#Eye Candy Ficlet

[californiaboytoybilly]

Eye Candy pt 2

My apologies that this took so long. I’ve been having a hectic few weeks. Part three will come faster!

Steve had no idea how to feel the moment his eyes locked on the man who’d spoken.

On one hand, he felt distinctly caught. Something like embarrassment crawled up the back of his neck, hot and twitchy, motivating his feet to take off in a run. Robin would probably kill him if he did, however.

But he was also warm for an entirely different reason.

Because holy fuck, this just might be the single most attractive man he’d ever seen and every single one of his nerves was firing sporadically.

They were about the same height, but that’s where the similarities ended. The man had soft looking blond curls pulled back from the sides of his face with sleek silver clips. A single, perfect ringlet dangled over his forehead artfully.

His eyes- a startling blue even in the dim light- were rimmed with smoked out eyeliner, sparkling with amusement as Steve’s silence stretched on. Golden skin was showcased by a silky ruby toned shirt only half done up, tucked into a leather corset style belt with hand etched designs so intricate Steve would bet it cost more than two months of his rent.

“I… I uh-“ Steve stuttered over his attempt to answer, cheeks flooding red. The pretty man ran his tongue over a pointed canine as he waited.

“We must’ve gotten the wrong address.” Robin interrupted when she realized Steve’s brain was fully broken.

More of those pearly teeth flashed at them with the answer. “Ah, of course.” He didn’t believe them at all, the dimple in his cheek twitching with the effort not to laugh. Robin grabbed Steve by the wrist, yanking him towards her and the door none too subtly.

“Sorry, we’ll be- uh, on our way!” She gave the guy a tight smile, tugging at Steve again. Giving in, the brunette man started to follow her towards the door, only to be stopped by a larger hand clasping around his opposite wrist.

Steve’s eyes shot up and back to lock with an intense blue gaze. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Come in, I promise I don’t bite.”

*Unless you ask nicely*, Steve could’ve sworn he heard exhaled afterwards.

He should’ve said no, apologized and left probably. They didn’t know this guy and this had already been an embarrassing start. But Steve really was a sucker for pretty boys.

“Uh-uhm, yeah. Okay. Why not?” His voice was a little strained and he tried to ignore the stunned look Robin shot him. He was gonna get an earful for this later, that was clear.

“Perfect…” The man smiled more genuinely, letting go of his wrist. Steve tried not to mourn the loss. “You can call me Billy, by the way.”

Billy. Steve rolled the name around in his mouth and decided he liked it. He would’ve expected the fallen angel currently guiding them through the other guests to have a name as elegant as his clothes but for some reason the commonality of it almost stood out more.

It suited him.

“Steve. And that is Robin.” He replied with a tongue that felt too big for his mouth, trying not to drool. The entire back of Billy’s shirt was taken up by a sheer panel that showed each fluid shift of his back muscles as he walked.

Steve wanted to bite them.

He was shaken out of his trance when they arrived to a smaller living room than the one at the front, where only a small handful of guests lingered. Five or six people besides them, max. A guard stood at the entrance, but paid Steve and Robin no mind as they trailed in at Billy’s heels.

He led them to a couch, where only one other person was sitting. A lithe, wisp of a girl in a lilac satin cocktail dress, a silver chain belt draped over her hips and wild brown curls she’d hauled up into a bun. She was almost as captivating as the blond, with pointed, lovely features that reminded him of a little of the elves in Dustin’s movies.

Her eyes brightened as they landed on Billy, then turned sly as she moved to their guests. “Ooh, where’d you find these ones?” She all but purred, getting to her feet with feline grace. Steve didn’t have to feel guilty about his mind’s preoccupation with Billy, though.

Most of her attention seemed locked on Robin, who was currently wide eyed like a deer in traffic.

“They ah… got a little lost. Figured I’d be a good host and let them stay.” Billy sounded amused repeating their bad excuse, which made Steve bite down a little harder on his lip.

“I’m not complaining. Have a seat.” She said, taking a step back and lowering herself onto the black couch once again. “Heather.” She held out a hand towards Robin, who took it expecting a shake.

“Nice to meet you. I’m um- uh…“ Steve almost wanted to laugh at how flustered the girl was, but he was self aware he’d been even worse than her before. He wasn’t going to invite her to call him out.

“Robin?” She finally managed, though it sounded a little like a question. Heather let out a pleasant peal of soft laughter. “You’re an awfully cute one.” She said like a fact, Robin’s freckles officially vanishing as her blush darkened impossibly more.

Oh god, what had they gotten themselves into?

[sailing-through-hawkins]

that scene from bolt (2003? 2005?) where mittens teaches him how to do puppy eyes but it's steve and robin except it became steddie:

"What are you talking about, of course i know how to pout!"

"No, Robin, because you pouting is you trying to shove your lip as far as you can shove your tongue out, which is kinda weirdly far."

"I made a record, I stand by that"

"I do too, it was cool - but the point is you don't make use of the most important factor - your fucking eyes, dingus."

"Okay hotshot, maybe you used to have charm or whatever but this is the real world and -"

"Hello foes, friends and reluctant allies!" Eddie bursts in through the door, thank god there's no moms in the store to gasp like him being alive is a scandal. Robin doesn't know how much more "he's not to be trusted, you know" she can take this week. "What say you on this glorious day of sunny tides and cloudless skies?"

"How do you have so much energy," Robin groans because it's been two hours of being at work and that's five hours too many. "And why are you shoving it in our faces."

"Fear not, good lady Buckley," Eddie dumps a very noisy bag onto the counter and bows in his classic-Eddie-way. God, why does Steve like this guy, what is his thing with nerds? "I have brought rewards and sweets abound for your tortorous job sentencing."

"Oh my god," Steve slaps her arm and immediately goes rummaging through the bag like the rude little man he is. "Fuck yes!"

"Ahem," Eddie coughs pointedly, freezing Steve in his tracks. He raises an eyebrow as Steve slowly his hand out of the bag without breaking eye contact. "You're welcome?"

"Thank you, Eddie," Robin rolls her eyes and immediately shoves Steve aside - "Hey!" - to zero in on finding a pushpop, which she does, because she's a genius. "Aha, got it!"

"No fair!" Steve whines, shoving at her weakly after she "I wanted that one."

"There's another in the bag," Robin shoves back because tit for tat, fucker. Doesn't matter who started it unless Steve started it.

"Sorry, Steve-O," Eddie snatches the bag off the counter and picks out the pushpop with an evil grin. "But that one's mine."

"Aw, come on!" Steve slumps his shoulders but his eyes light up when he glances at Robin, so she settles in her lean on the counter because that's a signal, that's Steve's signal for "watch my back, look at me" and damn if she won't.

Steve's shoulder slump down even more as he leans over the counter, head tilted to one side and upwards to look up at Eddie. His eyes do something, go big under a semi-wrinkled brow, while he purses his lips just a bit and stares up. "Please, Eds?"

"Uh," Eddie, on the flip side, is staring down at Steve with big eyes too but these are wider and flit around Steve's face, and his brow goes high up while his jaw drops down low. "Um?"

"Can I have the last pop, Eds?" Steve leans not even an inch closer but Eddie blinks down at him like he's the fucking messiah, holy shit, it's working. "Please?"

Eddie swallows, interesting, and nods dumbly. He doesn't even seem to realize that he's handing over the pop before it's gone and blinks at his empty hand.

"Thanks, Eddie!" Steve stands up properly now and smiles around the pop in his mouth.

Eddie blinks again, once at his hand, once at Steve and once at Robin.

"Holy shit," Robin slaps and shakes Steve's arm because he's too busy grinning at Eddie to look at her. "You gotta teach me that."

"Told you," he says smugly, grinning wider when they both realize Eddie is staring at his now crossed arms. Holy shit, it works. "Ready for the first lesson, padawan?"

Eddie snaps his head up and just outright stares at Steve, jaw still agape and face still flushed. "Did you just say padawan?"

"What does the first lesson entail, Stevie?" Robin continues the bit as though Eddie said nothing.

"Find a goal," Steve smirks, reaching over the counter to trail a hand down Eddie's arm. "Eddie's mine."

He squeaks. He fucking squeaks. Robin is delighted, this is a gold mine of blackmail and bribery.

"And then pinpoint exactly what you want from the goal," Steve instructs before turning to Eddie with a smile. "Something like you, over at my place tonight? Maybe at seven, watch a movie or two together?"

"Is - are you serious?" Eddie gulps, eyes flitting between the pair of them. "Are you - asking me out?"

"One hundred percent, Eds," Steve reassures him. "Been wanting to ask you out for a while."

"Oh," Eddie blinks, his slow nod getting faster and faster. "Yes, yeah. Movie date tonight, your place. I'll pick the movies?"

