is just as heavy as yours, wheezing out moans and muffled words of encouragement. When you feel yourself slipping down from your peak, you let go of the death grip on his hair, and open your legs, and grant yourself a few deep breaths before you dare to look down at him. 

He carefully, cautiously pulls his fingers out of you. A comforting ‘shhh’ is cooed into the sweaty skin of your thigh when you make a strangled sound. Both of his hands splay out on either hip, a light and grounding touch accompanied by the kisses he’s dropping all over the skin he can reach. 

Finally, you grant yourself a peek down at him. The first thing you notice is how his broad shoulders are, heaving with baited breath. Then, his normally pristine hair, sticking out every which way and then some from your frantic fingers. 

His face is red, you guess from exertion. Or maybe you really did restrict some blood flow. Christ. That’s what he gets, being so goddamn good at that. 

And then his lips. His lips. Those lips that up until now you’ve only ever kissed or dreamed of. They’re even more plump, swollen and slick with you, shining just like his chin is. 

You don’t know what to say. You know you want to kiss him. Funny, considering that’s how all this started, but you’re dying to see what you taste like on him. 

Luckily, he breaks the silence, after licking those delectable lips and clearing his throat. 

“So… How’d it compare?” 

Your face contorts on its own, surprised at the sudden and intrusive question. 

“Pardon?”

But then he laughs, pressing those wet dimples into your heated skin to hide them. 

“To all those thoughts you told me about. How’d I do?” 

You laugh too then, a weary huff of breath as you sit up. 

“Don’t go fishing for compliments,” you tease, though there’s not much heat behind it with how out of breath you still are. 

He goes to respond, but you get a hand in his hair again and coax him up. You meet him halfway, swallowing his surprised noise when you finally get those pillowy lips against yours and lick at them, his tongue, his teeth, until you aren’t sure what taste is you and what is him. Until you realize you’re flat on your back again as he hovers over you, still between your thighs. 

You both hum when the kiss breaks, and you rest your forehead against his, nuzzle his nose and sigh at the floaty feeling in your limbs. 

“Better,” you whisper. 

You feel his grin bump into your own. You nip at it, playful and languid as you finally begin to get some of your bearings back. 

And then you’re shocked back into the realization that there’s all this smooth skin right in front of you, this hunk of a man hovering above, the one who just melted your brain into a fuzzy little mold of itself. You grab his hips as he licks into your mouth and scrape your nails up his flanks, unhurried, while the touch makes him shiver. 

You feel out the strength in his pecs, those broad shoulders you often daydream about, and then you push. Catching him off guard, he gasps as he loses his balance and tumbles to the side, and then laughs when you press him into the mattress and straddle his hips. 

You laugh along with him, but it slowly tapers off as his hands find your naked skin— your stomach and hips and back and then your ass, where it hovers just above that bulge in his sweatpants. 

He’s looking up at you with what you can only describe as horny apprehension. 

His eyelids droop over his dilated pupils, but his brow is all pinched up in the middle. His mouth hangs open, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. 

So you kiss him, soft and gentle, as gentle as he’s been with you all night. His sigh washes heat across your cheeks, and you feel him relax under you just a little. 

But then you shift in his grasp, lower your ass, and press your soaking center to his crotch. You whimper at the feeling of his sweatpants dragging across your sensitive, wet cunt. He moans and bites at your bottom lip maybe a little too hard. 

But it’s okay. He pulls away and pants your name and you settle there, your weight pressed down on his cock. Your lips find that smooth patch in his stubble, biting that chiseled jaw, licking down the curve of his neck, his shoulder, up to his ear. You delight in every goosebump you draw, and breathe in his scent before you speak up. 

“Will you let me suck it?” 

All his breath rushes out in a big gust. His fingertips dig into your naked sides, and he nods. 

“Please.” 

It’s a barely-there whisper. You pull away from that silky soft skin where his pulse is hammering to check his reaction. 

He’s begging with his eyes. It makes you smirk, sitting up straighter, trailing your fingers down the front of his body until you reach the drawstring of his sweatpants. 

You’re still sitting on his groin, though. You give a little playful wiggle, and his hips rock up to grind harder. But you don’t want to tease any more. Every moment spent teasing him, you’re also denying yourself, and you’ve been patient for long enough. 

So you shift down the bed, nestled between his legs, and get to work on the tie of his pants. Every time your fingertips brush the hair below his belly button, he sucks in a breath. You finally get the thing untied, and look up one last time for permission before you start to drag the material down, grabbing his boxers as you go. 

Your eyes stay trained on his face instead of staring at his crotch, especially as he wiggles a bit and lifts his legs to remove his pants. You don’t want to stare, and you also don’t want to not look, you don’t want him to be uncomfortable at all with you. 

You want it to be perfect. You want to make him feel the way he makes you feel. 

He nods his head, and you cease averting your eyes to trail down his body, the bushy happy trail and the neatly trimmed hair above his cock and his cock. 

His little cock. 

It is, indeed, on the smaller side. Probably one of the smallest you’ve seen in real life. Three and half or four inches long, if you had to guess. 

And it’s so pretty, cut and on the thicker side, the slightest upward curve that makes your pussy tighten around nothing. 

You dive right in, press your nose to all the hair while you kiss at the base of him, humming when his cock twitches against the side of your face. He smells so good and clean, like always, but down here there’s even more of that Marcus smell that always lingers beneath his soap and cologne, salty and warm.

When you drag your eyes up to him, his head’s thrown back against the pillows, not looking at you. You want him to look, you want him to see how much you’re going to enjoy this. 

You’ll make him look, one way or another. 

For now, you just lathe your tongue up the underside of him, then back down to tickle his balls, all the while enjoying how his prick jerks under the attention. 

He’s making little noises, mostly puffs of breath and gasps, and his hands twist up in the sheets beside you. You grab one of them, slow and steady, and lead it to the back of your head. 

And then, you finally get your lips wrapped around the head of his dick, and you slowly sink down until he’s entirely in your mouth. 

It’s not until your nose presses against the flatness above his cock do you hear him release a strangled groan. That’s when you look back up at him and find him staring down, mouth agape, locked on your mouthful of him. 

You pull back up, wiggling your tongue as you go, memorizing the ridges and hairs and veins. Your eyes are locked on his, and his are locked on your lips, so you try to give him a show. 

You open your mouth and stick out your tongue, nod your head up and down to let his cockhead tickle your tastebuds. A gruff noise leaves him, hearty and hoarse, and you want to smile but you’re not in a position to. 

Instead, you flick your tongue against that little band of tissue just under his slit, and his hips stutter as his grip on the back of your head tightens. 

“Fuck, sweetheart.”

Now you do smile, your lips upturned against the head of his cock, and it jerks against your mouth while you kiss it, until you envelop it once more. 

You hum around him, at the weighted feeling of him occupying your mouth, how smooth it feels against your tongue and how nice it is to take him all the way in and not gag or choke or drool. 

It makes your cunt ache, makes you crave him even more, makes you want to be full of him everywhere. 

You reach a hand down to touch yourself. You’re still dripping, can feel it all slipping from your entrance and cooling your skin in the air conditioning. You’ve had just enough time to recover from the mess Marcus made of you. You’re sensitive but not too sensitive, when you trace your clit with your fingertips and moan around the mouthful of cock. 

“Oh fuck, are you touching yourself?”

Your eyes flicker open and look up to him. He’s clenching his jaw, grinding his teeth as his nostrils flare. You hum and nod your head to answer, his cock slipping back and forth through the ring of your lips. He whimpers, and his head tips back against the mattress again, and it makes you speed up the efforts on both him and yourself. 

He curses, soft little chants, kneading the back of your neck in his big hand as you suck him in over and over. You close your eyes and lose yourself in it for a bit, the way he slips so easily in and out, the way his hips move just a little, like he’s trying not to but he can’t help it. The sounds, his grunts and your sloppy mouth and your fingers working over your slick folds. 

He says your name. 

You hum, use your free hand to play with the fuzzy skin of his balls. 

He says your name again, and this time it’s urgent, almost panicked. 

“Sweetheart, stop, please.”

You do, immediately. You open your mouth wide and let him fall from your lips and unhand him while you look at his exerted face. 

“Are you okay?”

He huffs, and his cock bobs beside your face. 

“I’m so okay. I just— did you want me to…? It’s okay if you don’t, I just didn’t want it to be over—”

“Marcus.” 

His heated babbling stops as he clamps his mouth shut. His broad shoulders lift and drop with his heading breath.

“Do you want to fuck me?” 

You smooth your hands across the scattered hair on his thighs when you ask. His prick twitches again at your question. 

“I— Yeah. Yes. I do.”

He looks almost guilty about it, with his wide eyes and the bashful expression spreading across his face. 

“I want you to fuck me so bad,” you tell him, “I’ve wanted it for way too long.”

His breath leaves him in a shuddery exhale, something like relief or awe. 

“Yeah? You still want it?” 

His hand skates from the back of your neck to your jaw, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. 

“Please, Marcus. Give it to me.” 

You turn your head to kiss his thumb, a sloppy little peck before you take it into your mouth. You smile around it when he groans, and bite it before it slips away. 

“Can you get on the edge of the bed for me?” 

You can, but not without throwing a cheeky ‘yes sir’ his way. You’re not sure if the noise he makes is from arousal or a lack of  amusement, but there will be plenty of time to explore that later. 

For now, you do as he says. You scoot so your ass is just about to fall off the side of his bed. The wooden bed frame is the perfect height to rest your heels on, and as Marcus slips a pillow under your head, you’re as comfortable as ever.

The mattress dips when he gets up to stand in front of you. The lamplight from the nightstand is really doing things for him. The slight sheen of sweat on his chest glistens, as does the wetness at his temples where his hair is starting to curl up. All those lean muscles have never been more apparent than they are now, the golden glow creating beautiful shadows across his naked body. 

He’s so hot. 

It doesn’t help that his big, warm hands snake up your bare thighs as he gets between them. His small dick stands at attention, pointing toward the ceiling, and you feel your pussy spasm with anticipation. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

He nods, steps closer as you spread your legs wider and wiggle even further off the bed. 

“Perfect, sweetheart.”

He leans over you with one hand on the bed to brace himself. The other is wrapped firmly around the base of his cock, and he looks down to watch it as he glides it through your slit. 

“Are you ready?”

You nod and hum your affirmative. He takes the go-ahead and his cockhead slides across your clit, down, so slowly, until it catches on the rim of your hole and you both gasp at the feeling. 

You look down to watch too, lifting up on your elbows to see the moment your pussy lets him sink inside, fluttering around him, engulfing his prick one inch at a time. 

You knew it. You fucking knew his cock was perfect but still you’re shocked at the way the curve makes him drag across your upper wall. And when his hips are flush with yours, all that pressure is concentrated at that bundle of nerve endings inside of you, and you’re going to lose your mind if he doesn’t move.

“Oh fuck.”

