last-starry-sky

[last-starry-sky]

on page 13 of 17 now

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I know gno isn't one of my most popular/requested fics, but if anyone wants to be included on the tag list please let me know here!

I'm aiming to post this coming Friday!

The next chapter of Girl's Night Out will come this week! I promise! All I have to do is edit it!!

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kicking myself bc I had a great idea at work but by the time I got to a place (the bathroom lmao) to write it down I FORGOT IT

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editing page 8 of 16 rn 💀

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The next chapter of Girl's Night Out will come this week! I promise! All I have to do is edit it!!

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I'm so good at being sleepy and horny can't believe I can't get paid for that

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the idea of standing in between a man’s legs who’s just been in a fight and is all bruised and battered while tending to his wounds …. all while his hand (a hand that is usually rough and malicious) is gently placed on the back of your thigh, just below your ass …. he’s looking at you as if you’ve hung the moon in the sky ……….. it gets me going

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sorry for thinking fully clothed sex is hot. sorry for thinking that making someone ruin multiple layers of valuable fabric separating them from me because they're so desperate for my touch is attractive. i'm so fucking sorry alright.

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no one wants to force you on your knees and spread them apart with their boot anymore

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lowkey insane AU that i'm too lazy to research and write but like. The American Revolution.

It's 1763. You're a colonial woman, your husband's fighting in the Seven Years' war, and four of the largest men you've ever seen show up on your doorstep to be quartered (this is not technically supposed to happen, but be it far from you to question Lord Loudoun).

Simon, Johnny, Kyle, John('Price', he tells you). Dolled up in scarlet livery and bayonets longer than your body. You spend hours bustling around the kitchen; apple dumplings and scrapple, porridge and cured meats. All of it is eaten without complaint. It endears you, more than a bit, to see them so fixated on the little niceties you can offer.

You try to set them up in a spare room, but it's not long before they commandeer your bed. Switching with each other as the nights go on, a presence at your back, so warm and heavy that you cannot pretend it's your husband's. When it's Johnny, you'll wake up to a heavy hand thrown around your waist, half-wandering under your nightgown. Kyle is always a perfect gentleman, as is Price, and you always awake perfectly sequestered on your end of the bed, but you cannot help but run a hand over your stomach, examine your breasts and try to ascertain if you're imagining the faint bruises.

When it's Simon's turn, you don't have to imagine. You know.

They march to the front, and your home is once again empty. You think of them more than you should—empty house, empty table, empty bed. It feels like you are holding a breath tight in your chest, a pig's bladder with rapidly thinning skin, until the door to your home swings open, and it all releases in an instant.

It's different, now. You sit before the washbasin and scrub at their red overcoats until your hands are cracked and raw, until the water runs scarlet.

A letter comes in the mail. Your husband's dead. You look at it and try to feel grief. Died young, married younger. Tragedy in a blade and a bullet, in the blood under your fingernails, dried upon a claret overcoat.

You do not know whether it's the letter, it's the war, or it's the prospect of leaving, shipped off back to the motherland, little toy soldiers in little toy boxes, that has them bold.

You wake, some nights, to Johnny's mouth upon your neck, to the soothing lilt of accented words you cannot distinguish. Kyle brushes past you with a hand upon your waist that slowly drifts downwards. When you serve Price dinner, he grabs you by the cheek, pulls you down for a kiss that lasts longer than it should. Simon watches you with a gaze that borders on ravenous, and it unsettles you that it does not seem fixated on your breasts, your hips, but instead some red part within you, locked upon the organs pulsing beneath your skin.

The winter is cold. It's only natural to allow them the warmth of your bedroom - their presence on your sheets is limited only by the size of your bed. Some mornings, you spend half-delirious, many pairs of hands wanedring over your body, dipping into the heat between your legs, shoving so far into your mouth that they touch your backmost teeth.

[last-starry-sky]

18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Price who keeps seeing you naked.

It’s not intentional, at least, not at first. The first time was a legitimate nip slip. The door handle caught on the strap of your bikini top, and as soon as you straightened up, both of your titties sprang out right in front of him.

But his face. The way his words turned into gibberish mid-sentence, blinking down at you in pure shock while you did your best to cover yourself with your arms.