"Sounds good," Steve says sweetly, and waves a giggly bye as Eddie launches towards the dinky corner of the store where they keep the best of the horror flicks.

"Alright, that was pretty smooth," Robin admits. "Think it'll work on Joyce so I don't have to do the dishes on Friday?"

Steve shakes his head with a laugh and nudges her. "Nothing's getting you out of dish duty rotation."

[dabisbratz]

𝒟𝒪𝐿𝐿 𝒫𝒜𝑅𝒯𝒮 — satoru gojo x male reader !

femboy!reader , bottom/reader , established relationship , fingering , cismale terminology / anatomy , praise , spit / saliva , toru fantasizin 4 1k words straight , dirty - talk , slut calling , not proof - read

w.c; ~1.2k

. . . sonny says: has been a while ૮ ྀི◞͈ ˔ ◟͈ ྀིა s’is nothin special, n mkinda embarrassed t’make it my comeback post but . . . wanted t’actually post somethin. miss writin s’bad !! so hopefully some smaller drabbles/ficlets can tide y’over in this tryin time ໒꒰ྀི •̩̩̩̩＿•̩̩̩̩ ꒱ྀིა n e way, s’is from a veryvery old request, just tweaked a lil bit !! to da anon who wanted toru n his femboy boyfie. . msorry for da wait !! here it is :p

Satoru considers himself a simple man. He has simple plans, simple aspirations . . . simple goals. achievable, even, considering who he is. Though there’s nothing simple about the curl of his white eyelashes, nor the shade of his almost translucent eyes, that’s simply how he’d describe himself.

And although the rest of the world considers him anything but— an anomaly, of sorts— he still partakes in substantially simple pleasures. Ice cream, candies, chocolates, cakes. . . A night on the town, sightseeing, a good round of much needed sleep.

You.

But that’s where the lines begin to blur, because you are far from simple. Complex, layered— the man took his time to flesh out the real you. Just when he thought he’d had you figured out, there was something new he learned about you. Blamed it on his own biases, a close minded way of thinking, when he took a glance at you and assumed. But that was before, back when he was naive and stupid, when others mistook his youthful piloting for recklessness. He supposed he’d done the same, up until he met you.

Simplicity doesn’t suit you. Not your features, which curve and twist and turn, soft edges and sharp corners, pretty eyes and even prettier lips. Facial harmony that puts Satoru at ease— no, it’s you in your entirety. He felt it when he met you, he feels it now. He's sure he’ll feel it when he’s six feet underground, and all that’s left of him is an empty echo of simple assumptions and stories, a distant memory of you.

It doesn’t suit you at all. He decides you’re much too pretty. There’s an otherworldly quality in your essence that draws him in from miles away. It’s in your cadence when you speak, the sway of your shoulders when you walk, the way air flows behind you when you walk by. His pretty, pretty boy. Nothing simple about it, except maybe the way his body reacts.

Oh, well.

It’s like whiplash, when he sees you. Just when he thought he had you all figured out, here you are. He's never seen you like this before. He's seen you in all sorts of ways, sure— a cocky smirk on your lips, or perhaps a frown instead. Tears in your eyes from pain, on some occasions, pleasure. Your eyebrows pinched with confusion, or even furrowed with rage. But this… this. Is different. You, his boyfriend, in a skirt. It’s different. And he wants to touch.

𝜗𝜚

He’d start at your thighs, of course. How could he not? Patience is a virtue, one Satoru does not hold himself up to. His big, strong hands run along the expanse of your legs, groping and squeezing and holding just right. Tight enough to watch the skin bulge and spill between his fingers, for his fingertips to dig into the flesh until he knows they’ll inevitably bruise later, creeping his hands up, up, up. . .

“All this for lil’ ol’ me?” He’d say, charming as ever as he glances up at you, already knowing the answer. But he’d disregard it anyway, until his fingertips trail along the neatly sewn hem of the skirt, your skirt.

“What is this, silk? Cotton?” He’d feel blood pump through his fingers, just like he knows it’d rush through your inner thighs, spreading goosebumps along your skin as he absentmindedly rubs. Traveling further in, until your pretty cock plumps up beneath his palms, grazing his knuckles until he can feel each twitch and throb of the leaking tip. You’ve always been so eager, so sweet on him in that sense, all twitches and aches.

Thighs trembling under the weight of his palms, he’d see it all. When your cock jumps as he fans his warm breath over the fabric. when a wet, sticky patch of precum soaks through it. He’d frown when he sees shorts, built into the skirt, but it’d twitch when he remembers what’s beneath. Tugging the material down your hips, his hands pausing to squeeze and caress the soft skin of your ass, kneading until he can’t take it anymore— ripping the fabric open with his bare hands—pulling the plumpness of your ass apart until he can feel your pretty little hole winking back at him— so hungry, so desperate to be used. He’d watch.

You’d take it so well, you always do. That’s one thing he knows as a fact, because when you’re around Satoru, it seems as though none of your thoughts are coherent, and all you want to do is take it. He'd rub slow, smooth circles into the globes of your ass, looking down at the emptiness of your winking hole, shiny and inviting and clenching around nothing but air.

“So pretty,” He’d murmur, hushed and close to the warmth of your skin as he pressed his face against the backs of your thighs. His long fingers slipping dangerously close to your entrance, sliding along the puckered rim and dipping the pads of his fingertips along the opening of your pretty little hole. His fingers would feel so big, so long, when he circles them along the ring of muscle, barely breaching the tiny gape he plans to make. Slick with his spit— when did he do that?— saliva sticky and wet between each mound, glistening, he’d work a finger inside, groaning, “Only ‘Toru’s fingers can keep my greedy little hole happy, isn’t that right?”

You’d feel his teeth graze your skin, a wide smile on his face as he feels you process his words. Calling your holes his— like they belong to him and him only. It’s true, and he knows you’d nod— you’ve always been a good boy about that, even if it’s not the type of verbal confirmation he’s looking for. Still, his smile would drop as fast as it arrived, his finger pushing to the first knuckle and curling just right, punching the air from your lungs and pushing stars into your eyes as you gasp.

“Isn’t that right?” He’d repeat himself, much more firm, just to watch you struggle and squirm to find the words, to say something other than a stream of incoherent, slutty babbles for cock.

“Mhmm..!” You’d whine, lips parted as you reached back to spread yourself wide, enveloping his free hand with the warmth of your palm. You wouldn’t miss the appreciative hum you earn in response, deep and husky as his fingers slip right in, past the burning stretch of your fluttering rim, past the slippery surface of your hole as it sucked his fingers deeper and deeper into your gummy walls. “Yours, ‘Toru.. give it t’me..”

“Pretty hole on you too,” Silky and smooth, warm and wet like he’d imagined it in the late hours he’d spent fucking his fist. “You even knows what you’re beggin’ for?” He’d watch his spit gush and trickle out between his fingers with each twist and movement of the digits. “You’re gonna take it for me like a good boy, right? Keep these hips still while I fuck my pretty boy full of my fingers? Make you all whiny and needy?”

The squelch your hole, the way your body tightened as you whimpered like a slut for it. Pretty face ruined with delirious tears, pretty hole sopping and sloppy— fucked out and used from his fingers alone. Pretty skirt left in ruins, streaked in patches of your precum and drool.

Fuck.

𝜗𝜚

“You look good,” Is all he says instead, irises boring into the pleated fabric that wrinkles and rustles with every movement you make. Satoru’s cock twitches in his sweats, a deep imprint of the head straining against his thigh. His voice comes out as some sort of soft, dreamy sound, low in his throat but high in the air as you look at him, almost uncertain. “Twirl for me?”

[joeloverture]

sea-cret obsession | j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | updates blog pairing: dad's enemy!yachter!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] your dad's always had a superiority complex when it comes to his place at austin's finest yacht club. when joel miller joins the club, not only does he dethrone your dad — he also becomes your newest obsession. warnings: (18+ mdni) yachter!joel, dad's enemy!joel, age gap (mid 20s/mid 50s), alcohol, joel is implied to be older than reader's dad - don't read too far into it, reader wears a bikini (anyone can, i promise!), fantasizing, creepyish joel but reader's into it, soft!dom joel, porn with a paper-thin plot, m!receiving oral, throatfucking, facial, cum-eating, f!masturbation, blowjob in the captain's chair, daddy kink (oops), thigh riding, dirty talk, praise, degradation, pet names, aftercare [no use of y/n] word count: 2.9k a/n: this was supposed to be a ficlet for @iamasaddie's ✏️game. this is not a ficlet. please suspend your disbelief, this concept simply fell into my lap the moment i saw the wonderful moodboard aly put together for me. go check out the other fics, most of which are much shorter than mine and are absolute brain candy, that stemmed from aly's game!