You let yourself flop back in the bed, but reach for his hand that’s supporting his weight. Your nails scrabble for purchase against the skin of his wrist as you curse again, your walls contracting around him as you tense. 

“Fuck, Marcus, please.”

You’re so far past caring about how desperate you sound. You need him, the textbook definition of it; it’s an absolute necessity that he fucks you. 

He curses, and you realize you’ve closed your eyes. When you open them, his jaw is hanging and he’s looking at you, your face, like it’s something he’s never seen before. Like he’s shocked you’re here in front of him. 

But his hips are still, and you’re helpless to the way your own cant up to urge him, and finally he’s pulling back out. The slow drag against the most tender spot inside you rips a noise from your throat, involuntary. He pulls almost all the way out, until the head of his dick is kissing your opening and you can feel how he stretches the tight ring of muscles. 

And then in again, almost as slowly, and you’re already out of breath. The feeling steals all the wind from your lungs. It’s setting you on fire, perfect friction against just the right spot, the one that’s still tender and alight from your previous orgasm. 

“It’s so fucking good,” you manage to choke out. 

Marcus moans above you, and his hips snap into you, and his free hand finds your waist so he can dig his nails into your flesh. 

“It is, fuck, sweetheart, you’re so fucking good.”

A bead of sweat drips from his nose and lands on your belly, and that seems to make you snap out of it. 

“Fuck me. Fuck me hard, please, make me come.”

You watch his mouth quirk up into a pretty smirk, dimples on full display. 

“Yes ma’am.”

Your giggles only last for a moment, dissolving into a high whine when he slides out of you and back in, a harsh thrust of his hips that doesn’t let up. 

He fucks you. You try to watch; it’s too hot not to. His biceps flex respectively, one with his effort to hold himself above you, and the other where he holds you in place by your waist. 

His neck, the one vein there that’s protruding as he bares his teeth. The way his chest is rapidly rising and falling as he drives into you. His big brown eyes, even darker now as he succumbs to the feeling of you. 

But you just can’t keep your eyes open for long. It feels too good, you’re too close to the edge. Your insides are so tender and alight from the first time you came. Every single thrust inside you is taking you apart and building your second so quickly. Your eyelids droop closed and there’s already stars blooming behind them. 

His little noises are louder, like this. Grunts and gasps and moans, falling over you, all for you. 

“Fuck, I’m so close,” you warn him.

Your back arches to encourage his pace. His skin slaps into yours faster as he groans.

“Thank god, me too. What do you need, sweetheart?” 

Without a verbal answer to his strained question, you slip your hand down to press against your throbbing clit. 

“Shit, yeah, play with your pussy for me. I wanna— fuck— let me see you come. Looks so gorgeous.”

His voice is thick in his throat, and you work your fingers over yourself faster. You’re clenching wildly around him, you can’t help it. Every thrust in sets your nerves on fire, almost too much, but not quite. His grunts are turning into growls, uninhibited and primal. You feel the mattress shift and open your eyes to find him standing up straight. 

Both hands grab your hips now, and that little angle change makes him grind even harder into your g-spot, and you’re tumbling over the edge. It’s been building under the surface for so long that when it hits, it’s blinding. There’s static in your toes that washes over you, up, up, dragging a fiery heat with it that consumes your center and makes your head fuzzy. 

There’s screaming. 

You’re screaming. Your eyes are clenched so tight, as are your fingers, all your joints, your pussy, around Marcus as he fucks you through it with sloppy thrusts. 

“That’s it, oh my god, sweetheart, you— fuck. I’m gonna come, I’m— where?”

“In me.”

Your throat is scratchy when you answer, and you don’t have any time to elaborate on why that’s not a bad idea. You’re still coming, wave after wave of warmth rolling across your body, and you’re vaguely aware of how wet everything is, the sound of him fucking you even more obscene. 

His shout doesn’t quite rival yours, but you feel it when he empties inside of you. His cock jerks and and twitches, wringing out every little bit of pleasure from you, and you think you’re still coming, the pinpricks of pleasure are still too intense to be aftershocks. 

He stays pressed as deep as he can be as his stomach convulses and his thighs shake, just like yours do where they’ve somehow wrapped around him. Your eyes open again, and the lamplight is so bright now, his breathing is so loud. He grunts and pulls out a bit, then presses back in, and again, until it falters and his whole body slumps. 

His top half collapses onto you, his little breaths huff and tickle the tingling skin of your belly. Your own breath comes out in a weak moan, and it takes all the strength you can muster just to run your fingers through his sweaty hair. 

“Jesus,” he says.

Your name cascading off his lips in such a strung out voice that it makes you clench around him again. 

“Huh?” 

God, how are you ever going to move again? 

“You uh… Is that a common occurrence?”

Christ, why is he using such big words? 

“What are you talking about?” 

He clears his throat. 

“You like— You squirted?”

You laugh, one delirious huff. It makes his head rock on your jiggling belly. 

“I what?”

You gather the will to look down at him. His mouth is open, surprised and amused, and his eyes are shiny and bright. 

“Yeah, like, a lot.”

He’s still inside you but softening, and his own chuckles make him slip out. 

You lift up on your elbows as he stands up straight and the evidence is clear. The hair above his dick and high on his thighs is all dark and soaked. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

The sheets on the edge of the bed are absolutely ruined, and you pray he’s one of those men that has a mattress protector. You’re more than a little mortified, and the way he’s staring at you, silent, is beginning to make you squirmy.

“What?” 

“Why do you seem so surprised?”

His fingertips are feather-light across your thighs, and you shiver. 

“I’ve never actually… done that? I would have warned you.”

He makes a pained sound, and those fingertips turn into a tight grip just above your knees. 

He doesn’t speak up. Instead, he lies on the bed beside you. He holds himself by his elbow, but that hand strokes your scalp while the other traces up and down your thigh, your hips, your breasts, anything he can reach. You avoid the topic at hand to relax into it, and you think you’re finally coming down as that boneless feeling washes over you. 

You’re vaguely aware of his cum dripping out of you, but the sheets are a lost cause anyway. You just watch his lax face, the way the wrinkles in his brow are all smoothed out, the way his eyes follow the patterns he’s drawing on your body. 

He catches you staring. His gaze meets yours and he smiles and it’s sunny. It warms you through, despite all the sweat that’s cooling on your body. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

You giggle, and he does too. He tries to hold it in by biting his lip, but it’s no use. You will your exhausted bones to shift and face him, and he presses his lips to yours and they meld together.

It’s languid, unhurried, just reacquainting after too long apart. It feels a little goofy, with how you’re both smiling so wide, but it calms you into settling down after such a high. 

Both of your breathing seems even, when you part. 

“That was—”

“It’s never—”

You both chuckle. 

“Ladies first.”

You feel shy now. You can’t imagine why, but a fluttery feeling overtakes your stomach. 

“I was just gonna say… That was better than all those times I imagined it.”

You didn’t think it was possible, but his smile grows even wider. His eyes flicker from yours to the sheets between you, and you think maybe he feels as bashful as you do. 

“It’s never been that good.”

A sigh escapes him when he speaks, and his nervous gaze lands on you when his face falls into something more earnest. 

It takes your breath away. Because it’s never been that good for you either, and isn’t that such a perfect coincidence?

You tug him to you by the back of his neck, eat up the surprised little sound he makes against your mouth. 

“When can we go again?”

#Pedro pascal #Pedro pascal x reader #Pedro pascal smut #Pedro pascal fanfiction #Pedro pascal characters #x reader #marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike smut #the mentalist

[latenightdaydreams]

König thought

Him walking past a recruits' room, hearing them moaning his name.

Honestly think he'd go a little feral if their begging for him to let them cum.

😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 König would absolutely die if he heard this.

Late Night Walk (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List

>cw: fem/afab, voyeurism, masturbation

1.0k word count

.

.

It was way past midnight and König couldn’t sleep. He put on grey sweat pants and a tight black shirt, his sniper hood over his head as he leaves his room. The halls are quiet as he walks along, only the sound of his footsteps filling the empty space. Turning the corner, something catches König’s attention.

A tiny pathetic little moan; his cock instantly tingles. He slows his steps so that they can’t hear his footsteps and accidently interrupt them. He hears them whimper his name. A small little “König” and he feels like his mind is melting. He walks close to your door, realizing it’s you. His jaw drops. You? He had no idea someone like you could desire him. You’re so…perfect.

He hears small wet sounds, most likely the sound of your small fingers going in and out of your tiny cunt. Fingers so small, they probably aren’t even pleasing you. Just one of his fingers would probably fill you…

“Mmmm, König, please.” You moan from your bed.

König’s eyes flutter as he hears you moan his name again. He quickly looks around the hallway to make sure no one else is around. Once he is sure he is truly alone, he slips a hand under the band of his sweat pants; his hand grasping his cock. He presses his ear against your door to hear things better.

His large calloused hand wraps around his leaky cock, pulling back his foreskin before rubbing his palm around the tip. His breath shutters from the pleasure. He closes his eyes and focuses on your sounds. His hand grips himself tightly as he begins to stroke his cock. Picturing in his mind that he was fucking your pretty pussy instead.

He has an overwhelming urge to knock on your door and just go in and fuck you. You’re literally moaning out to him, yet he can’t seem to find the nerve to. You’re a recruit and he is your Colonel. That would be breaking the rules, but fuck that cunt sounds deliciously wet.

Pumping his fist over his cock faster as he hears your little fingers begin to move faster. Your moans becoming slightly louder and more intense. You’re getting ready to cum. He listens intently.

“König, please, I need to cum.” Oh fuck, his brow furrows as he stops breathing. “Please, make me cum König.”

My god how he wishes he was the one making you cum, not your pathetic little fingers. His cock would ruin you for any other man, you’d be his forever; addicted to the way he fucks you. You’d never have a lonely night again.

Eyes closed and three fingers deep into your pussy, you’re imagining König’s massive body over yours. Legs spread wide apart to accompany his body, three fingers because you know his cock would be fucking massive. The man is a behemoth. You imagine him relentlessly fucking your cunt until you wouldn’t walk. You’re close. Moaning out to the König you’re envisioning.

“Please, can I cum Colonel?” Your free hand moves to rub your clit.

Please cum for me. König is losing his mind. Begging him to let you cum, calling him by his rank. König bites his tongue to stifle his moans as he begins to jizz in his pants. He couldn’t hold on any longer.

On the other side of the door your moan out in a soft melody, thanking König for fucking you. König in disbelief of what just happened, quickly snaps out of his lust trance when he hears you get up from the bed. He withdraws his hand and wipes it on the side of his sweat pants.

With a wet spot on his pants, he quickly and quietly turns and goes back to his room. Quickly changing out of his cum covered bottom, he gets into bed, excited to see you tomorrow.

The next morning you had training bright and early. You got showered, dressed, and ate before heading off. Once entering the room, your eyes instantly go to König, like always. Except this time, his icy blue eyes were already on you. Instantly you blush and look down to the ground. König smirks under his mask and continues to watch you.