He wouldn’t stop glancing at you upon your return later that day, kept finding excuses to be near you, to occupy the same rooms.

To be honest, you didn’t hate the feeling of his attention. It didn’t feel scary or dangerous. It settled over your skin like the hot water from a bath, tingling and coaxing across your nervous system. He’s curious about you, that’s all. Curious about your body, the way it looks, the way it feels.

You encourage him after that. Partly because you like the attention, and partly because you like the feeling of having some kind of power over him.

You start showering with the bathroom door cracked open a couple of inches. Start being in such a hurry while getting dressed, carelessly pulling your shirt over your head halfway through stepping out of your room. Start getting your midnight snack in a sweatshirt and thong, seemingly clueless as you lean against the counter and spoon ice cream into your mouth, watching the TV while he watches you.

And he doesn’t do a damn thing about it.

It’s like this is all he wants, to have a half-naked person around all the time for him to look at. He doesn’t seem inclined to touch, or to change the state of your roommate relationship at all. He just likes to see you.

And you like to be seen.

Your bedroom door gets left open all the time now. You shave your legs in the bathroom sink, wearing only a towel that barely covers your ass. Do your makeup in a tiny satin bra, with your favorite music softly playing in the background.

He’s there for it all, leaning against the doorframe, chatting with you about the neighbors, or giving you advice about work. His eyes run up your thighs, linger on your ass and breasts.

It makes you feel like such a pervert that you find yourself constantly aroused from exposing yourself to him. You can hardly glimpse him in the kitchen anymore without fantasizing about him finally feeling you up. Wrapping his arms around you on some random day, learning the truth about your dirty thoughts, in that sticky wetness his fingers would find between your legs.

But you’re both stubborn, and neither of you makes the first move. You continue to change with the door open, and he continues to openly stare at your body. You feel divine, the way he looks at you. The sizzle of desire in the air leaves no room for self consciousness, and you become more and more comfortable revealing your body to him.

You don’t expect it, the day he actually breaks. You haven’t seen him around in a few weeks, probably a mission that needed wrapping up, and you get extra sloppy. You leave your bedroom door open while lotioning your body from the shower.

With your back to the door, you’re absorbed in the routine task, when suddenly you hear a soft, “Let me do that.”

It’s John. Home out of nowhere, looking a little sleep deprived, but otherwise right as rain. He’s not looking at your nude body, he’s staring straight into your eyes, honest and steady.

“O-oh,” you stammer, covering your breasts with one arm. “It’s just lotion, I got it.”

“Let me do it,” he says, like he’s perfectly practiced the words. “I’m good at it.”

He takes one step into your room, and your heart leaps into your throat.

“It’s really okay.” God, why are you so nervous all of a sudden? This is what you wanted, isn’t it? “I don’t want to make you work, you just got home.”

He extends a hand out to you, palm up. “Give me some. Let me take care of it.”

You have to drop your arm away from your breasts to pick up the lotion bottle, and bravely squeeze a healthy dollop into his waiting hand.

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18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Gaz who has a lights off policy with you.

You never intended it to be that way. It started when the power went out one night in the middle of your TV marathon. Pitch black, sitting there in your respective spots on the couch, you both waited for a few seconds, just in case it was a quick flicker.

And then you got up for a candle, stumbled against his stupid knee, and ended up in his lap.

And then... other things happened.

The power didn’t come back on for an hour, but it was plenty of time to learn a lot of new things about your longtime roommate. The way his lips feel against yours, the texture of his chest hair, the way it felt to have his tongue in your mouth while you straddled him, cumming in quiet little gasps of relief.

By the time the lights all sprang to life again, your clothes were back on, his clothes were back on, and it was strangely like it had never happened. He wouldn't say anything, would barely look at you, so you did the obvious thing and hid in your room for the rest of the night.

And in the morning, it was business as usual. He said hi, you both ate your breakfast, and that was it. Off to work, back home for takeaway, mumbled good nights and separate beds.

It was a one time thing, and that’s okay. That’s simple. You can accept it.