Austin is hotter than the hinges on the gates of Hell, and you haven’t stopped sweating bullets since climbing out of Lake Travis. After an afternoon of floating belly-up in your bikini off of the dock of the yacht club your dad frequents, your need for a drink finally outweighed your need for aimless swimming.

Your bare feet are still burning from the hotfooted walk across the wooden deck into the bar. Water droplets cling to your skin and leave a pattern of stippled concrete in your wake. It’s been a few hours you’ve seen your dad around the club, having already gotten into a pissing contest with new club members over horsepower and amenities. Your dad’s the type to always want the biggest and the best: the most decks, the biggest wine fridge, the nicest galley — because God forbid he lose his running ten-year superiority to a newbie.

So yeah, you need a drink. You don’t even have to order; the bartender, Callie, simply slides your usual order over, which you nurse while watching a preseason football game. You haven’t bothered to sit down, your hip popped out with your elbows propped up on the granite countertop.

You don’t even notice the wolf whistle from behind is directed at you until a man sidles up next to you, flashing a smile at Callie. He looks like he belongs in a yacht club, curls styled and sculpted neatly around his face down to where the collar of his blue blazer begins. Some of the buttons on his striped shirt are undone, and your eyes, much to your chagrin, linger at the slice of tanned chest peeking through the fabric.

He looks you up and down, unabashedly licking his lips when he sees the crease of your thighs. “Sweetheart, you’re much too pretty to be entertainin’ the ragtag kinda men around here.”

It’s not the first time you’ve been hit on by the yachters at this particular club, but it is the first time one of them has caught your eye. “I’m not–” you start before you hear the telltale sign of your dad’s laughter coming from close by. You turn around, drink in hand as he rounds the corner, sunglasses on and a towel around the back of his neck. 

Your dad’s expression immediately sours with a speed you’ve never seen in him before. His lips draw tight at the sight of you – or maybe the sight of the man next to you.

“Joel,” your dad says, separating from his entourage. He wraps a protective arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his chest. “I see you’ve met my daughter.”

“Seems it,” the man, presumably Joel, nods, flagging down Callie for an old fashioned. The glass sweats condensation along his sturdy hand. He holds eye contact with you while he sips, only looking away when he runs his tongue along the rim of the glass. “Oughta let me take ‘er for a ride one day. Bet she’d appreciate the fine machinery of a real boat.”

You don’t miss the innuendo to his words even if your dad doesn’t. You scrub your hands along your sides, your sunscreen-sticky skin dewy beneath your palms. You shush the part of yourself that bets you’d appreciate it, too.

“Your boat is maybe good for getting to the retirement home across the lake,” your dad snaps, squeezing your shoulder. He pushes his sunglasses up his nose. “C’mon, kiddo, let’s head home.”

You find your flip flops at the bottom of your beach bag, barely having the time to kick them on before your dad is practically pulling you out of the yacht club. He gives half-hearted waves to his usual boating buddies until you’re in the parking lot, surrounded by heat shimmering over the blacktop. The scalding hot leather seats burn the backs of your thighs and the small of your back as you settle in. With a purr, the air conditioner blows a fresh burst of wind in your face.

“What was that all about?” you ask when he starts the engine.

Your dad clips his sunglasses on his polo shirt, gripping the steering wheel ten and two with a winded sigh through his nose. “Fuckin’... rookie with his triple-decker Ferretti.”

Joel looked rich. But not Ferretti rich. “Who the hell in Austin owns a Ferretti?”

“That son of a bitch, that’s who. I don’t want you runnin’ amok on Joel’s boat, you hear me?”

“Ain’t planning on it,” you respond as if you don’t already know what’ll happen if Joel propositions you again.

You see Joel again soon, but only in passing. A wink behind your father’s back, a drink from the gentleman across the bar that was only coincidentally Joel. The locations of these run-ins are always different. Sometimes you walked by each other on the dock. Sometimes he’d give you both a quick wave from across the water before he sped off, leaving the boat rocking on the stirred up tide and your dad cussing up a storm.

Today’s almost-tryst happens on the dock. You’re walking past Joel’s designated dock in a bikini that you’d nearly thrown out because of its snug fit. You have to smother your disappointment when you don’t see him on the top deck sipping a beer. You know better than to be disappointed over the man who your dad has not only claimed as a mortal enemy, but also claimed as the antichrist. With the thoughts Joel gives you when your hand is between your thighs, it might not be too far from the truth.

You think you have most of it figured out – he’s rough, he has to be. With how relentless as he is on the waters, it makes no sense for him to be anything else. His fancy, custom belt buckles snicking as it comes undone so he can yank his jeans down and get inside of you. Those chains he always wears would hang in your face, swaying with every roll of his hips into yours as he chases his pleasure deep inside of your–

“Woah there, darlin’,” a honeyed voice coaxes you, a muscled arm darting out to stop you in your path. “Almost walked right into the lake.” Your head snaps up to look at Joel, the very inconvenient object of your fantasies. You swallow the quickly-forming lump in the back of your throat. “You sure you ain’t had too many?”

“Positive,” you say. You haven’t even done a shot s0 far today.

“Mmm, alright.” The playful glint in his eyes doesn’t seem too convinced. It makes your heart stutter before you remind it to keep beating. “Tell ya what, you’re welcome to ‘sober up’ on my boat.”

You look between where your dad’s dock sits empty. He’s out with his co-workers today, shooting the shit too much for their own good. Then you look between Joel and his boat, the beauty of a Ferretti that’s just two steps away.

Mouth already watering at the possibilities, you say, “I do remember you promising me a ride, old man.”

Joel’s lips curl into a knowing smirk, and he makes the long step from the dock to the boat, hand held out for you. You don’t hesitate to let him help you aboard. 

You’re on your knees in front of the captain’s chair before he gets to the middle of Lake Travis. “Old man,” he mocks above you with his legs spread as far as they can go. You kitten-lick his hardened cock, making sure to lap up the obscene amount of his precum. There’s certainly one part of Joel that doesn’t need to go to a retirement home, and it’s in your mouth. You suckle at the leaking head of his cock while his strokes your cheek, only pulling away to spoon a drop of his precum from your lip onto your tongue. “You like suckin’ an older man’s cock, pretty girl?”

You nod eagerly, taking him deeper so you can tongue the vein along the underside of his cock. From that, he groans, head slumping on the headrest so he can gather himself. You spit a generous amount into your hand, wrapping around the base to properly suck him.

“Bet there’s a whole ‘nother lake in that skimpy lil’ bikini of yours, ain’t that right?” You nod around his length and go a little deeper. He’s heavy on your tongue, long and girthy all at once. He presses lightly against the back of your throat, prompting you to gag around him, but you wouldn’t pull away from him even if the yacht itself set on fire. He moans as you start to bob your head up and down. You rub your thighs together just thinking about what his cock could be capable of between your legs. “Mhm, I know, baby. You wanna push that outta the way and give it a rub for me? A rub for your real daddy?”

A choked whimper punches its way out of you. His hips jerk from the vibrations, unintentionally pushing himself further down your throat. You expect it to be too much, but it isn’t. You pull away from him, taking a quick breath as you wrap your hand around the wide palm seated on his thigh and raise it to the back of your head. “Please fuck my throat, daddy,” you pout up at him, a mixture of your spit and his precum dripping down your chin and into your cleavage.

Another groan tugs its way out of him when he looks down at you. He cups the back of your head and brings his cock back to your mouth. “Can’t say no to such a gorgeous fuckin’ face. Gonna look so damn good covered in my cum.” You keep licking his tip, not wanting to miss a single drop of him. “Go ‘head and put a hand on your pussy, baby. Rub that clit that daddy’s got all throbbin’.”

And how could you ever say no to him? Your hand is down your bikini within seconds, peeling your tacky panties away from your cunt so your fingertips can rub circles along your clit. A circle against your swollen core pulls a moan from you right as he thrusts into your throat. He starts out slow, tentative as he pushes all the way into your throat and then pulls all the way out. His second thrust is much harder, stifling your breathing for a moment as a strangled noise of pleasure leave his parted lips.

He nudges you further down onto his cock, burying your nose into the triangle of skin exposed by his rumpled button-down. You force down the gag that builds in the back of your throat. Joel keeps your mouth speared on his cock with shallow rolls of his hips into the warm wetness of your mouth. You whine, prompting a hearty chuckle from him. “Good girl, daddy’s good little girl. Keep playin’ with yourself for me.” He smirks down at you. “Ain’t much different than what you do in your own bed, huh? Pussy just cryin’ for some cock, I bet.”

You moan in agreement as your eyes flutter shut when you rub your clit harder, harder, harder until arousal is smeared all over your knuckles and across your mound. “Nuh-uh,” he says with a punctuating adjustment of his hips. You gag, spit webbing through Joel’s happy trail. “Eyes on me.”