As recruits are filing into the room König takes the time to slowly approach you from behind; he can’t stop replaying you moaning out for him in his mind. He towers over you and stands closer than he has to. You smell wonderful, he wonders how your pussy smells.

Feeling a presence behind you, you turn. Jumping when you see König. He just looks down at you for a while not moving.

“Hallo,” Why am I so fucking awkward?!  

“Hello, Colonel.”

“How are you today?” His voice is stoic, hiding the lust he feels for you.

“I’m well sir, yourself?”

He nods softly, his eyes dropping from your eyes to your soft lips and then back up. He is thinking about kissing them, wondering how you taste. Imagining what they would look like wrapped around his fat cock. “I’m also well.”

You both stand awkwardly, both wanting to say something but not daring to say anything. Instead, you gaze into his blue eyes and take in his true size and smell. As he studies your face, trying to imagine how it looked when you were moaning out his name.  He was going to find out. Leaning in a little more so he can whisper in your ear, his proximity sending chills down your spine.

“You know, Liebling, if you were to ever find yourself unable to sleep again…my door is always open.”

König leans back and looks down at your stunned expression, clearly embarrassed but he can see the excitement building behind your eyes. He simply turns around and walks away, as if he was totally chill about this. In reality he can’t believe he just did that. His heart beating a million miles an hour and face bright red, but the mask hides it all.

He only hopes that you take him up on that offer.

#konig #konig x y/n #konig x reader #könig #konig cod #könig x reader #konig smut #könig smut #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig x reader smut #konig x you #könig call of duty #könig x y/n #könig x you #könig x reader smut

[sophieeeet]

Her Warmth, My Peace

<<<Pairing : Bf!Jay x Gf!FemReader

<<<Synopsis: As Soon as you came into Jay's life things weren't the way it used to be and He Loves that

<<<Genre: Nonidol!Jay x nonidol FemReader , Fluff, Tooth-roting fluff , Jay's in so much Love ( as well as reader) , Realisation of Love etc

Jay’s side of the bed wouldn't even be called Jay's anymore. you sleep there nearly every day, blaming it on how the pillows smell of him.

Jay’s clothes aren't his anymore, you're sleeping in his shorts and t-shirt tonight. you wore his shirt yesterday, and took his ties for some clothes experiments last week.

Jay’s sacred Guitars are no longer his own, he finds you on the floor as you try to make up a new Melodies out of it & Sometimes you just forgot to put them back at its place, leaving them on floor or table.

Jay's Love for Making food has Grown more as he made his mission to try out recipes that you picked out for him to make every weekend, Even though sometimes they don't turn out to be great you still devour his creation like it's not bland in taste only for Jay to practically steal the plate forcefully from you as it's not healthy to eat a Raw Steak as he settles for a take out while laughing at your pout

Jay’s mugs are now shared, always in the dishwasher even when he doesn't recall using them at all.

Jay’s thoughts don't belong just to him anymore. you'd bug him about it all day if he doesn't share what he's thinking so he, with an exasperated sigh while chuckling at your intrigued expression, tells you what's on his mind.

Jay’s salary doesn't go straight to his savings account like it used to, instead taking a portion of it to spend on you. 'you' means gifts, flowers, dates, Restaurants, trips, trinkets, and so on.

Jay’s weekends aren't as quiet as they once were; now they're chaotic, full of so much of you.

Jay’s fridge is full nowadays. candy, leftovers, ice cream, cheese, cake, bread, and the list goes on. so many things that don't go along with his diet fill the once-empty shelves.

Jay doesn't spend as much time in his study as before you moved in. now old books are left to collect dust, long forgotten in a room that's never lit. even when he decides to pick one up and read it, it's the minute that he sees your face the book is tossed away.

Jay's Happiness still comes from days off, but now it's because those days are spent with you. days when he slept long and ignores the world are long gone, now he gets to sit and focus on you, watching as everything else becomes nothing but background noise.

Jay has always been sure he's not looking for marriage, at least not right now. but he swears that ring looks so perfect for you. there's no way he'd miss it.

Jay stands in front of the bathroom mirror 5 minutes late every day because you're still figuring out how to fix his tie the right way without any help. he can't seem to rush you, though what's being precisely on time have on your little giggles as you sit on the sink and struggle to finish a task he could have done in under a minute?

Jay has been spending so much time eating as of late, more time than he can afford. while he used to finish a meal in approximately fifteen minutes, now dinners could stretch to two hours. he couldn't get off the table early when you sit across from him, talking and joking and doing anything that's not eating. he simply can't possibly not indulge in the little conversations, appreciating every moment he gets to spend in your presence.

Jay’s trip to his Parents house isn’t like before anymore as He’s grinning from ear to ear as he listens to your and his mother rant about something but he can’t seem to focus as his eyes stays on and his mother.

It isn’t like before when at dining table all his parents could ever talk about is You making Jay indulge in every conversation as he states what’s your like and dislike.

Jay’s life wouldn't even be called his anymore. you're a storm, invading his life all at once, bringing in your chaos along with you. you've infatuated him, you've assailed his senses and changed his very being. every time Jay’s eyes align with yours, he prays your presence isn't a fleeting one. he silently hopes you don't leave as suddenly as you came, that you plan to stay.

#park jeongseong #jay park #enha imagines #enha fluff #enha x reader #enhypen #enha #jake enhypen #jay enhypen #yang jungwon #lee heeseung #sim jaeyun #sunghoon #kim sunoo #niki #kpop #jay smut #jay smau #kpop smau #enhypen smut #enhypen smau

[buckttommy]

I have an idea for a full-season Eddie arc that I want to put into the universe. tim, feel free to plagiarize me yet again (but this time. i want a dm. i know you're around here somewhere come say hi). So. Anyways. Season 8

8x1: Eddie has broken up with Marisol. By the time this episode rolls around, they've already been broken up for a couple weeks/months. As mentioned in 7x5, he's struggling with the idea of Catholic guilt, struggling with the idea of faith in general. He mentions, in casual conversation, to Buck, Chim or Tommy (who is still with Buck on screen *coughs loudly*) that he's thinking about going down to Texas for a while. His grandmother is the most religious person he knows and he's always found comfort being in her space and soaking in her presence, so he wants to talk to her about his feelings. Whoever he's talking to agrees that's a good idea.

8x2 - 8x7: A couple episodes pass with the idea of Eddie taking some time off in the background of the audience's mind. Nothing major, just little throw away lines about getting the truck tuned up before he makes a big road trip, paying bills before he leaves, things like that.

8x8: The 118 responds to a call of a fire in a church. Two people are getting married and their families are in attendance. Eddie doesn't go inside the church but he fights the fire from outside and helps treat the injured. Almost everyone is pulled out safely but the mother of the bride. Her daughter is crying because she and her mother aren't on good terms and she doesn't want it to be too late for them to patch things up. Eddie and the bride get to talking, and the bride mentions she always felt like she wasn't enough for mom, that she found it impossible to live up to her standards. They had an argument before the fire broke out because the bride realized, on-screen, that she didn't actually want to marry the man she was going to marry because she was in love with someone else (that's what started the fire, her making that announcement caused someone to pass out, and blah blah blah). But she was only marrying this man because her mom thought he would be good for her, and the brides makes a comment about always feeling like she was living her life for someone else, in service of a standard she could never reach. Eddie, of course, can relate. The bride's mother passes away and, it's a tragedy and is treated as such, but at the end of the episode during the voiceover (*coughs louder*), we see the bride reuniting with the person she's actually in love with because her mother's death means she's free from having to try to, like, be perfect.

8x10: Eddie's been getting a call from his dad all throughout the episode but he's been ignoring it because [shenanigans]. This is a light-hearted episode and the tone will be important because when he finally answers the phone during the last five minutes of the episode, he's like "Dad, come on, jesus, what is it" and his dad tells him that his grandmother has passed away.

8x11: Midseason premiere, the episode begins with Isabel's funeral, mainly because I want to see Eddie/Ryan in a nice tailored black suit (timothy, i'm sure you can relate). Anyway, the funeral is outside because it's important Eddie doesn't go inside a church yet. When it's finished, he goes back to the reception at Isabel's house. His sisters are there, everyone is there. He offers to help his mother in the kitchen and she tries to make conversation, but Helena Diaz has never actually learned how to relate to her son, so she says the wrong thing. It doesn't go well (but that's something to be circled back to in another season). Eddie looks at the pictures on his grandma's wall / mantle / whatever and sees himself and his sisters and his cousins when they were kids, smiling big at church christenings or whatever, and he's like... "I don't recognize this kid who was so happy to be inside of religion. I didn't know who I was then, and I definitely don't know who I am now because of it". He doesn't say it, but that's the vibe ofc, and Ryan's face is expressive enough that he can pull that off.

8x12: He's back in LA. Everyone is treating him with the utmost care because they are good people and they love him, and one evening, Eddie gets a visitor. He opens the door and it's his sister. (one of them lives in LA, remember?). In my head, that's always been Sophia, so he asks what she's doing here, and she holds up a bottle of wine. They sit on the sofa, they talk and reminisce about their grandmother, make apologies for the fact that they haven't been around for each other much despite living in the same city (but this isn't Eddie's family issues storyline, this is the Catholic guilt storyline. We will circle back to this in S9). So Eddie pitches the idea of faith to her, and asks what it means to her. It's the same question he wanted to ask his grandmother. Sophia says she has faith in the universe, faith that things always happen the way they're meant to, and it's a good answer but it doesn't speak to the core of Eddie's problem, which is that he always feels beholden to something he can't name/place.

8x14: Eddie continues to ask the people around him (Buck, Athena, Tommy, Chim) about faith and what it means to them. They all give him different answers. Athena has faith in purpose. Chim has faith in his family. Buck has faith in the inherent good of humanity. Tommy has faith in himself. It's not very helpful in the sense that no one gives him his answer, but it does reveal to him that faith can, does, and should exist absent of guilt, that maybe he's been doing it (or was taught) all wrong.

8x15: Insert an embarrassingly on the nose call about a kind, nerdy, reserved man who's lived by an unspoken rulebook all his life. He came out to Los Angeles on a whim and suffers from a hiking mishap where he's physically blinded by [something] and subsequently needs to trust that the 118, these people he literally cannot see, will save him. When they pull him to safety, he berates himself for even coming out to Los Angeles in the first place because he's not the kind of guy who does this, he just wanted to do something for him and now he feels stupid. And Eddie (because of course it's Eddie) is just like "no, you didn't do anything wrong. Look, you took a leap of faith (episode title btw). That's more than what most people can say. Maybe it didn't work out in this instance, but who knows how it'll work out tomorrow, or the next day. You don't know the future. None of us do, so maybe stop trying to live according to some giant colossal plan and just... live, and try your best. Isn't that all we can do?" And he watches the guy get airlifted away (thanks Tommy! *coughs even louder*) and it's like his lightbulb moment, like, oh. Yeah. He finally gets it.