Except, it’s not a one time thing. It starts happening, over and over. He starts it, the bastard. A few weeks after the first time, he waits for you to turn off all the living area lights for bed, and then traps you against the doorframe for soft little smooches that turn into something else in the dark, in his bed.

Always in the dark.

Sometimes it’s you who seeks him out, because he always leaves his door unlocked, and it’s no big deal to walk ten steps over to his room and crawl into bed with him when you’re horny.

Sometimes it’s several times a week, other times nearly a month goes by without hooking up. He seems to be good with it absolutely whenever, but you have your own system to let him know when you want it. If your little Lilo and Stitch night light is on, you want to be left alone. If it’s off, your body is fair game for someone sneaking into your covers for toothpaste tasting kisses and exploring hands.

Always in the dark, though, even after months of it. Never a speck of light allowed.

You try not to think about that, but the doubt tugs at you anyway. What if he hates your body? What if he thinks you're ugly?

But he doesn’t act like you’re ugly. He acts like he can’t get enough of you, happily kissing across your face, palming and feeling you in every which way until you’re convinced he’s memorized the shape of your body in his hands.

Sometimes he nuts so fast, he has to spend the next little bit avoiding his own cum leaking out while he coaxes your orgasm out of you with practiced sucks and licks.

Sometimes he fucks you for what seems like hours, shuddering and panting with the effort it takes not to finish. Holds you tight like that, nuzzles into your neck and makes the most delicious, low sounds of pleasure. Like he's never been happier, like he's exactly where he wants to be.

In the dark. Making out with you. Helping you cum. Your bed, his bed, they both start smelling like both of you, and he doesn't seem to be seeing anyone else. You're surely not.

It's just him. In the dark.

Until one night, he makes a mistake.

He finds you in your bed that night. Strips your panties off, kisses across your thighs just as you're giving him a sleepy hello. Tells you to relax, because you're more tired than he is, and he's in the mood to eat.

Kyle gets you all the way to the edge, teasing and withholding until your legs are quivering and you're wide awake, focused entirely on the need to cum. But he wants you to cum while you're fucking, so he crawls up your body and sinks into you. Anchors himself with a hand on the bed--

On your hair.

"OW!" you squeal, instinctively shoving at this arm to try to stop the pain.

"Shit, sor--"

He must overcompensate in his hurry to fix it, must be so upset about hurting you that he gets sloppy. He somehow knocks your lamp off the bedside table, and suddenly you're blinking in shock at the light flooding your room.

Kyle's right there above you, also stunned. Right there, naked. Inside you. Staring down at your wide eyes so close to his face, not moving because neither of you seem to know what to do when you can see each other.

"Alright?" he whispers.

"Yeah, I... I don't mind seeing you."

"No, I meant your hair."

"Oh!" you reach up and feel the sore spot, verifying that there's no missing clump or something. "Yeah, it's fine."

Kyle's eyes trace over your features, sliding down to your breasts and blinking slowly at them.

"It's okay if you want to turn the light off," you offer, self conscious.

"Can't be bothered at the moment," he returns, settling down on his elbows, nudging his hips a little deeper into you.

You curse, screwing your eyes shut because you don't know what to do, everything is so confusing and you're still so turned on.

And then lips find yours. Lips that took their time with your clit just a few moments ago, lips you've memorized against yours. Your eyes spring open again, just to see his already closed, fluffy lashes nearly touching his cheek as he kisses you with the lights on.

He's beautiful, and you don't mind. You let him fuck you like that, let him watch you cum, watch his own hands molding your body, fingers pushing inside you and bringing you another orgasm, naked and exposed to the light. Exposed to him.

You lay there for a while after he's finished, uncaring about the lamp still lying on the floor, probably cracked in half or something. It's still on. You both keep glancing at each other, eyes coasting over familiar lines of faces and arms.

It's a one time thing, surely. An unfortunate accident that forced you into normal sex. He'll be off to his bed soon, and you'll be trying to stop thinking about this, trying to stop your brain from circling--

"You wanna be my girlfriend?"

[last-starry-sky]

18+ only please and thank you

Roommate Ghost who’s basically a rehomed cat.

You barely saw him at first. He’d come out of his room to do laundry, and you’d occasionally spot the back of him as he’s leaving for work, but otherwise it was like living with a ghost. A large, moody ghost who seemed to think eye contact was an unforgivable breach of privacy.