You’re satisfied to find him just as debauched as you feel. Strands of his usually put-together hair are out of place along his forehead, and his golden chain glistens with sweat. His hands grip the arms of the captain’s chair, spread on the tanned leather and exerting dominance over your kneeling silhouette. But you aren’t fooled. There’s a certain rosiness to his cheeks, a flare to his nose, that lets you in on the secret: he’s just as wrecked, just as in deep as you are.

You pull up and immediately sink down on his cock again, pleading eyes looking up at him, asking him. I want it daddy. I want you. And then he’s fucking your throat in earnest. His hips buck up to meet the back of your throat. You struggle to keep up with his size, his pace, but you suck his cock even with the knowledge that you won’t know how to explain your sore throat or raspy voice to your dad.

Joel squints down at you, absorbing the seeping spit from the corners of your raw lips, your droopy, ecstasy-laden eyes. He sighs, sinking down into the chair as he grinds his cock into your mouth and moves your head up and down his length. You take the hand that isn’t playing with your clit and reach to grab at his balls, kneading them. A narrow breath trips out of his lips. “Nasty bitch. Fuck, baby. Daddy’s close. Keep – keep doin’ that.” You drag your tongue along that bottom vein again, kneading one of his balls and making sure that when he pulls you off of his cock, you treat the head to one final taste. 

“Open up, slut,” he coaxes. His cock twitches. He jerks himself once, twice, and then cums, rope after rope hitting your damp skin. His cum is hot, sticky, and you’re too preoccupied with trying to catch some of his release that your hand stalls over your cunt. You whimper when his cum lands on your tongue and follow it up by swallowing. Joel’s breath is unsteady as he looks down at you, cock softening in his lap. “Good girl,” he praises, reaching out to run his thumb along your stained skin. Drop by drop, he feeds you his cum, and you lap it up just as eagerly as you’d lapped him up. 

You pull your hand out of your bikini when he’s done, tacky arousal stretching between your fingers. Going back on your haunches, you suck in a deep breath through your abused throat. 

Joel pats his wide, thick thighs above you, the same ones you’ve been fantasizing about since that first day in the bar. “I promised you a ride, didn’t I?” A familiar, hooked smirk pulls at his mouth. Your face lights up in recognition and you practically scamper onto his thigh, stumbling as you tug your bikini out of the way to settle yourself on the linen coral shorts he has on. Joel laughs, a noise that has your cunt leaking onto the fabric, clit fluttering from the friction. Heat pulls tight in your stomach.

His hands land on your hips, guiding you back and forth when you hesitate at first. “Grind on daddy’s thigh, baby. Wanna see you cum on me.” Your head tips forward, forehead slotting against his shoulder when you start to push your hips into his. Need springs awake in your stomach when he drags you forward. A frayed moan tumbles out of you from his near-manhandling. You rut into Joel, bouncing, grinding yourself on him in the same way that you’d imagined yourself doing at least a dozen times before this.

“Daddy,” you whimper when the muscle goes taut underneath you, plucking something in your cunt. At the same time, a speedboat passes Joel’s yacht outside, leaving the ship rocking on the water in time with your movements as you ride his thigh. You yelp, a strained noise as the pressure intensifies on your clit. “Close!”

He grips your hips even tighter, bounces his thigh up against you. “That’s it, that’s it. Let it happen baby, give it to daddy.”

You come undone with the taste of his cum still rich on your tongue and his words ringing in your buzzing ears. Your orgasm whips through your body and leaves you shuddering against his center, halfheartedly continuing to roll your hips up against him. His thumbs rub circles into your skin while you come down. You suck in a shaky breath, Joel’s palm stroking the small of your back. “Did good for me, baby. Look real pretty when you come. Real pretty.”

You give him a shy smile, and he leans forward to kiss you, a brief moment of gentleness amidst his usually ubiquitous harshness. He pulls away with a tiny pat to your ass. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You stumble off of him on shaky legs, leaning against the captain’s console. Joel pulls his shorts down his thighs and tucks his cock away, the wet spot your cunt had made on him beyond visible as he stretches himself out. He fishes around in a drawer in the galley for his baby wipes and joins you back at the console. He takes them to your face, wiping down where his cum had hit your skin. He even dabs gently at your thighs. Orgasm bliss clings to the edges of your vision still, and you can’t help but lean into him as he takes care of you.

“Could take you for a real ride, now,” Joel says with a moderate shrug. “Nice cove on the west side of the lake, good for a quick swim. I’m sure your dad would throw a fit if he knew, but I’m sure you’re good at keepin’ secrets, too. Got a real good mouth on ya.”

You playfully punch his shoulder with a roll of your eyes, and in that moment, it feels like you’ve known Joel much longer than you have at all. Like this isn’t your first time on his boat, and this wasn’t his first time being in your mouth. “Alright,” you begrudgingly smile at him. “Whatever you say, old man.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes as he starts the engine.

[ghosts-cyphera]

lovieee im so excited for tmrw its gonna be my birfday weeeee 🐛🩷

🪷

18+; mdni / pornstar!ghost x fem!reader; masterlist here / suggestive little extra ficlet. not an official part of the series, just a little something as a present for the sweetest 🪷-anon. happy birthday, darling!

from the feeling of something heavy falling onto your lap, you lifted your sight to meet the frame of ghost. his eyes were sparkling with amusement, the corners of his lips tugged into a smug grin.

"I know it's your birthday," he chuckled before you got a chance to ask. "I know you tried to hide it from me, but—"

"who said I tried to hide it from you?"

ghost squinted his eyes, playful. "you didn't invite me to your party."

"who said I was having a party?"

"val," he mused, only to curse under his breath as he saw the smirk rising to your features. "fuckin' hell. surprise party, wasn't it?"

"did she invite you?"

"long as I behave," he grinned as he leaned against the side of your armchair and nodded toward the cream-colored box in your lap. "open it, yeah? maybe it'll make up for the spoiled surprise 'n all."

"I'm not sure I should trust you," you laughed. the mint green ribbon tied around the box came undone with just the gentlest of tugs, and your fingers—ever so slightly hesitant—pushed up the lid. 

oh.

in the box was a cake: an intricate one with a frosting of your favorite color. little candy pearls and edible decorations had been neatly placed around the cursive words that read—clear as day—talk dirty to me. 

"you couldn't go with happy birthday, or—," you glanced at him as your breathless laugh bubbled from your lips, "to my darlin'?" you mimicked his accent.

"I consider it a bloody birthday wish come true," he grinned. "y'know, gettin' to talk dirty to me day in, day fuckin' out. even get paid for it."

cocky bastard.

"you should've just wrapped a bow around yourself," you laughed.

"that your biggest wish?" he grinned. "havin' me all to yourself, eh?"

"maybe." you laughed as you raised your gaze to meet his eyes. "do you have any birthday candles? for seeing if maybe this year my wish will come true?"

he let out a deep chuckle as his lips found your forehead, warm as he planted a kiss on your skin. "no need for 'em, darlin'. 'm already yours."

a/n: happy birthday, bestie!! I hope you have a wonderful, beautiful, magical day full of snacks and love and thoughts of ps!ghost or whoever else it is that gets your tummy full of butterflies, hehe. I adore you!! / pornstar!ghost masterlist / inbox open for all your thoughts and ideas and tea! 💌

[annwrites]

see somethin' you like, darlin'?

— pairing: billy hargrove x fem!reader

— type: ficlet

— summary: you & billy are far from hawkins & get a room for the night.

— tags: there's only one bed, billy offering to share the shower, billy getting you to open up to him, billy just being a complete horndog

— tw: eating, drinking, mentions of domestic violence, mentions of near-childhood molestation, mentions of alcohol, smoking

— word count: 3,644

— a/n: i'm just: IN THESE MOTEL ROOMS I STARTED TO SEE YOU DIFFERENTLY

some of billy's dialogue is so funny to me lol

find my other posts concerning billy, here

When you wake, it's now daylight out and the car is stopped, the smell of gasoline wafting through the cabin. You slowly sit up and see that you're at a gas station. You look around, and spot Billy, who's standing behind the car, gassing it up.

You exit the car and he looks at you. "See you're finally awake."

You'd only woken one other time in the middle of the night, and had listened silently as Mötley Crüe played quietly on the radio, Billy softly singing along. You'd let his voice put you back to sleep.

You nod, stretching, and he licks his lips as your t-shirt rides up a tad before settling back over your hips.

His eyes meet yours again.

"Where are we?"

The nozzle jerks and Billy removes it, screwing the gas cap back into place. "Missouri."

Your brows raise.

He comes to stand in front of you. "Slept right through Illinois."

You'd gone through an entire state overnight.

Something about him letting you sleep peacefully all night while he raced to get the both of you away before anyone could come after you made warmth bloom in your chest.