8x16: Eddie walks into a church for the first time in years, and for the first time all season. It looks exactly how he remembers; wooden pews, high ceilings, the works. He takes a seat on one of the benches and prays / talks aloud to God and is just like, "I don't really know who you are and I don't know how to be what you want me to be. All my life I've been trying to be what everyone wants me to be to the point where I just don't even know who I am anymore, if I ever knew. So I don't know who you are, but I know I am who you made me to be, and I don't know who that is, but I know that person is enough for me right now. And maybe I'll figure you out along the way, maybe I won't. But, right now, what I know is that i can't be your perfect son because I can't be perfect at all, and I need to let go of the idea that I can and start living my life for me." So he walks out of the church and not much changes, but everything changes. You know?

And, like, obviously the story would need to be flushed out a little more. Obviously, this story centers more of the idea of faith than the idea of explicit guilt, but they're one in the same anyway because you can't have guilt without failed/presumably "failed" expectations. In this case, religious or spiritual expectation. So. I don't know. But there's just something so sexy about the idea of Eddie systematically and intentionally dismantling and releasing himself from all the things that have kept him from growing over the years. Starting with his survivors guilt in S5 and working his way through Catholic guilt in S8, I just love the idea of Eddie being purposeful in his own healing, especially in this post-breakdown era. Plus it'll give him a chance to have a storyline that's not romance-focused cos we've been leaning a bit too heavily into those. 🙃 But anyways. (Next up is his issues with Helena. btw. because we have yet to circle back to his family issues in canon but we certainly need to).

#Sorry Isabel you were the sacrificial lamb #I wrote this instead of working ermmmm okay back to the grind as they say #jack.txt #tv: 911 #jack answers mail #8a speculation #8b speculation #ish #no read more sorry. i talk a lot and you should all be used to it. #tim minear #ok no for real i got work to do lmfaoooo bye #EVERYONE MANIFEST IT WITH ME GIRLS

[wheels-of-despair]

Heaven and Hell (Or: Eddie and Evil Woman Do… Prom?!) Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie and Evil Woman are *checks notes* going to prom? Like normies?! Contains: A high school prom, two nervous freaks, an ill-fitting wardrobe, an unfortunate zit, dancing, references to other E/EW fics nobody will remember, relentless teasing, a happy ending. Words: 4.5k

"Prom's next month."

You stop playing with Eddie's hair and look down at the head lying in your lap in surprise.

He keeps his eyes on the TV. A blush creeps into his cheeks. Is Eddie Munson seriously thinking about going to prom? You fight a smile and start working your fingers through his hair again.

"Yup… that's what they said on the morning announcements."

Silence. No way he's that interested in the orange juice commercial you've seen ten times today. Eddie Munson is thinking about prom, and he's in the process of chickening out.

"You ever been?" you ask.

"Nah," he says, eyes still on the TV. "You?"

"Nah."

He bites his lip. You can't take it anymore.

"You thinkin' about going?"

He shrugs.

If you were a more patient person, you could poke and prod at him until he finally asked you. However…

"Well, if you were planning on asking me, you're too late."

He finally looks up at you, confusion on his face.

"I've rekindled my romance with Chief Hopper."

A smile spreads across Eddie's face.

"I'm sorry, Eddie," you sigh. "What we had was fun, but you just don't have the stamina. Sometimes a girl just NEEDS full night of porking."

You both snort at the same time, which leads to a fit of giggles.

When you recover, you brush his bangs out of his face. He sighs.

"So, uh…" He licks his lips while he tries to find his words. "If the bacon falls through, would you maybe think about going with me?"

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off. "Because it's kinda my last chance, and I know it's stupid, and it goes against everything I stand for, and it'll probably be miserable, and the music's gonna suck, and you probably have a way better idea of what we could do that night, but… ugh, never mind."

Eddie turns back toward the TV, shaking his head so some of his hair hides his burning face. You gently brush it back behind his ear, looking down at him with all the love in your heart.

"Eddie?"

"Hm."

"You're the only person I'd think about going to prom with."

"Really?" He looks up at you with an uneasy smile.

"Yeah," you answer, tracing the shell of his ear.

"We don't have to."

"I know," you smile. "I want to go with you." He smiles back sleepily. "But if I get Carrie'd, I can't promise I'll spare you."

"Kay," he chuckles.

"Mother?" you ask, hovering in the living room doorway.

"Daughter?" she responds from the couch, without looking up from her book.

You take a deep breath and stare at the floor.

"Ineedapromdress."

"What?"

You sigh and raise your head. "I need a prom dress."

Her book drops to her lap, revealing wide eyes behind her glasses.

"What did you just say to me?"

"I need a prom dress," you repeat with a roll of your eyes.

"Oh my god! I have a child who's voluntarily attending a school function!"

"What's up?" Gareth asks from behind you.

"They're going to the prom!"

You slowly turn and see him looking at you in amusement.

"Shut up," you order before he can even say anything.

"She's even gonna wear a dress!" your mother shrieks.

"Shut up," you repeat, glaring at Gareth's stupid smirky face. "Kay, I'm going to bed, open to shopping suggestions and financial contributions, good night."

You squeeze past him and make a mad dash for your room.

"They're all gonna laugh at you!" Gareth warbles in his best Piper Laurie impression.

"Shut up!" you repeat one last time, then slam your bedroom door.

"He's heeeere," Gareth announces as he passes by your bedroom door.

"You look perfect," your mom assures you.

She's been working on your makeup for fifteen minutes, and it's finally the way she wants it. And you have to admit… you look pretty damn good.

She'd taken you to the city for a day of shopping, and after several hours of hunting, you'd actually found a dress without puffed sleeves, ruffles, or tulle.

"Give me a minute, I want the camera on his face when he sees you," your mom says excitedly.

"Mother, it's a high school prom, it's not our wedding."

"Let me have this!" she whisper-yells. She grabs her camera and leaves the room.

You take one last look at yourself, stand, and slip on your shoes. Heels. You're even wearing fucking heels.

You walk down the hall and turn into the kitchen…

Eddie Munson is wearing a suit.

You'd offered to help him look for one, or find him something in the city, but he said he had it covered. And he did. He's even wearing a tie, and he's tamed his hair somehow. He looks freakishly presentable (for Eddie) and is holding what you imagine is a corsage in a box.

"Hi."

"Hey."

You stand there and stare at each other. Awkward. It's awkward.

"Eddie! Give her the corsage!" Your mom stage-whispers.

He tries to hold it out to you, but fumbles it and drops it on the floor. You both reach down to get it, and you hear a RIIIP tear through the kitchen. You both stand immediately, looking and feeling your outfits.

"Was that you or me?" you ask, trying to feel the back of your dress. You knew this fucker was too tight. But your question is answered when all the blood drains out of Eddie's panicked face.

"Let me see, honey," your mom says gently, putting a hand on his shoulder to turn him. The seam in the back of his jacket has ripped.

"Dude! You Hulked out on prom night," Gareth laughs from his seat at the kitchen table.

You give him a warning shush, and for once, he obeys.

"Slip that off, I'll have it as good as new in no time." Your mom helps Eddie out of his jacket and takes it in the direction of her sewing machine. You carefully retrieve the corsage from the floor and put it on the table.

"Uh… that's for you," he mumbles, the color returning to his face.

"Thank you," you smile, leaving the box closed until your mother can return and witness this sacred and not-at-all stupid prom ritual.

You turn to Eddie and lift a hand to run through his suspiciously tame hair.

"Don't look at it," Eddie mumbles.

"Don't look at what?" you ask.

"His third eye," Gareth supplies helpfully. That's when you notice the zit between his eyes. Eddie's face reddens so much that it almost blends in. Gareth snickers. You pick up a damp kitchen towel, ball it up, and throw it at him. It hits him in the ear.

"Don't you have some place to be?" you ask pointedly.

"Nope," he grins, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Mom's taking me to Jeff's after you leave."

You roll your eyes, reach for Eddie's hand, and pull him to your bedroom.

"Sit," you instruct, pointing at your desk. He drops into the chair with a defeated sigh. You start digging through your extremely elegant shoebox full of makeup, then realize what you need. "I'll be right back," you whisper with a kiss to the top of his head.

You return with a cotton ball.

"What's that?"

"Wite-Out. My make-up's too dark for you," you joke.

Eddie's brow furrows, and you apply a dab of peroxide to his unfortunate growth. When it dries, you reach for the concealer.

"What are you doing?" he asks nervously.

"Covering that up."

He sits silently and watches you reach for this and that to cover his bump, and when you stand back and smile, he frowns.

"What's wrong?" you ask. "I can wipe it off if you want, I thought you wanted it gone."

"I feel like a clown," he grumbles.

"You are a clown."

He pouts. You point at the mirror, and he leans over to see his camouflage… and his jaw drops. You lean down until your head is next to his, so you can see what he sees.

"Witchcraft," he whispers.

"You know it, babe," you wink.

"One freshly tailored suit jacket for the young lad," your mom announces as she steps into the room. Eddie stands, and she helps him into it. She brushes her hand along the seam. "Good as new!" she declares. "But no break-dancing tonight." Eddie laughs.

After the official corsage and boutonniere exchange in the kitchen, you're marched into the living room for pictures. Each pose is goofier than the last, but you aren't allowed to leave until your mom finishes off a roll of film.

You both breathe a sigh of relief when the van doors slam shut.

"You still wanna do this, or do you wanna go get blazed and hide out at my place?" Eddie asks, probably about 40% joking.

"What time is it?" you ask. Eddie consults his watch and reads the time back to you. You pretend to consider it for a second, then shake your head. "Chief Hopper is expecting me in 15 minutes, and my little piggy does not like to be kept waiting."

Eddie snorts and starts the engine. Hawkins High Prom 1986 it is.

"Where'd you get your suit?" you ask a few minutes into the surprisingly awkward drive.

"George. The thrift shop guy. Told him I needed something prom-worthy. This was his grandson's. 'He's a lanky thing, just like you,' he said."

"It's nice," you admire.

"It's a little small, but… y'know." Eddie shrugs. "Price was right."

"Is it uncomfortable?"

"It's… a little tight," he admits.

"Baby, you don't have to wear stuff if it makes you uncomfortable."

"It's fine… as long as I don't have to move my arms much."

"Is it the shirt too, or just the jacket?"

"Mostly the jacket, the shirt's got some stretch to it."

"Ditch it."

"Ticket says jacket and tie required."

"Ditch it as soon as they let us in."

"This is why you're the brains of this operation," he mumbles as he pulls into a parking spot.

"Correct," you grin.

"Stay," Eddie orders, hopping down and scrambling around the front of the van to open your door. You're suddenly reminded of your first official date; he'd tried so hard to be someone else, but you didn't want someone else. You wanted Eddie Munson, and you wanted him just the way he was. You take his hand and slide to the ground, wincing as your heels hit the pavement.