So you did the obvious thing, and coaxed him out with food. You’re lonely, he seems nice enough, and he’s also just conveniently there. It’s no big deal to make something that smells really wonderful when he’s home, and hope he’ll take the bait.

It takes three whole entire dinners. Two delicious meals without so much as a stir from his room, and you’re just about to give up on the whole scheme, when you’re finally rewarded with a tousled head poking out of his room on the third attempt.

“Want some?” you immediately pipe up, giving him an encouraging smile while you scoop noodles into your bowl. Realizing your mistake, you quickly relocate your gaze back to the food, so as not to scare him off.

Cmon, take the bait. Come on out, kitty. You know you want it.

Silent as ever, your massive roommate indeed emerges to fill his belly.

A soft, “Thanks,” is all you get for your efforts, but it thrills you. You sit there practically vibrating with glee, trying to play as cool as possible while you both eat and purposefully don’t speak to each other. There’s just chewing and silence, and the quiet clatter of spoons and forks, and you love it.

The next day, the contents of your personal grocery list have magically appeared in your refrigerator. The meat you needed, vegetables, your special milk for your cereal. Bemused, you step over to your pantry and verify that, yes, he got the dry stuff too. You weren’t planning to cook anything fancy two days in a row, but hell, if he’s around again tonight, you might as well.

But he’s not around. You don’t see him again for several weeks, never even got a text that he was leaving. You were just starting to make progress, and now it’ll all be erased when he returns. You lost your one window of opportunity for building trust, and it’ll be back to silence, back to emptiness, back to being strangers.

But to your surprise, when he does finally come home, he meows at you.

Not officially. Not in, like, actual cat language, but he drops his bag by the door and responds to your quiet greeting with a heavy sigh, and, "It’s good to be back.”

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face, so you quickly hide it by staring at the TV.

He joins you for dinner the next time you cook. And the next. Groceries pop up like spring flowers, anything you write down, even if it’s snacks he never touches.

He starts hanging out with you while you cook. On the other side of the counter at first, looming like a dark shadow, just listening to your music and offering answers to your small talk.

You keep it light. Keep it friendly and easy, and entice him over occasionally to taste what you’re making. He starts lingering closer, letting the kitchen light touch him, leaning against your side of the counter. The scary side.

And then one day he tells you a joke. Just completely out of the blue, “What do you call an angry carrot?”

“Uhh…” you pause peeling carrots for a second, trying to wrap your head around some scenario where this is a legitimate question, because surely he's not about to tell you an actual joke. “I dunno?”

“A steamed vegetable.”

You return to your carrots with a delighted laugh. He's being friendly, he's making jokes! Best not comment on the progress he's made, because you don’t want to scare him off.

Good luck with that.

He starts following you around like an actual stray cat. You can’t bear to close the door on him, so he’s just always there, hanging out in the doorway, telling you little bits about his day while you brush your teeth for bed. He doesn’t talk a whole lot, prefers to listen to you yap, but he’s shut in his room less and less.

Except for the bad times. Simon goes through phases where he recluses himself again. Sometimes it’s only a few hours, other times it’s days, but he occasionally needs time to himself, and you don’t mind. You still get a thrill every time he appears again, metaphorically meowing at you and rubbing up against your leg.

God, you wish he would. You could use some good leg rubbing, actually.

Is he the rubbing type? He’s never made a pass at you, never touched you at all, and even the times when you’ve hung out together in your room, he always stood politely in the doorway. Always turned his head to the side when you’ve had to open your underwear drawer or spilled sauce on your shirt and had to strip it off. He’s just like that, always aware of your personal space and his, uncomfortable about the two bubbles touching without warning.

When it finally happens, it's you who's surprised.

You've just halted mid-step in the middle of the kitchen, staring down at the corner of the cabinets because you swear you just saw something move.

When all of a sudden, and actual mouse scampers across the floor, doing erratic zig zags like it's too scared to decide where to go, and all you can do is scream because it's coming right for you--

A thick arm clamps around your stomach, and your feet abruptly lose contact with the floor. You've completely lost track of the mouse, you're just frozen in shock from the fact that your whole back is glued to Simon's side, and he doesn't even bother to hold you up with both arms as he swivels around searching for where the mouse went.