You cross your arms gently. "Do...do you think we're okay?"

He shrugs. "My folks would probably know I'm headed for California. I'm guessing your dad wouldn't know where to start looking for you?"

You shake your head.

He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a pack of smokes, then retrieves a lighter from his front right pocket and he lights one up. He takes a long drag before speaking again, eyes wandering over those milling around the gas station, fueling up or wrangling unruly kids, taking bites of their gas-station snacks.

He then looks back down to you again. "You hungry?"

You blink up at him, more worried about being caught and dragged back home than grabbing a candy bar. Not one to dwell on serious matters, he is.

You shrug. "A little."

He turns, heading to go inside. You follow behind.

When you enter the small convenience store, the smell of hot dogs and something sugary greets your senses, cool air washing over you. The two of you go in separate directions. You opting for something hot to eat, him, a bag of chips and a pack of M&Ms. You grab a bottle of water from one of the coolers, while he opts for a Red Bull.

Once you're standing up front before the cashier, you begin patting your pockets, realizing your wallet is in one of your bags in the car. "I'll be right back, I have to go grab some cas-"

He pushes your food together with his. "It's fine, I've got it."

"Thank you," you say quietly.

The older woman behind the counter with dyed-red hair and a bit too much eyeliner glances between the two of you with a concerned expression. Your brows furrow, confused as to why she's giving you a strange look. Your pictures weren't already being broadcast on TV, were they? And then you remember that you'd been beaten black and blue last night.

Billy rolls his eyes. "I'm not the one that gave her a tune-up. So, you want to ring my shit up now, or what?"

You look down, embarrassed.

The scanner starts to beep.

Once you're both back in the car, you taking small bites from your hotdog, Billy taking sips from his energy drink, you remain silent as he turns out of the parking lot, merging back into traffic.

"Are you still okay to drive? I mean, aren't you exhausted? You look tired."

He glances to you with a smirk and a raised brow.

Great, the pretentious asshole is back.

"If you think I'm about to let you behind the wheel, sweetie, you have another thing comin'."

You lean back, taking another bite of your food. You swallow. "I wouldn't know how, even if I wanted to."

He shifts gears. "Don't tell me you only know automatics."

You take a sip of your water. "I don't know any."

He slows for a red light, looking at you. "Your old man never taught you how to drive?"

You shake your head.

He rolls his eyes, accelerating again. "Figures."

You're in Oklahoma when Billy finally stops, the sky now a dusky pink color, splotches of orange melded in.

The two of you had spent most of the day in silence—well, not talking, that is—at one point he'd turned his music back on, blaring Sammy Hagar's I Can't Drive 55, while, of course, refusing to drive that himself, instead cutting people off in traffic, while going well over the speed limit.

You'd tried to tell him if he kept it up, he'd inevitably get a ticket. And what if the cops then found out that he's been reported missing? That both of you had? Not that you were sure either of you had yet, but that paranoia of being discovered and carted back to Hawkins refused to release you.

He'd then smirked, smoking another cigarette—you hated the smell, and he knew it—and he'd told you "You worry too damn much, darlin'. Might help you relax if you just got laid.".

You'd groaned, leaning your head back against the seat, staring out the open passenger-side window.

He'd laughed, turning back to the road.

Currently, you're standing next to him at the front desk of a Super 8 motel, your bags at your feet as he asks the receptionist for a room for the night.

"We currently have a few rooms available. How many beds?"

He glances to you and you stare up at him. "Which is cheapest?"

He turns back to the receptionist then.

You both wait patiently as she checks the motel's log book. She looks back up to Billy. "We have a room with a double-bed that's twenty-five a night."

He jaw flexes. "And if I wanted two beds instead?"

She glances to you, your bruised-up face, then back to him, then her log book once again. "It'd be double the price."

He sighs, pulling out his wallet, slapping a twenty and a five down on the counter. "One bed it is, then."

You watch as he writes down the name George Thorogood in the guest book, your lip twitching in amusement.

She hands him the key, and each of you pick up your bags from the worn, stained carpet, then, and head back outside, and you follow him up a flight of stairs to your room for the evening.

Once the door is closed behind you, you switch on the light, taking in the low-budget space. A single bed is shoved against the middle of the wall, small wooden nightstands on either side of it, an AC unit under the window to your left. Against the opposite wall is a box TV sat atop a dresser, a placard on top stating they have HBO. To the right side of the bed is the closet, past that, the bathroom. There's also a small table with two chairs by the door you'd just entered.

You watch as he drops his bag on the floor, kneeling down and pulling a jewelry box out, placing it on the bed, and then a small steel strong box.

Your brows furrow.

He flips open the lid of the jewelry box, dumping the contents on the comforter. He begins sorting through everything, separating it all into two distinct piles: cheap, and expensive-looking.

"Did...did you steal that from your mom?"

He looks to you. "Step, and yeah, I did. Got a problem with that?"

You study him for a moment, then shake your head.

He turns back to the jewelry—hand hovering over a silver ring—which he then picks up, and lets out a low curse. "This was my mom's. Fucking bastard. Bitch."

He shoves it into his pocket.

He looks to you. "Think a pawn shop would take costume jewelry?"

You shrug. "Maybe. If not, you could always try an antique store. They probably won't give you very much for it, though."

He dumps all the expensive pieces back into the box, then shoves the rest into a pocket on his duffel bag. Next, he slides the heavy strong box toward the spot the jewelry box has now vacated. He stares down at it for a moment, considering.

He then walks into the bathroom. You sit, listening as you hear the toilet tank lid scraping against the tank, then porcelain meeting porcelain as he, you assume, sets it atop the toilet lid. You hear something being jimmied, then he comes back into the bedroom, handle-arm from the tank in-hand.

He kneels before the box, shoving the piece of thin metal under the lid and pushing upward as much as he can, lips pressed into a firm line.

He stops for a moment. "Gonna end up breaking the fucking thing instead," he mutters to himself.

He looks back to you over his shoulder. "Do you have any bobby pins?"

You stand. "I think so." You walk over to your bag, pick it up, and set it atop the table. You begin rifling through the pocket where you'd put a few personal care items, including a small pack of bobby pins.

You hand them to him, your fingers brushing against the palm of his calloused hand.

He takes two out, unbending them, and he shoves both into the lock of the box and begins to slowly turn them.

He stares at the headboard a few feet from him, going off of feeling alone, trying to concentrate.

"Motherf-" He bites his lip, turning them the other way. He shoves one in further. "C'mon, you bitch."

And then you hear something unclick and a wide smile breaks out across his face. "Ha! Fuck yeah!"

He stands, throwing open the box's lid and both your eyes widen when you see the rolls of cash inside.

He looks to you—who's still standing beside him—with a raised brow and a pleased smirk. "My old man's savings. What I could get my hands on anyway." He begins pulling out rolls of quarters, handing them to you. "He has an account at the Hawkins Credit Union, too, but..." He looks back to the table you'd previously been seated at, then at the rolls of coins in your open palms. "Count those for me, will you?"

You nod, sitting, breaking open the tight paper rollers wrapped around the change.

You glance up and watch as Billy unrolls a fat wad of bills. He begins counting to himself. "Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty..." He continues counting in only a mere whisper then.

Once you've finished adding, you look up to Billy. "There's thirty-five dollars in quarters here." One of the rolls had only been half-filled.

He puts the last of the bills he'd been counting back in the strong box, practically vibrating with excitement. "Three-thousand fucking dollars!" He turns back to you. "Do you have any idea how long that'll keep us going for, honey? Fucking weeks—longer, maybe."

You smile at him.

He turns back, nodding. "Goddamn, three thou'."

He comes over to you, gathering the change to put it back away. "How much did you bring?"

You flush, feeling inferior in comparison, because you'd done the same as him before leaving home: stolen from him. But the amount you'd brought along was practically chump-change in comparison.

"Not nearly as much. My dad...he spends most of his paychecks on booze and scratch-offs. So, only a little over three-hundred." You reach into your bag, rifling through an inner pocket, until your fingers brush again cool metal.

"I did take this, though." You hand him a Rolex.

He whistles. "Damn, how much is this worth?" He looks at you from under his lashes.

You shrug. "My mom bought it for him at some point before she left."

His smile falters then, his eyes staring into your own.

You wonder what had caused his sudden shift in mood.

"Yours left you, too?"

So that was why.

You nod, taking the watch back away from him. "It was a long time ago." You drop it into your bag.

He steps away, flopping back on the bed, hands behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. "So, what was the plan, anyway? If I hadn't come along, I mean. Were...you meeting someone?"

You tuck one of your feet under you. "No. I just planned to walk for as long as I could. Maybe thumb a ride if need-be."

He snorts. "'If need-be'," he repeats back to you. "You realize California is over two-thousand miles away, right, honey?"