"Is your battle armor in here?" you ask, nodding toward the back.

"Of course."

"Fetch."

Eddie smirks and walks toward the back, and you shut your door and follow him. He grabs his leather jacket and patch-filled vest, and hugs the pair to his chest.

You reach for them, and he hands them over. You separate the pair while he watches nervously, like you're separating conjoined twins that he personally gave birth to.

"Lose the child-sized suit jacket," you instruct. He tries, but gets stuck almost immediately. You muffle a laugh and step behind him to help him out of it, then slide his plain leather jacket on.

He looks more comfortable already. And considerably more Eddie-like. You go to transfer his boutonniere to his jacket pocket… but he doesn't have one. A bit of quick thinking and one rip later, his dumb little flower is attached with a strip of duct tape. You step back to admire him.

"There he is," you smile.

"Now he's gotta find his girl," Eddie says, "and then they can go do this damn prom thing."

You look down at your outfit and back at him, but he's already digging… through your overnight bag?

"Eddie, what--"

He cuts you off by slapping the soles of your favorite sneakers on the floor of his van.

"You've been wincing with every damn step since you walked into the kitchen. Lose the shoes."

You grin and sit down to swap your heels for sneakers. Sneakers that Eddie vandalized during a particularly boring assembly. It was one of the reasons why they were your favorites; the boy's a ballpoint artist. The other was--oh, that's nice. You stand comfortably and breathe a sigh of relief.

"You want a little liquid courage?" Eddie asks, shaking a bottle of liquor at you.

"Sure," you answer. You each take a swig in hopes of making your night a little more bearable. Eddie stashes the bottle in the van and slams the back doors shut.

"M'lady," he says, offering an arm. You take it, and walk toward the Hawkins High gym doors. Any time now, alcohol.

A cheerleader-in-training eyes you warily, but takes your tickets and lets you pass by her table into the gym… decked out in streamers and balloons. Wicked classy, Hawkins High.

"And you say I never take you anywhere nice," Eddie grins.

"I have literally, not once, ever said that."

Eddie laughs and takes your hand.

"Munson?!" a voice shrieks.

"Yeah?" he asks uneasily, turning to see Mrs. O'Donnell.

"What are you doing here?"

You look at each other, and back at her.

"Whatever people usually do at prom, I guess?"

"I'll have no shenanigans from you tonight, Munson."

"Wouldn't dream of it, O'Donnell."

"Don't even think about going near that punch bowl," she warns.

"Why, what's in the punch bowl?" he asks. You try to keep a straight face.

"Just punch, and that's the way it's going to stay. Isn't that right, Mr. Munson?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says innocently.

Mrs. O'Donnell looks you both up and down, sucks her teeth in disapproval, and walks away without another word.

"Like I'd waste good liquor on these ungrateful assholes," he mumbles. "Do have an emergency flask in my pocket, by the way."

"Aww, and I thought you were just happy to see me."

"That's in the other pocket," he winks.

"C'mon," you laugh, pulling him to the other side of the gym. Once you're in a quiet spot, you scan the room for familiar faces. You knew you were pretty much on your own - all of the other Hellfire boys were having a movie marathon and sleepover at Jeff's - but you thought you'd look for potential allies anyway.

"There's Nancy Wheeler," you notice.

"And the Elder Byers," Eddie points out.

"I think we're on our own, babe."

"Just how I like it," he grins.

"You gonna dance with me, or just stand here lookin' pretty all night?" you ask.

Eddie responds by flipping his hair over his shoulder dramatically.

"C'mon," you smile, nodding toward the dance floor. He balks.

"This song sucks."

"Every song's gonna suck," you remind him.

"This one sucks more than average."

"Then how 'bout we visit the snack table and lay a curse on the punch while we wait for something that sucks slightly less?"

"This way, m'lady," he says nerdily, holding out his arm. You roll your eyes and take it anyway, working together to assemble a plate full of cheap snacks and two cups of unspiked punch. You retreat to the bleachers and pick at your bounty.

"So… this is a high school dance," he remarks.

"Yup… imagine, some people's entire high school careers revolve around this thing."

"I'd kinda rather be at home," he confesses.

"In our pajamas," you add.

"Watching shitty movies," he continues.

"Eating shittier pizza."

"Maybe fooling around a little?" He waggles his eyebrows and tilts his head toward the door.

"We went through a lot of trouble to get here, Edward. I went shopping. With my mother. You put on a suit. And a tie. And grew a stress zit."

"Shut up," he grumbles, hand instinctively touching the bump between his eyes. You lean in to kiss his cheek.

"Let's give it an hour. You've gotta dance with me at least once."

"Fine," he pouts. You feed him crackers, and he starts to relax a little.

When the opening chords of "Footloose" blare through the speakers, Eddie cringes. The people on the dance floor go wild.

"C'mon," you order, standing up and reaching for his hand.

"No."

"Yes."

"Absolutely not."

"Eddie Munson, you get your spastic ass on this dance floor with your dumb-ass classmates right now."

He whines, and looks… nervous? You sit back down, face full of concern. He scans the crowd, and you look too. Eyes keep darting to you. Not outright staring. Just keeping an eye on you. Like your whereabouts are a matter of public safety. You've been so focused on Eddie, you haven't bothered to pay attention to everyone else.

"It's just…" he starts, and then stops.

"Eddie?" you ask quietly, turning your head back to him. "This is our prom, too." You slide a little closer to him and hold his hand. "And I'm glad I'm here with you."

Eddie leans his forehead against yours and squeezes your hand.

"You think they're upset that we had the nerve to show up?" you smirk.

"Probably ruined their whole night," he grins. "Dear Diary, the freaks crashed prom."

"And ate all the fucking snacks," you laugh.

A flash makes you both jump.

"Sorry," Jonathan Byers smiles apologetically from behind his camera. "You guys were being cute, and Nancy demanded a photo for the yearbook."

"It's cool, man," Eddie grins. "Can we get a copy of that?"

"Sure," Jonathan nods. "They hired a professional photographer for portraits, by the way. Over in the corner. It's included in the ticket price."

"Cool," Eddie says.

"Anddd Nancy's waving me back," Jonathan groans. "You guys have fun tonight. At least some of the freaks should."

You and Eddie both chuckle as Jonathan goes back to Nancy for his next assignment, hearts in his eyes completely undermining his complaints.

"Well…" Eddie puffs his cheeks and blows out a breath of air. He's experienced all that prom has to offer, and is clearly not impressed.

"One picture, one dance, and we're the fuck outta here," you propose.

"Deal," he agrees.

You walk, hand-in-hand, over to the photographer's corner and get in line behind three other couples. Well, two. Kimmy Little sees you standing in line behind her, and drags her date off in the other direction. You and Eddie share a knowing look, but say nothing.

When the time comes, the photographer instructs you to assume the traditional prom photo position, and you do. You let Eddie hold you around the waist and smile like a total fucking jackass for several seconds while you wait for the flash. You and Eddie stumble away with spotty vision and hands tightly clasped. He's your lifeline, and you're not letting him go.

When your vision returns, you look from the bleachers to the exit. Is it really worth walking all the way back over there to sit and be bored, when you could just leave and have this lame night be over with?

Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" starts playing through the gym's shitty speakers, and you smile. You're a sucker for this one. Eddie looks at you with dread. He knows what's coming.

Silently, you slip backward into the crowd and pull him with you. He doesn't protest this time. He follows, eyes not leaving yours. The crowd must have parted for you. Perhaps there are advantages to loving the resident freak. You stand close and put his hands where they belong, and then yours. You stare into Eddie Munson's eyes and sway slowly to a song he tolerates, only for you.

You're glad you came. You're glad you're with him. You're glad this is the song you got to dance to. You're glad he made you swap your heels for sneakers.

But mostly, you're glad when the song is over, because you come together for a quick kiss and make a mad dash toward the exit.

"You son of a bitch," Eddie growls, trying to force his suit onto a hanger.

"Leave it, gremlin, I'll do it."

"Thank you," Eddie grins, throwing his suit on the bed and kissing your freshly scrubbed cheek. You'd washed off all your makeup and hair products together, had a little fun in the shower, put on pajamas, and smoked a joint to wind down. You were thrilled to look and feel like yourselves again. "I'm gonna go pop a pizza in the oven. Put something good on, I need to cleanse my poor ears of the top 40 garbage they were subjected to tonight."

"Yes, dear," you deadpan, hanging up your dress as he exits the room.

"Music!" he whines from the hallway.

"FINE!" you yell back. You pop in the first mix tape you find and turn up the volume. You force Eddie's suit on a hanger, put the formal-wear in the hall closet, and join him in the kitchen.

He's sitting on the counter, watching the clock and drinking directly out of a nearly empty two-liter pop bottle.

"You really know how to treat a girl," you smirk.

He burps in response.

You feel like you should roll your eyes or pretend to be annoyed, but you're so in love with this fucker, you find every dumb thing he does to be charming. You lean on the counter next to him, and he hands you the bottle. You take a swig, then pretend it's a microphone.

"I'm here with Eddie Munson of Corroded Coffin, who has just been to his first and last school dance! Tell us, Eddie, how was the Hawkins High prom?" you ask, placing the open bottle by his mouth.

"Sucked dick, thanks for asking!"

"It did not suck dick!" you protest, slamming the bottle on the counter with a slosh.

"It sucked some pretty major dick," he argues.

"You got to spend time with the woman you love! In a formal setting! She wore a damn dress for you!"

"I like her better in pajamas."

"Only because I'm not wearing a bra," you scoff.

"Well… I mean, yeah," he says, hopping off the counter and taking your hands in his. "Don't get me wrong, the dress was great. Have deposited the cleavage situation in the spank bank, so thanks for that. But this is just… better. 'Cause this is us."

When you're right, you're right.

The opening chords of Black Sabbath's "Heaven and Hell" play through Eddie's bedroom speakers, and a wave of appreciation for where you are and who you're with washes over you.

"No bowtie-wearing jocks or frilly little bitches staring at us," you smile, sliding your hands to his shoulders and pulling him close.

"No restrictive clothing," he smirks, letting his eyes linger on your chest as he settles his hands on your waist.

"Eyes are up here, Munson," you remind him as you begin to sway subtly.

He looks up and grins. "Those are pretty okay, too, I guess."

You smack him in the chest, and he laughs.. and then his face falls.

"You tricked me," he accuses.

"How did I trick you?"

"This is our second dance!"

"Yes, but its to our music, so it's counteracting the pop-adjacent one at the actual dance."

"Ugh, fine," he pretends to cave with a roll of his eyes.

You keep dancing until the song starts to pick up, and Eddie looks at you with his eyes full of mischief. He starts moving just a little faster from side to side, swaying with the music as it builds. Before you know it, those spastic moves you tried to coax out of him at prom were coming out in his kitchen. You would have been perfectly satisfied to just watch him dance like a dweeb, but he grabs both of your hands and forces you to join him. You do so happily.