"Thanks," you squeak, patting his forearm as a signal to put you down. "You're really strong, holy shit."

He grunts like he doesn't agree. "Doesn't take much to lift somebody."

Your feet touch back down to the linoleum, and you just hope your hot face isn't too evident. "Right, uh huh. Cause I could definitely lift you."

"Probably could."

You eye him skeptically, all the way from his socks, to the always-mussed hair at the top of the mountain. "I don't feel like throwing out my back, but thanks for the offer."

"I wasn't offering."

It's just small talk. Regular jokes, with his usual deadpan delivery, but you swear there was something he meant to say in those words. You try to discern them, gazing up into those brown eyes that don't mind meeting yours anymore.

It's hanging in the air, the thing he meant to say. You don't want to try and guess. It's too risky, and you might hurt yourself if you get it wrong.

"What is it, Simon? What's wrong?"

His eyes stutter for just a second, like he's ripping himself out of a train of thought. "I think you should hide in your room while I find that mouse."

Stupid, cockblocking mouse.

You don't sleep well that night. You keep thinking about your quiet roommate, end up having to jerk off at two in the morning just to get a little bit of relief, and your sleep is fretful even after that.

You ask about the mouse the next day, and he swears he not only caught it, but released it in the woods a mile away. There's absolutely no telling if he's pulling your leg or not, so you just drop it, too absorbed in the questions that were haunting you all night.

"I'm not good at... fucking."

Your head snaps up, staring wide eyed at Simon's troubled expression across the table. "What?"

"I've never been with a woman before. At least, not... like this. Wager I'll make a fool of myself, so I might as well get it out in the open."

"Oh. Um." Your heart is pounding, your mind whirling to comprehend how you got here so suddenly. He looks so scared, holding himself rigidly into place without so much as blinking, and you're taking far too long to answer at this point.

"I'm good at it," you finally tell him, hoping it sounds more comforting and less like a brag. "We can figure it out together, if it's something you want to do."

"Okay."

It takes a little while to get there. Some time to find a natural moment to take his hand in yours, for him to return the gesture by wrapping his arm around your waist and bringing your body over to his. But then his hand finds the back of your neck, and he's definitely not a beginner at kissing.

You've wanted it for so long, imagined it so often, that the press of his body against yours almost feels familiar. The seeking movements of his lips, the soft breaths coasting over your cheek. It's quiet and slow, in the corner of your shared kitchen.

He tucks your body into his, lets you saturate yourself in each second of this moment while you both learn the way the other likes to kiss. You end up in your bed soon after, just for the sake of comfort and lining up your mouths a little more conveniently.

It's easy to lose yourself in the safety of him. Your body feels at home in the muscled softness of his, in the thoughtful, patient movements of his hands exploring under your clothes. It feels like he's belonged to you far sooner than today.

His first time isn't perfect, but he makes up for his inexperience by taking his time. Laughs at your breathless, "a hole is a hole" statement, and insists on exploring with his mouth and fingers first.

Simon makes the prettiest noises when he finds your wetness waiting for him. He seems to enjoy the feeling of it on his fingers, sliding them in and out so carefully, studying the textures inside you. He tastes his own fingers, less like a scientist and more like a little kid who's discovering new flavors in the sandbox.

He makes a sound then, a warm, rumbly one, and then pulls his fingers out of his mouth to lean down and find your clit with his lips.

A hole is a hole, but there's something special about whispering little cues at him in the dark, and the way he efficiently adjusts himself, ever the dedicated soldier. A hole is a hole, but you cum like that, with your roommate's strong hand gripping your hip, and his mouth accomplishing exactly the motion you need to draw a slow, brain-melting orgasm out of you.

"Yeah, just like that," you pant a few moments later, shoving his face away from your oversensitive pussy.

Just like that.

[last-starry-sky]

I think it'd be really cool if someone saw how pathetic and useless I am and decided that I'm their property now and they're gonna take care of me.

Minors and ageless blogs do not interact. This is to keep everyone comfortable and more importantly safe

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trying not to let it set in