You shrug. "I hadn't necessarily planned on California, specifically. Like I said: I just want to go West."

"Well, that's where you're headed now. Specifically." He smiles to himself. California. Home. He was finally going home. He'd never have to be around those people again.

"You mind if I ask how long he's been doing it for?"

You don't need to ask him to elaborate what he's asking exactly.

You're quiet for a moment, staring down at your recently-painted toes. "Since before my mom left. But before she did, he'd never hit me. Only her. So nine."

He chews the inside of his cheek. "That the only thing he did: hit you?"

You know what he's asking. And you don't want to answer.

"Does it matter?"

You'd given him the answer without even having to say it.

"How many times?"

You sigh, wishing he'd drop it. You briefly consider snapping at him, just to cause an argument, which would get you off of this subject.

"Never, technically."

He sits up, looking at you, forearms resting against his thighs, fingers steepled. "No?"

You shift uncomfortably. "When...after I turned twelve and hit puberty... There was this one night when he came home—drunker than I'd ever seen him before. I'd been in bed asleep. He woke me up. Called me my mom's name. I think he thought I was her. I decided to knee him in the groin when he started trying to take off my nightgown. He hit me for it, but it got him off of me, at least. I slept outside that night. Well, stayed outside. I didn't do much sleeping, too afraid to close my eyes.

"The next morning, it was like it'd never happened. Maybe he didn't remember. I sure as hell wasn't going to remind him out of fear of him finishing what he'd tried to start the night before."

You're both silent for a moment, a pregnant pause settling between you. Until Billy speaks.

"I'm sorry."

You look at him. "Me too."

He doesn't want you feeling sorry for him, though. Doesn't want you asking him to open up like you just had. Men were built different. Girls could cry and get upset all they wanted—they were emotional little things to start with. Men needed to be tough. You wanted to feel something? Get angry, then.

He stands, shrugging off his jacket, tossing it back on the bed. He then grips the back of his shirt, pulling it off as well, and you look away, blushing.

He smirks at the look on your face. A dozen sly comments make their way through his head, but he refrains. For now. "I'm going to take a shower to wash the road off of me."

He glances to your bag for a moment. "You got any makeup in there, like Revlon or some shit?"

You look at him with furrowed brows. "No. Why?"

"Well, maybe you should get some. Tired of people giving me dirty looks thinking I did that shit to you." He gestures toward your face.

You shrug. "It'll heal eventually."

"Yeah, in a couple weeks, if not longer."

"I thought you were going to shower?"

He raises a brow. "Saw it when I went to get the handle-arm. Big enough for two."

You roll your eyes, standing, then flop down face-first on the bed. "I'll be just fine right here."

He stares at your ass for a moment. "Oh, I'm sure you will, sweetheart."

You groan and he chuckles as he heads in the direction of the bathroom.

He doesn't bother closing the door and you hear the water start.

And he of course sings loudly the entire time—the lyrics to Warrant's Cherry Pie.

You cover your head with a pillow.

Fifteen minutes later, Billy emerges from the bathroom with nothing but a towel hanging low on his hips, his happy-trail visible. He'd positioned it exactly-so in front of the mirror before coming out.

...and you were busy staring out the window. Because of course you were.

He clears his throat and immediately turns toward his bag when you turn to look at him. "Shower's free," he states, dropping his towel to the floor as he pulls on a pair of black briefs.

Your eyes widen. "Billy!"

He glances up to you with a bored expression.

Meanwhile, your face is now cherry-red, your expression that of mortification.

A mischievous smirk then crawls its way across his lips as your eyes glance from his now-clothed waist, to his muscled chest—still wet from the hot water—then your eyes meet his, noticing his damp, slicked-back curls.

"See somethin' you like, darlin'?"

You grab the clothes you'd picked out for wearing to bed tonight while he'd been cleaning up, and storm past him, slamming the bathroom door behind you, even locking it as you turn the water back on, sitting on the toilet lid, head in your hands as you try to calm your now-thundering heart.

Billy merely lays back on the bed again, feeling content, a wry smirk on his face. "Oh yeah, she wants me."

When you emerge from the bathroom, you find Billy asleep on the left side of the bed, nearest the door, light from the window shining down in thin slivers which arch across his bare back.

You quietly pad over, pulling the curtains closed, the room darkening.

Your stomach then rumbles and you decide to go out in-search of a nearby place to get some dinner. It's when you open the door to the room—a twenty from the money you'd taken from your father tucked away in your pocket—that Billy's eyes pop open.

"The fuck're you doin'?" He asks, face half-buried in his pillow.

"I'm hungry."

He closes his eyes. "Then order room service."

You shift on your feet. "I don't think they offer that here."

He groans in tired irritation. "Fucking delivery, I mean."

"Why can't I just-"

"Because I don't need to worry about your ass disappearin'. And I'm fuckin' beat, so I'm not going back out. Close the damn door."

You sigh, doing as he's said, sliding the chain-lock back into place.

"Deadbolt, too," he commands.

You oblige.

You walk over to the bedside table beside his head and pull the drawer open, hoping to find some menus inside, and you end up in-luck. You bend over to grab them, and his hand suddenly slides up the back of your thigh then and you jerk, standing up straight, nearly dropping the laminated papers from your grip. You swat his hand away, stepping back over to the table.

He snickers to himself and you just look at him, shaking your head.

"Is that all you think about?" You ask, voice full of disbelief that he'd just done that.

He rolls onto his back, folding his hands atop his bare chest, eyes still closed. "You sure you want the answer to that, honey?"

You roll your eyes, perusing the menus. "Are you hungry?"

"For food or somethin' else?"

Pig.

"What do you think?" You spit at him and his lip twitches at having gotten under your skin so easily. Again.

"Not really."

You feel the need to berate him for going to bed on an empty-stomach. All he'd had today was a couple bags of junk food, but you know he's tired, so you instead let it go.

You order a small pizza from a local Italian place, and twenty minutes later, there's a knock at the door.

And Billy is woken yet again.

You silently pay the man, closing and locking the door behind you as you set the box on the table.

"Smells good," he says, words slurred.

And he said he didn't want anything. Men.

You plop a piece down on a paper plate and walk it over to him. "Here."

He looks up at you. "Really tired. Maybe I should let you feed it to me."

Jesus Christ—he never stops, does he?

You toss it down on the nightstand. "Your arms aren't broken."

It doesn't take long for the two of you to finish eating. After which, you brush your teeth, then come back into the bedroom, the sky now dark outside.

You stand on the side of the bed opposite him, considering sleeping on the damn floor instead.

"You comin' to bed?" He asks, head turned toward you, eyes closed again.

"Are you going to keep your hands to yourself?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "No promises."

You briefly consider smothering him with a pillow, but instead opt for postponing committing homicide. For now.

You lie down next to him, right on the edge of the bed, and his eyes flutter open. He smiles then. "Knew I'd get you into bed eventually."

"Go the hell to sleep."

He closes his eyes again, a warm smile on his face. "I don't mind 'em fiesty, y'know."

You roll over, facing away from him.

"Mm, even better view."

You let out a loud, irritated groan, stand, then climb beneath the comforter, wrapping it around you. You close your eyes, ignoring the fact that Billy is lying just a few inches away, as you drift off to sleep.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Cuddles and Snuggles?! 👀

Sign me up lol

I have a request if you feel inspired by it 👀

6. trying to crawl under their shirt with either Wrecker or Kix.

Because I would very much like to hide under their shirts than deal with the outside lol

If you think of someone that fits the prompt better, then do that instead! (Or you can entirely disregard this ofc lol)

😘💜💜💜

A/N: Moonie! I had this whole ficlet planned out, and then we chatted about this wonderful Wrecker art by @pinkiemme, and it took over my entire brain. So thank you both for inspiring me. 🖤♥️

Pairing: Wrecker x Reader (GN)

Rating: T (but as always, minors DNI)

Wordcount: 573

Warnings and tags: fluff, cuddles, established relationship shenanigans, very slightly suggestive dialogue, mild language

Summary: Wrecker is just so warm.

Suggested Listening (English translation here):

This fic smells like: Work From Home by Memoire Archives (cappuccino, caramel, biscotti)

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

You rolled over to find an empty bed. You groped blindly through the blankets, but Wrecker was nowhere to be found, and based on how cold the sheets were, he’d been gone a while. Grinding the palms of your hands into your eyes, you sat up, searching blearily for him. There was no sign of him, so you stumbled out of bed to form a rescue party of one. It wasn’t long before you saw the soft blue glow of his datapad as he curled up on the sofa in the darkness.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice coming out in a hoarse croak. 

He looked up and smiled. “What’re you doin’ up?”

“I got cold,” you replied. “Can’t sleep?”

He shook his head.

“I’ll make us some caf,” you said.