You dance, you spin, and you laugh together in the Munson's kitchen to a mixtape of Eddie's own making. It's the most fun you've had in weeks. Why did you spend so long stressing over prom? Prom was nothing. Prom was a bunch of rich kids in tacky, overpriced clothes that you'd be laughing at in twenty years. This is real. This is what you should be living for.

When the song begins to wind down, you and Eddie are nearly out of breath from all the head-banging and jumping around. The slow dancing resumes without complaint.

"I think this is the Heaven part," you observe.

"Huh?"

"Heaven and Hell," you say, looking up into his beautiful red face. His bangs are stuck to his sweaty forehead. His zit has lessened in intensity after a post-shower application of peroxide. His eyes are big and round and curious. This boy is perfect, and he's all yours. "Prom was Hell. Other people are Hell. This, right here? Me and you? This is the Heaven part."

Eddie's eyes crinkle as he smiles. He pulls you in close and crushes you in a hug. You squeeze him back and breathe in the calming, familiar scent of him. You love this boy more than anything.

"I love you," you mumble into his shoulder.

"I love you too," he responds. "Even if you did make me go to prom."

"This was your idea, fool," you laugh, giving him a backwards shove.

"Not how I remember it," he grins. He laces his fingers and holds them under his chin, bats his eyelashes, and continues in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like you: "'Oh Eddie my love, please, won't you take me to prom? It would be the highlight of my life!' Pretty sure you begged. Groveled, even."

"You are insufferable," you laugh, pushing him away from you.

"You're the one who made me go to prom!"

"You know, Munson, according to the pamphlets that everyone's been throwing at me all week, most teenagers have sex on prom night. But I think you're gonna have to get your ass kicked instead. C'mere."

"No!" he yelps, backing into a corner. "Please! I have children!"

"We don't have to share our pizza with them, do we?" you laugh, too lazy to engage in a play-fight with him.

"Pfft. No." He relaxes. "I wouldn't even share with you if I didn't have to."

Your jaw drops.

"I'm kidding!" he insists, coming forward to envelop you in a hug. You go rigid and refuse to hug him back. "I'm kidding. You know I'd save my last Fudge Round for you."

"Oh, really?" you smile, looking up at him.

"Eh… Nutty Buddy, maybe?" He screws up his face in concentration. "Nah. Oatmeal Creme Pie?"

"You are unbelievable," you scoff with a shake of your head.

"You love me anyway."

"Yeah, I guess," you sigh in defeat. "But please don't tell Chief Hopper. It would break his heart."

"Oh my God," Eddie groans, pushing you away and rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

You cackle, and the oven timer dings.

This is definitely Heaven, but you've still gotta give him a little Hell.

#writings of despair #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x evil woman

[billwidoll]

Poison Girl

It was Friday night, and all the teenagers on the Island were at Sn's party, the party was packed, there were kooks and Pogues, Sn didn't care about the richer or poorer thing, you just wanted to be happy.

And there You was talking and greeting everyone at the party, You were known as the poison girl, and the person who gave you that nickname was Rafe Cameron, your close friend.

Everyone called you that, because you were very clever, naughty and spicy. And also very hot, and even though you were Uma Pougue, all the kooks praised you.

You're strolling through your party, until you see Rafe Cameron grabbing a generic blonde.

You and Rafe had a very spicy relationship, and everyone also knows that you are Rafe's favorite crush. You are on their way

"Do I get in the way?" You speak in a sinic voice and when Rafe sees you he immediately breaks into a huge smile.

"you will never disturb my love" Rafe says, jumping the girl who was on his lap.

You give a little smile, already knowing that Rafe He already wants you by his side, Rafe speaks softly into the blonde's ear and without further ado she walks away with a frown on her face.

"Did you dismiss her?" You ask, already knowing the answer, Rafe pulls his neck and brings you closer to him.

"don't act like a fool poison girl" Rafe says, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and guiding you somewhere.

"may I know where we're going Cameron?" You ask sarcastically, you knew Rafe was taking you somewhere private.

Rafe doesn't answer anything and continues walking with you, until you stop at his truck, which was far from your party.

"Have you ever had sex in the car?" Rafe asks you innocently and you laugh.

"I don't think so, until now" you say and Rafe likes it when you're like that, an admitted bitch. And you were his favorite bitch.

Rafe opens the car doors and you get in.

“I brought us a little something” you say, taking out a little white powder that was in your pocket.

Rafe smiles hugely. "I think I love you" Rafe tells you and you both laugh.

You both sniff the powder, and completely stoned, you two start kissing and caressing each other.

Rafe gives your neck several hickeys, and you moan softly, until he goes to your lips again.

"I love those lips of yours so much" Rafe says in a hoarse voice and you let out a light laugh.

You take off your blouse and Rafe helps you, and you release your breasts and Rafe, without thinking twice, he cups one and massages the other with his hand.

One thing you and Rafe liked was that you two didn't care about committing, you both just wanted to have sex. but Rafe had a different look at you lately.

You and Rafe Two make spicy love for 1 hour. You end up sleeping in the car with Rafe.

You wake up and see on your cell phone that it was already 10 am, you turn around and don't see Rafe by your side.

You see someone opening the car door and it was Rafe, with coffees and French bread.

"Poison girl finally woke up" Rafe says, closing the car door and kissing her on the lips.

You think you must be dreaming, when did Rafe start being so nice to you?

"Well... I think I have a really bad hangover" you say with your hands on your head, but then drinking the coffee that Rafe gave you.

"go home and then come to my house, I have the perfect ingredient for your hangover" Rafe says with a smile on his face and you pat him laughing too.

Rafe takes you home, in his car, and the two of you talk and tease each other on the way.

Rafe stops by your house and looks at you.

"It will always be a great pleasure to see you..." Rafe says, running his hands over your face and you smile.

"and... it will always be a pleasure to see your dick too" you say Giving Rafe a kiss on the lips.

"I'm going to give you my ring, so you never forget me" Rafe says, taking off his gold ring and giving it to you, you jump into Rafe's arms happily.

You got out of the car saying goodbye to Rafe, and he saw you heading to your house.

"little do you know you're going to be my wife" Rafe says to himself and smiling.

#dark rafe cameron #drew starkey #drew starkey smut #margot robbie #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron drabble #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe cameron headcanons #rafe cameron imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron outer banks #rafecore #rafe obx #obx rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron moodboard #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron oneshot #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron thoughts #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe fic #rafe imagine #rafe smut #rafe x reader

[nephilimbrute]

ah when I opened the ask button tumblr crashed and then my device turned off and then it did it again it seems like the universe doesnt want me to ask you anything

but im going against the rules so what is your colouring process and how do you handle not having perfect lineart, do you colour manually and if so is it with lasso tool or a brush?

i love having imperfect lineart, sketchy look is sooo nice for me:3 helps me think of ways to use lines to show emotion or form. i'll never do actual lineart again not in like a million years so it won't really matter. i always use ONE brush size when drawing everything

my coloring process usually goes skin/blush/eyes/mouth -> hair/tentacles -> clothing. it really depends on what comes first, for example a tucked-in shirt would mean coloring the shirt first, then the pants. if the character has long hair that drapes over clothing, you color the clothes first then the hair

i do color manually with a brush! but when i need to get something done quick i close the gaps and fill it with the paint bucket tool, or i use the lasso tool to block in shapes and finish the rest with a brush. but coloring manually is just more fun for me

^^ this is the brush i use for coloring if you were curious

#inbox q #tips

[comradekatara]

Hello, how would you rank the gaang+fire ladies in a best sense of style to worst of sense of style?

oooh fun! wait, is this modern au or not?? just in case, i’ll do both…

toph is the worst, obviously. she has no sense of style whatsoever. she does have her little pom pom opera headband, which is very cute, and honestly her fire nation fit is the cutest one (sorry katara), but i don’t think she actually gives a shit about any of that, she just happens to slay regardless because she can’t not slay. in modern au she mostly wears large shirts and sweatpants and flip flops, and yet somehow she still looks remarkably good “dressed like a slob” (katara’s words) because she is simply beautiful enough to pull it off.

i don’t think zuko has a bad sense of style, i actually think a lot of his outfits are genuinely cute (i esp love his one tank top in book 1 that’s such a look imo), but like toph, he also isn’t really putting effort in, so it’s not so much a “sense of style” as it is in his nature to serve cunt. in modern au he actively tries to spice up his wardrobe (with katara’s help), but then he never actually wears any of the stuff they bought together because he needs his emotional support favorite cardigan and/or black turtleneck. he can pull it off because he looks cute and cozy, but no is mistaking him for an expert in fashion any time soon.

i always wonder how aang found those monk’s robes in book 3, whether he made them himself, and if so, with which fabrics. so in that sense, he’s actually a diy style icon. but in modern au, he literally dresses like roman roy in the finale, walmart boys’ color block t shirt, so i’m docking points even though, again, he does look adorable and it is a Look in its own right. the light up heelys also add or dock points depending on who you ask.

from book 2 onward, sokka has a nice, simple outfit that is a good cut and a good color without being remotely flashy or complicated, and he accessorizes with weapons, which are both practical and spice up his outfit. “like toph, he also doesn’t give a shit about his looks, it’s just a coincidence that he looks good,” one could argue. but i think he knew what he was doing with that sleeveless top. and besides, he was excited by the fact that his bag matched his belt. in modern au, sokka doesn’t give a shit about style until adulthood, because he and katara just focus on their respective domains and thus katara has the monopoly on fashion, but then he starts figuring out his gender and sexuality and the world of fashion opens up for him. that said, his idea of going crazy is like, wearing a couple rings, so he’s still towards the middle bottom of this list.

azula doesn’t really have a sense of personal style, she just wears what she thinks looks best for her circumstances, and since her goal is to intimidate, she happens to slay. but if she was like, a farmer, she would not be bothering with the winged eyeliner and red lipstick and perfect hair, because that is a product of her environment rather than an internally motivated mode of self-expression. so in modern au, she trades shoulder spikes for shoulder pads, and knee high boots for tastefully high heels, but the effect is the same. respect me, fear me, take me seriously in my navy blue blazer.

suki never really gets to pick her own outfits unless you count the fire nation crop top, which is cute but obviously wouldn’t be her first pick in garb. that said, the kyoshi warrior armor obviously goes so hard and she looks great in it, so she’s a style icon just for that. in modern au, she dresses in a way that is deceptively simple but knows that it makes her look really hot to her target demographic (dykes and sokka). she generally just opts for flannel and cargo shorts, but on days where she’s on a mission, she’ll wear a short sleeved loose button up with half the sleeves undone, some necklaces, and no bra. and she’s a hero for that.