“Already got some moogan tea,” he replied, holding up a steaming mug. 

Screw the caf, then, you decided, immediately crossing the room to plop down next to him. You leaned your head against his shoulder, wrapped your arms around his waist, and draped your legs across his thigh, tucking your feet against his calf.

“You really are cold,” Wrecker said with a laugh as he felt your frigid toes.

“Warm me up?” you pleaded, giving him the softest, most pathetic tooka eyes you could muster at such an early hour.

“C’mere, then,” he replied, adjusting your position so he could hold you a little closer while still staring over your head at his datapad.

“Reading something good?” you asked.

He kissed the top of your head. “Candy Crush.”

You laughed quietly and snuggled closer, teasing your chilled fingers beneath the hem of his shirt. He flinched away involuntarily, but when you pulled back, he let out a little grumble.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You just surprised me. Come back.”

You didn’t bother to put up even a token resistance, instead diving your icy hands enthusiastically back under his shirt. 

“Gods, you’re so warm!” you murmured, burrowing closer and sliding your hands further and further under his shirt, until you were practically wearing it with him.

“I do that on purpose so you’ll cuddle up to me,” he replied, holding back a laugh. “Comfy down there?”

“I’m working on it,” you replied. “You’re a really good heat source.”

“And you’re a really good icicle.” He set down his mug and wrapped his free arm around you. “You tryin’ to climb all the way inside my shirt?”

“Our shirt,” you replied, your voice slightly muffled by the fabric. “Besides, I’m not trying. I’m succeeding.”

“Well, maybe I should just carry you back to our bed so you can have a real blanket.”

“No, this is fine,” you replied from inside his—ahem—your shirt. “It’s cozy. I live here now.”

You felt the deep rumble of his chuckle against your cheek as you nuzzled your face against his chest. “You gonna pay rent?”

“Nah, I’m sleeping with the landlord. He’d never evict me.”

"You got that right." He shifted, and you heard the soft clatter of his datapad as he set it on the floor, then both of his arms closed around you. With seemingly no effort at all, he lifted you up and rolled the both of you over so you were tucked securely between him and the back of the sofa, wrapped in his embrace. He yawned loudly, and you knew he’d doze off within minutes. "Now stop squirmin’ and go back to sleep.”

 ---

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[actual-changeling]

i tried to write this ficlet four different times but i'm having a day so. take whatever this is.

aziraphale with fake vampire teeth. he loves them. crowley HATES them because you can just grow them angel, this is humiliating. i'm a fucking snake. i have fangs. take those things out of your mouth.

but aziraphale is doing his dollar-store dracula roleplay because it's halloween! he has to wear a costume when handing out the candy to the children!

"oh also crowley here's your costume-"

"i am not wearing a costume."

"you will wear the costume."

"this is embarrassing even for you angel"

(if there's one thing aziraphale is shamelessly good at, it's making puppy eyes at crowley until he gives in, and oh does he want him to wear the bloody thing)

"... fine. but you owe me" "yeah yeah just get ready"

and THAT is how soho gets to experience count aziraphale and his trusted companion, the bat crowley, who looks particularly dashing (and very much not scary) in a black turtleneck with tiny wings on his back. at least his eyes can be on full display, even if just for tonight, and the kids LOVE them so much crowley's complaints die down rather quickly. he might even have *gasp* a good time!

(and if it was more about getting him back into the turtleneck than the costume - well, aziraphale knows how to keep a secret)

[steddio]

Eddie finding Steve asleep sitting in the kitchen, waiting for the popcorn in the microwave, while the party are playing D&D. Eddie gently waking him up, accidentally letting some of his endearment show when he calls him angel and tells him to go get some sleep, that Eddie got it from here.

(I wrote a short little ficlet for this, I hope that's ok!)

“Alright! Enough!” Eddie tries and fails to be heard over the ruckus of seven teenagers each trying to get out of doing a task.

“Shut up!!!” he finally gets out at a register that demands attention. He is the DM after all, and a part of him preens at the way their startled, open-mouthed faces all turn toward him expectantly.

“I, your benevolent leader, will go refill the snacks,” he offers magnanimously. “While you all,” and this he punctuates with a sweeping gesture, “figure out how you’re going to get out of this dungeon without attracting the attention of Ezrog the Goblin King.”

There’s a new round of squabbling at that, Mike and Dustin convinced that they should take the west stairwell (a trap) while Gareth and Lucas arguing that they should swim out through the underground river (a good idea, Eddie begrudgingly admits).

He grabs the candy wrappers and empty soda cans within his reach and ascends the stairs from the Wheelers’ basement. He follows the scent of popcorn and a profoundly irritating beeping noise to the kitchen where he finds Steve perched on a barstool, slumped over the kitchen counter, fast asleep.

Eddie suddenly feels breathless. He’s never seen Steve so peaceful, so vulnerable. His hair is sticking up at all angles, he’s snoring slightly, and is that— it certainly is, there’s a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth. The permanent furrow between his brows is relaxed in sleep, although the dark circles under his eyes are still noticeable. Eddie knows Steve hasn’t been sleeping well. None of them have, still unable to feel truly safe.

Eddie tiptoes around Steve, careful not to wake him, and finds a cooling bag of popcorn in the microwave. Something clenches in Eddie’s chest. He hadn’t even heard Steve arrive, but here he is preparing snacks, taking care of them like always.

As quietly as possible, he takes the popcorn out of the microwave to stop that infernal beeping (how Steve is able to sleep through it is beyond him) and pours the popcorn into a bowl, grabs a few other things from the cabinet, and organizes them on the counter. He leans over toward Steve, as close as he dares, fingers ghosting over Steve’s hair, his cheek, admiring his long lashes and the freckles that dust his skin. He settles for gently grasping Steve’s shoulder.

“Steve, wake up,” he whispers. Steve mumbles something and then buries his face in the crook of his arm. Eddie can’t stop himself from reaching out and touching Steve’s hair, his heart bursting with fondness.

“Angel, you can’t sleep here, you’ll hurt your back,” he whispers slightly louder. Immediately he realizes what he let slip and waits, frozen, for Steve’s reaction. But Steve just grunts, and doesn’t move.

“Steve, man, c’mon,” Eddie tries again, and this time Steve lifts his head and looks at Eddie blearily.

“Wha-“ he gets out, looking adorably confused.

“You fell asleep in the kitchen,” Eddie can’t help but smile. “Come on, let’s get you over to the couch. You can nap there. The heathens and I still have quite a bit longer in the campaign, plenty of time for you to get some rest.”

Eddie helps (well, more like manhandles) Steve over to the living room couch, thrilling at the way Steve’s body is pressed to his side, loose-limbed and uncareful. Steve drops to the couch and is immediately asleep again, sprawled on his back, looking every bit the teenager he is. Eddie forgets that Steve is only 19, with how much he’s seen and done. But here, at rest, he is young, pure, holy. Eddie’s savior in more ways than one. He grabs a blanket off the armchair and spreads it over Steve, tucking it in on the sides. Stoops down in a semblance of a forehead kiss, just breathing in the scent of Steve’s hair, relishing a stolen moment of closeness.

“Sleep tight, angel.”

-

Three days later, Eddie finds himself in the passenger seat of Steve’s BMW, bickering, as usual, about music. He finds a sick sense of joy in being able to go toe-to-toe against Steve Harrington, King of Hawkins High, even if it’s about something innocuous, like the merits (or complete lack thereof) of Steve’s favorite band.

“Listen, Harrington, listen!” Eddie is getting into it now, feeling himself metaphorically jumping on top of his cafeteria table pedestal. “Wham! is the devil’s music! It’s demonic, only hellspawn can listen to that shit without their ears bleeding.”

Steve glares at him for a brief moment, before his expression fades into a cocky smirk. “Hellspawn?” He meets Eddie’s eyes. “I thought I was an angel.”

[gallusrostromegalus]

Your Ulquiorra plans are very intriguing, he may be one of my faves from the og- How does he survive exactly and how does he end up in the court guard?

Do they let him roam and leave him be like the crow problem or do they eventually have dedicated arrancar babysitters? What is Ulqui the most curious about, is there certain squads he hangs around in more than others? Does his social awareness get better or does he try obliterating some poor sod because they stood in the middle of the hallway for too long? Does he manage to make some friends?

He do be a blorbo fr

Asking for a friend obvs and not for a Squad 9 ficlet at all *clears throat*

...so he actually ends up in the Royal Realm, not the court guard.

Specifically, when everyone else finally manages to subdue Aizen, Gin yoinks him off to the Royal Realm to be fed to the Life Machine, Ulquiorra zips through the portal after them, because he's determined to finish actually kicking Aizen's ass.

Instead, Ulquiorra ends up inside the Actual Soul King Palace, with exactly no supervision.