mai’s outfit is actually my favorite in the entire show (like, i would wear it), but there’s something kind of cutesy about her hair style that i feel like was probably imposed on her by her mother. like don’t get me wrong, it still looks good on her, but i can’t see her actually caring to maintain something so elaborate without the presence of external pressures. i can picture modern au mai’s sense of style so perfectly, though. soft flared pants, in a silky fabric; turtleneck tank tops; leather jackets: dark peacoats; dyke boots to stomp around in; mostly in various shades of dark red, dark blue, and black. she keeps it simple and classy, and has the freedom to experiment with hair styles more as well. when she’s alone, everyone is envious of her effortlessly chic steez, and yet, when she is with ty lee, everyone’s like “awww it’s cute that ty lee lets that kind of schlubby girl hang around her.”

ty lee puts effort into her appearance for the purposes of attracting specific results. she knows she’s beautiful, of course, but she also wants to be beautiful in a cute way, harmless and inviting. pink is less threatening than red, showing skin makes her seem vulnerable and desirable, her braid is simultaneously perfect and kind of messy. in modern au, ty lee would similarly be attuned to the cultivation of her aesthetic for a similar purpose. she wouldn’t just wear whatever she felt like, but rather would have an extremely curated wardrobe of outfits that all adhere to the same theme of making her look impossibly beautiful but in a cute and harmless way. idk man. there’s something wrong with her, i think, but also that thing might just be patriarchy.

katara is the only character who canonically takes an interest in fashion for the sake of fashion (iirc), and so that immediately elevates her in my opinion. she clearly cares a not insignificant amount about her appearance, and takes pride in looking good (as she should, because she’s beautiful). i love the idea that she got her book 2 outfit in the northern water tribe and was so excited about getting a new fit that she literally wore it the entire season even though it was springtime and she was sweating buckets. she’s so excited about dressing up in ba sing se, or when they steal clothes in the fire nation, or when she gets to take kyoshi’s clothing in “avatar day,” or when she goes to the spa with toph, or when she’s telling aunt wu about her skincare routine. it matters to her! and i think that as she gets older, and more resources are available, she gets to expand and experiment with her wardrobe more, and that’s really fun for her. and in modern au, she’d also love fashion of course, and would have a lot of opinions on how to participate in fashion ethically. her wardrobe would be kind of all over the place because it’s mostly thrifted, but she’d put so much effort into curating an outfit every day before she leaves the house, and she can go weeks if not months without repeating an outfit, not because she has an unlimited wardrobe, but because she’s really clever and thoughtful when it comes to what she pairs together on any given day. and she sometimes makes her own clothing, or modifies thrifted pieces, and that somehow looks great on her too. my point is, she wins in a landslide.

#yourlocalamoeba #asks #the gaang and #modern au #ish #to no one’s surprise the katara section is twice as long as everyone else’s

[mychlapci]

cybertronian weight gain means everything to meeeeeeee

i want cybertronians to be malnourish before and during the war and then once it's all over they go back home and finally so many mecha are able to get enough fuel in them.

i love it when weight gain is a sign of health and taking care of one's self. it's literally one of my favourite tropes of all time. literally nothing sexier than a character learning to feed themselves properly and their bodies finally at a good weight where it shows

i think blurr and sunstreaker are the best candidates for this. speedsters were intentionally deprived of fuel before the war because it made them faster and so blurr gets ordered to refuel more because he's at a dangerously unhealthy weight for his frame class.

and sunstreaker always gave up his energon to help his brother out because he could handle not getting as much fuel and sideswipe came first of course! sunstreaker's armour having to be refitted by a medic and he has such shapely thighs and a nice ass and a little bit of pudge around his waistline and tummy.

hmmm swerve would a good cook i just know it. he makes so much food for his beloved racer and always makes sure that he's refuelled on time.

it also helps that rubbing his spike and valve across blurr's new tummy just feels so good.

hmm so many mechs have to get their armour refitted because all that extra energon goes right to the tits. ratchet having rodimus sucking on his boobs just because they don't fit behind his windshield anymore. drift just going around the lost light barechested because primus gave him tits he's gonna show em' off!

magnus and megatron's boobs are big and saggy but so so soft. i bet cyclonus has a nice rack and tailgate likes fondling his big wife's tits at all possible hours of the day and i'm sure cyclonus likes tailgate's little boobs as well.

-burnt ice anon

I firmly believe a lot of cybertronians gain a shit ton of weight after the war because now they're fueling properly and aren't under so much duress. A lot of the speedster frames that were already super underfueled before the war now drink as much energon as they actually should and there suddenly getting fatter...

I do think Blurr has some issues with losing his perfect figure, but he's honestly only become more attractive to everyone around him now that his thighs have some real shape to them and his tummy's hanging out a lil bit. Besides, Swerve worships him all the same <3 and Sunstreaker's absolutely gotta get fatter, and i think he'd quickly realize that having bigger legs and ass looks good on him...

It's a titty renaissance after the war... so many mecha are getting fat in the chest area, pouches growing nice and heavy as they're suddenly filtering out a lot more energon than before. I know Ratchet's were already big, barely suited for his windshield, but now he has to get them milked a few times a day... Cyclonus is so old he's not used to his tits filling out with energon. They get bigger and softer and Tailgate is obsessed with them.

i do think Megatron's tits grow so much because he's also never properly fueled before. He never knew they could get this big. He has a hard time keeping them under his chest plate...

#valveplug #boobdayforever #lactation #weight gain kink #texty

[reidsdimples]

POV: You're Spencer's dom/mistress

Spencer Reid x Reader

18+

Submissive Spencer/ Dominate fem/ begging

"Sit down, Spencer," you demand again. You're pacing back and forth in front of him, his eyes unable to leave you.

You surprised him in his apartment, already dressed in the leather little get up that weakens him. He had a long few days at work, you know that. You know he's tired and stressed. But you also know that's why he needs this, he needs the release that only you can give him. God does it drive you crazy to see him tensing with need, his eyes blown wide, his eyebrows arched in curiously.

His hair is deliciously tousled from a long plane ride and he's shocked you're there. You purposefully ignored him all day just to put him on edge, just to make him squirm, and now you're going to make him beg. He loved to beg for it.

He does as he's told at takes a seat in the wooden chair, his eyes scanning over your exposed legs, ass, and breasts which are being pushed upward by the lingerie. You take the tip of the riding crop and use it to tilt his chin upward so he meets your eyes.

"Were you good while you were away?" You ask him. His brown eyes widen at that and he looks away briefly. "No?" You tilt your head before bringing the riding crop down on his leg, snapping his attention back to you and causing him to jump.

"I- I was good but I needed t..." he trails off when you crouch down in front of him. "Please mistress, I'm sorry," his cheeks are red. He made himself cum without telling you, without your permission.

"Bad boy," you tut. But you love it, you love the thought of him alone in a hotel room stroking his cock and biting down on his whimpers as he makes himself cum. You trace the leather tip of the riding crop down his forearm, across his long fingers, and back up to his neck until goosebumps appear. He's nervous, he doesn't know what you're going to do.

"Please, I- I need you," he whimpers. His perfect mouth forms the word 'please' so prettily, you'll never tire of it. His cock is straining against his pants, his mouth watering.

You bend down in front of him and hover your lips above his, teasingly close. You finally kiss him when his breathing shudders, the need burning him alive. He needs to taste you, to feel you, he desperately needs to come apart at your command.

He mouth melts into yours and it's heady the way his taste goes straight to your head. He reaches up to grab at your waist but you place a hand on his chest and pin him back into the chair. He huffs in frustration.

You palm his cock through his pants suddenly, forcing him to still completely. He tilts his head back when you start rubbing the length of him slowly, your own pussy quivering with need for it. This little game you two play is equally as fulfilling for both of you. You pull his cock free of his pants a step back, he snaps his gaze to you as you take him in- hot and needy and exposed.

"Show me how you made yourself cum, show me just how bad you were, Spencer," you demand and sit on the table in front of him.

He swallows nervously but does as he's told- gripping his cock and pumping it slowly. You spread your legs, your feet on the bench below you, and run your fingers between your pussy lips. His mouth pops open as he takes in the sight of you. You rub circles around your clit through the thong before pushing them to the side to give him a better view.

"Fuck," he groans and picks up his pace. His jaw clenches as he pumps himself harder, faster. You plunge your fingers into yourself, soaking them. He eyes your dripping pussy and licks his lips as he squirms and pumps his hips into his hand.

"Stop," you demand. He does, but not without narrowing his eyes on you. He bites back whatever sassy thing he may have thought to say. "Come here, now."

He doesn't hesitate to close the space between you. He leans on the table, arms on either side of you, eyes digging into you. You love when he becomes more dominate as his need grows. But this is still your game. You shove your wet fingers between his pouty lips and he sucks them in deep, his tongue swirling and lapping up every bit of your arousal with a satisfied moan.

You keep your eyes locked on his and lay back on the table, raising your legs onto his shoulders.

"Fuck me, Spencer," you instruct. His jaw relaxes, his mouth falling open in awe at the sight of you below him.

He grips your hips and pulls you closer to the edge of the table, the thong hurriedly removed. He sinks his cock into you, filling you so completely that you moan as he works his way in.

He grips your ankles, hugging your legs as they're wrapped around his neck and thrusts into you. He finds a quick and violent rhythm, pounding into you as you urge him on.

"Fuck yeah, baby just like that," you nod and grab at his tie so he looks at you. "You're such a good boy," you reassure him which only causes him to fuck you harder.

"I'm your good boy," he breathes out as he arches to find that spot inside of you that causing you to cum.

"My good boy," you roll your head back, taking every inch of him as your orgasm builds. He pulls your legs to wrap around his waist, finding an even better angle and begins rubbing your clit.

"Spencer," you moan as you exploded around him, soaking him in your orgasm. He looks down, eyes wide and in shock. You'd cum for him many times but never squirted. He smiles and continues his thrusts into you, more desperate, more sporadic. "You're close, you can cum for me," you give him permission.

His nails dig into your thighs as he whimpers, the sounds of wet flesh slapping together filling the space. It feels so good, too good. His breathy moans and grunts of appreciation intensify as he grips your tits, squeezing and rolling the nipples between his fingers.

"You're doing so good," you moan.

You feel that send him over the edge, his pulsing cock pulling another orgasm out of you with a scream. You tighten around him as he pumps you full of cum, both grinding out almost pained sounds of pleasure. Too good, it feels too good. He shudders and stills, holding himself up on the edge of the table.

Your eyes meet, both of you panting. But the night is just getting started.

#spencer reid #dr reid #mgg #matthew gray gubler #matthewgraygubler #criminal minds #spencer reid one shot #spicy Spencer reid

[whatthebodygraspsnot]

hey bud 💚 how about 18 "it's so hot when you talk like that" if you're feeling it?

"It's so hot when you talk like that." additional tags: hypothetical pregnancy discussion, hypothetical breeding kink, ian's been reading a lot of ABO on the DL

"Can't believe that motherfucker Allen."

Ian closes their apartment door behind them, sealing them away from yet another neighbor interaction. "Makin' Jill carry all those bags when she's - what, thirty weeks pregnant?" He's nosy - don't worry about it.

"Thirty one," Mickey corrects, because he's even nosier. "What a piece of shit."

"Well...least we were there," says Ian, finally able to worm the handle of their plastic CVS bag back down to his hand now that it's not occupied with another family's groceries. "Think they'll make us godparents?"

At the counter, Mickey grimaces. "Ugh. Don't even fuckin' joke about that."

It gets a laugh from Ian - the striking contrast between Jill's produce bags and their CVS bag of lube, condoms, and beef jerky not lost on him in the slightest.

"Better not pull any of that shit on me."

Ian looks up from their spoils. Tries to imagine a world where he'd pull an Allen on his husband. "Never," he says. "I'm a gentleman after all."

"Uh huh..." He can hear Mickey's grin as it trails off into the refrigerator, his head and shoulders blocked by the open door. "Course, for that you'd haveta put a baby in me first."

And oh, the way Ian's sensors go off in his brain... How a little pop of interest licks up his belly... Well that was a thing to fucking say! "Ha ha..." play it cool... "Yeah..."

It's just a stupid, passing comment. They make it to each other sometimes, comfortable in the silliness of it. But that doesn't mean Ian's brain hasn't taken it and molded it into perfect, sexy little shapes for himself.

"You expect me to carry around your pups like that, I expect your ass to cater to me day 'n night..."

Okay...

Ian takes a slow breath in, his nostrils flaring.

He sets the lube down.

Goes with his gut and approaches Mickey from behind, just as he's closing the refrigerator door. Because if he's gonna keep talking about this shit, then Ian's got no choice but to follow his animal instincts, right?

"Oh," he feels Mickey grin as he swoops in to wrap his arms around him, pulling him close against his chest. "That right, big guy?"

And fuck, Ian's just gonna go for it. Just gonna indulge a little, the fantasy of all those stories he's been sneaking in at night playing out right in front of him on this beautiful Sunday afternoon. "It's so hot when you talk like that..."

He murmurs it into Mickey's ear. Finds comfort in being able to hide his face from him, because he's definitely blushing a deep red when Mickey feeds into it - "What...talkin' 'bout you knockin' me up...?" - because of course he does.

And all Ian can do is hum in affirmation, his hold around his husband tightening as he drags his lips down the side of his warm neck, looking for his pulse point. "Mhm..."

Because that's hot...right? Ian laying Mickey out and pumping a nice big load into him? Getting him pregnant? Taking care of him while Mickey carries his child? Yeah, he knows it's not realistic and yeah, he knows it's a little fucked up, but come on... All those stories are kinda onto something.

In the kitchen's golden afternoon light, Mickey presses his ass back into his lap, teasing at the very obvious bulge in Ian's jeans. "Ya know, stud...we could make a baby right now..."

It's got heat and pleasure spreading through Ian's lap - up through his chest. Holy fuck. "Yeah...?" He fucking loves this man. "Want me to getchya pregnant, baby?"

"Mhm... Want ya to stick this big ol' cock in me and knot me up..."

And Ian is so blindly horny that it almost slips past him. He's so ready to haul Mickey into their bedroom and crack open the new lube but then he-... Wait a minute... He just said-...

Ian grows still behind him, embarrassment waiting in the wings as he carefully asks it. "How do you know that word...?"

"What... Knot...?" He can't see Mickey's face, but god damn he can hear the smirk on his lips. "Same reason I know your phone password..."

And oh... Ohhh boy, should Ian be having a crisis?

No. No, he doesn't think so. Because even with his search history fresh in mind, Mickey's playing along - feeding right into it, with another press of his ass into his lap and then a teasing brow raise as he starts for their bedroom.

"C'mon you alpha freak - come put a baby in me."

Ian stands for a second, at a loss for words in the middle of their kitchen.

But then they kick right in again - his animal instincts - and he's hot on Mickey's tail.

Fuck, he loves this man. He'll carry a thousand fucking grocery bags for him.

[ send me a smutty one-liner ]

#i just think ian would be big into ABO if he sniffed his way into it and no one can change my mind. the signs are there. #gallavich #smutty one-liners #ray writes

[changingplumbob]

Pancakes Household: Chapter 9, Part 3

Battle of the century or kids playing console games...

CW: Unicorn zombie with minor carton gore

Carson: You don’t think this will be too physically taxing do you

Artemisia: Only for losers

Onyx: Don’t worry Carson, there’s no exercise required

Fergus: I dibs the green car

Onyx: Is everyone ready

Artemisia: Oh would you just press start already

Onyx: First round goes to me!

Artemisia: That’s ridiculous, you must have given me the broken controller

Carson: Or you’ve been practicing, I get to pick next track. Strawberry Fields!

Fergus: Oh no I hate that one, I always get stuck in the strawberry jam

Onyx: Just follow along behind me Fergus and you’ll see a clear path okay

Fergus: Thank you Onyx

Artemisia: I always think it’s so funny how well-mannered you are

Carson: I would have thought you’d find that annoying

Artemisia: Nope, it helps us get out of trouble

Onyx: So see here Fergus, if you go between these two flowers there’s the fast launch ramp

Fergus: And no strawberry jam sinkhole!

Artemisia: Hold on, you’re not entitled to win

Fergus: Just try and stop me Emi

Carson: Come on Artemisia, let’s wipe the track with them

Onyx: Team Pancakes!!!

Kayleigh: I like to hear them play, the house is so quiet with just Carson now

Eliza: Bob and I have been thinking of trying for another one after Fergus becomes a teen. Bob would love a daughter

Kayleigh: And how about you

Eliza: Well I’ve never loved being pregnant but a third kid would be nice

Kayleigh: Sweetie I don’t mean to sound indelicate but have you considered adoption

Eliza: Adoption? Is that legal when I can get pregnant?

Kayleigh: It’s the 21st century, just because you can have them doesn’t mean you need to. Not that I can talk, I had four

Eliza: I suppose that way I would avoid the pregnancy impacting on my work

Kayleigh: And if Bob wants a girl you can tell the agency that, but you can’t tell your uterus that

Eliza: *chuckles* Good point, I’ll think about it. Oh, would you excuse me? The markets just opened in Tomarang

Kayleigh: Go ahead, you’ll not beat me at this chess match anyway

Eliza: Thanks for helping me learn more

Kayleigh: No problem, I’ll collect my husband and get out of your hair. Night

Kayleigh: Come on Carson, time to go

Carson: Just let us finish this last race mum

Artemisia: Oh it’s finished and I’m victorious

Fergus: Thanks again for helping me Onyx, I had a lot of fun. See you for my birthday Emi?

Artemisia: Sure thing, Tuesday right

Fergus nods excitedly and the dinner party disperses.

Happy very cloudy Halloween! The Pancakes decide not to have a party since they had one last night and Bob will need to work tonight. After a quick breakfast the household splits up as everyone has their own tasks to do this morning.

Bob of course wants to get his work out in before shift. Fergus is in a patch of hyper focus with his ADHD and decides to play mad scientist in the treehouse. Eliza decides to do a dance workout since she cleaned everything yesterday and finally Onyx is set to walk Ginger again.

Eliza is dancing away when she pulls a muscle in her back.

Eliza: Ouch! Oh, maybe an adoption is a good idea, I will be a 40 soon

Thinking on this she carries on, working on her other muscles. Outside it’s hard for Onyx and Ginger to make out where they’re running but the pair do their best. Ginger isn’t sure why her dad isn’t taking her for these jogs but supposes Onyx is an alright substitute.

Onyx: I’m back home dad, Ginger is all walked

Bob: *grunts with effort* Did you tell your mother

Onyx: No, she’s busy practicing speech and I didn’t want to disturb her

Bob: Smart choice

Onyx begins their cheer routine, they still have some more solo practice to fit in. All is going well until they fall over on their face. They push up looking around but Bob is busy working his legs and hasn’t noticed. To celebrate Onyx pulls off a perfect flip!

Previous ... Next

#sims 4 #the sims #the sims 4 #simblr #my sims #ChangingPlumbobStorytime #R0904 #OnyxPancakes #FergusPancakes #CarsonFoster #ArtemisiaYork #KayleighFoster #ElizaPancakes #BobPancakes

[chainera]

The Perfect Spectacle

Context:

This artwork is based off of my own interpretation of Earth and Mercury during the Venus vs Mars episode. Earth saw the argument between them as an opportunity to try and get Mars’ friendship back by manipulating the two of them into a grand spectacle where he would bestow Mars the honor of being the winner. His plan was to get Mars so ecstatic in his victory that he would sort of ‘forget’ the whole scenario with Titan, and Venus, the loser, would successfully be out of the Earth’s life and everything would go back to normal.

Meanwhile, Mercury is notified of this situation. He can see all the ways that Earth’s scheme will go wrong, but deliberately chooses not to take action out of spite towards the other inner planets. He believed that they never cared about him- Venus bullied him, and Mars and the Earth didn’t bother to help. So therefore, Mercury decided that they didn’t deserve his worry or his help, and stood by the sidelines as everything goes to ruin.

Also idk what happened to my art style but uhh… I like it! A lot :D

#solarballs #art #digital art #solarballs fanart #fanart #character design

[brown-little-robin]

@kayliebooks​

Dear Nightwing, Sincerely, Tim

My design of a Gotham map // it’s funny how fictional characters let us love each other more boldly // an article on goldenrod // White-Eyes, Mary Oliver // Gerard Manley Hopkins, God's Grandeur // Letter 155 from Vincent to Theo Van Gogh // Richard C. Paddock, Sharing the Wilds With Bears // Jonnie Hallman, Laundry in the eleventh hour // T.S. Eliot, Selection from I. The Burial of the Dead // Proverbs 27:17 // The Flash, the speed force, volume and number unknown // Julian Of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love // from the bottom of my heart

#web weaving #this is never going to be perfect so OFF IT GOES #I have been working on it for months and months

[jackgoodfellow]

#lemme know if i missed anything #I probably won't update it but I might #alt-text #image description #not art #see jack talk #Sweeney Todd #the count of monte cristo #les mis #les miserables #jean valjean #edmond dantes #benjamin barker #that last picture of The Count of Monte Cristo is actually Thomas Alexandre Dumas - the fascinating father of the author #who was clearly the inspiration for the character and I'm never going to shut up about the fact that this character is supposed to be Black #and YET IN EVERY MOVIE HE IS WHITE. FUCK OFF #acab #also as far as I can tell so far Les Mis is the most acab book out of all of these. just cuz javert is the most acab character of all time. #javert #he's the perfect cop! and into the seine he goes! psshoooooooo-SPLAT! #i love the character of javert #autistic. gay. furry. irredeemable bastard (unless you count the fan fiction). #acab stands for all cops are bastards. all these characters relate to criticism of an unjust legal system and those complicit in its evil #that said i haven't finished monte cristo yet