Being as the total population of the royal realm is 5 super-captains, a couple dozen assistants of dubious autonomy, and Gin, it's not hard for Ulquiorra to go do whatever the hell he wants undetected for several weeks, and when people do start noticing that things are amiss-

Kirinji is having a deeply paranoid reaction to the sudden appearance of masses of black hair in the drains of some of his hot springs. 

At first he thinks he’s going bald, but then he begins to suspect the other guards… and then that this is, somehow, a message from Tama.  The Kodoku is almost done, isn’t it?

Not wanting anyone to learn his secret, he tells no-one.

Hikifune notices that some of her food is missing- high protein, fat and iron stuff like pork belly and calf liver, but also candies and fruits.

At first she thinks there’s rats again, but then realizes- This is what someone used to starving takes. She prepares a more nutritionally balanced care package for him, along with a note that he’s welcome at her table any time.

...Hikifune didn’t kill the Mod Konpaku- she smuggled as many as possible into the royal realm with her as sous-chefs, but she couldn’t get all of them, and some still shuffle in, drawn to their mother.   She hopes her lost children will all come home soon.

Not wanting to jeapordize the safety of her children, she tells no-one.

-Senjumaru is initially *pissed* that SOMEONE not only stole a pair of denim short pants from her latest collection, they used her good fabric shears to CUT HAIR, but then she gets a better look at the black fur and WOW this is terrific long fringe stuff what is it it’s too soft to be horsehair, too long to be rabbit and there’s LOTS of it??? 

Well.

She supposes they can have a pair of Jorts in exchange.  She leaves him a note to make an appointment next time, she’ll make him something that fits instead of whatever is on the rack.

Not wanting to lose her position or the possibility of a new friend, she tells no-one.

Ichibe gets up in the middle of the night because he’s feeling restless- something is nagging him, trivial but irritating, like a pea irritates a princess, and goes into his studio to practice strokes and katas to soothe himself. 

But in the middle of the studio, standing over the good paper, is some sort of DEMON with glowing green eyes and horns and terrible bat wings and… jorts?  He’s so startled he doesn’t immediately strike the wretched thing down OR read it’s name and it scrambles away, the tail knocking over everything in the middle shelf of his inkstand and splattering it *everywhere* before it jumps out the window and flies away.

Ichibe curses and gnashes his teeth- everything is MESS, and FURTHERMORE, The Damn Thing has used up his good hot press paper and written the most AWFUL poetry… in unfortunately extremely good calligraphy.

Deeply embarrassed, he tells no-one.

...They're all WAAAAAY too paranoid and secretive to actually *tell* any of their colleagues that something weird is going on.

Except Oetsu, who assumes Ulquiorra is a Zanpaktou spirit that's crawled out out the pit from which all spirits he builds swords for emerge, and that absolutely nothing unusual is going on at all!

Sure, Batboy is a little bit weird and talks like a Bryonic protagonist, but it's nice to have somebody to actually *talk* to for once.

Oetsu has never actually *been* to spirit world for any extended period of time, and is maybe a little iffy on some of the specifics of some of the latest happenings of the last 2,000ish years.

Like that Arrancar exist.

Sure, Batboy's got a weird hole in his chest, but Oetsu does not immediately associate weird negative space in a dude's torso with him being a hollow. He deals with MUCH weirder-looking spirts all the time!

Eventually, Gin realizes Ulqiorra followed him into The Royal Realm, but he doesn’t seem particularly bent on Destruction.

If anything, he seems to have gotten a good bath, filled out a little bit, gotten a sword, some MUCH better-looking trousers and some mysterious ink stains and overall calmed down and looks better.

...Good for him!

But Gin’s got a lot of work to do, so Ulquiorra is now his intern! Ulquiorra: What’s an Intern? Gin Uh. An intern is a guy who lives in the office closet who brings you snacks! Ulquiorra: …That doesn’t sound right, but I don’t know enough about internships to dispute it. Gin: Whatever, just bring me a rat or something. Ulquiorra: …How about some ham? Gin: That’d be great actually. Ulquiorra: Get hammed, idiot. *throws ham at Gin but he catches it in his mouth like a dog catching a frisbee* Ulqiorra, after a few minutes of watching Aizen get taffy’d: So what’s all this… for? Gin: *Explains The Life machine, and it’s subsequent befuckening* Ulquiorra: We should ask Orihime to do this.  She’s the smartest person I know. Gin: You know like four people, and the other three are the SOB in the taffy puller, a cat, and me.  That ain’t a high bar. Gin: …she is still smarter than both of us though. Hm. 

Ulquiorra spends a few months like this- wandering around exploring, visiting and gradually getting better at deciding to do things on his own initiative, and to just... enjoy existing.

Meanwhile, Orihime has been working on working out the math behind how Kido Spells are composed, and cracked into the language of Soul King and The Life machine. She’s worked out that there’s something squiffy about some of the spells- two kinds of logic, like there are two authors. (One is the Life machine’s original programming, the other is Soul King’s edits to Reality to improve the wheel). The second logic makes more sense for how reality actually operates, but isn’t as complete. -She’s puzzling over this discrepancy when Shiro wanders over and makes a bad “Maybe he’s Dead?” joke Orihime: ...that would explain a lot actually. See this line right here? It’s like. Half of a new spell. And also the most recent change I could find.  It’s like whoever was writing this got interrupted halfway through and just. Never came back to it. Shiro: Oh. Shiro: …Can you finish it? Orihime: ...I think I can, actually, but.  Well, I can’t figure out how he was making the edits stick? Like? Where was he inputting this that the spell actually changes reality? Ichigo: Aizen was trying to go to the Royal Realm where the Soul King lives, right?  Maybe the terminal to edit the mainframe is up there? Orihime: ... Orihime: Oh my god. I think you’re right. Orihime: Well, the universe didn’t implode so I'm pretty sure Aizen isn’t editing there, but… Orihime: *Takes out Matsumoto’s old spirit phone which she stole along with Hitsugaya's when she got kidnapped to Las Noches, frowns at it for a while, then dials a number on it* Ichigo, shiro: ?? Orihime: *Holds up a finger to indicate she’s on an important call and they need to be quiet. Someone answers Orihime: Ulquiorra? Ulquiorra: Bwah? Ichigo and Shiro: BWAH?? Orihime: We have a lot to talk about, but I need you to answer a few questions for me, please? Ulquiorra: ok??? Orihime: Where are you, right now? -- Ulquiorra is in Hikifune’s kitchen, snitching food again. Ulquiorra: …A Kitchen. Orihime: in broader terms.  Living world? Hueco mundo? Soul Society? Ulquiorra: uhhhhh… none of the above? Orihime: is it an additional plane of reality? Ulquiorra: yeah? Orihime: Is there a large palace or something like that in it? Ulquiorra, worried: Yeah?? Orihime: is there, anywhere in that plane, but probably in the palace, a place with a lot of math text in it, like I was writing on the walls of Las Noches? Ulquiorra, alarmed: Yeah??? Orihime: Oh, good! Ulquiorra: It is? Orihime: Well, yes, but listen- Listen, okay? UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU, OR ANYONE ELSE, TOUCH **ANY** PART OF THAT WRITING. Ulquiorra: Why? Orihime: the universe might end. Ulquiorra: …I’m gonna go lock that room real fast. Orihime: Thank you. Call me back when you can and we’ll talk, okay? Ulquiorra: Yes Ma’am! *Hangs up* -- Ichigo: WHAT Shiro: YEAH, WHAT Orihime: Good news! Nothing broke yet! Both: Yet? Orihime: I uh. I’m pretty sure. That nothing broke. And that Ulquiorra is kind of technically guarding the place where God edits the computer code that makes up reality. Both: … Shiro, despairing: THAT FUCKING MORON?? Ichigo: yeah, that’s not “Good” news. Orihime: It’s fine! Just so long as nobody breaks in there, it’ll be fine!

Anyway, I hope that helps, and it's GRIMMJOW that ends up drafted into the Court Guards :)

[californiaboytoybilly]

Eye Candy - pt one

Steve and Robin move to a big city on the coast after Robin graduates from her college classes with a degree in the arts.

It’s an impulsive decision, like many of theirs are. The kids are leaving for college, they’ve been fired from their jobs- Steve publicly chewed out a customer who made a gross comment about Robin’s chest- and neither of them particularly want to keep staying in their childhood homes still in their early twenties.

So they pick a city, cram their combined belongings into a car, and spend the better part of a few days slowly driving across country.

It takes a while because Steve insists on stopping at multiple cheesy landmarks on the way, much to Robin’s theatric dismay.

But they get there and they settle in and they… love it. They find an industrial style apartment that they can see the water from- over a handful of other brick buildings, anyway- and get new jobs at a musical diner. Turns out they can both sing, and Steve looks great in his tiny red shorts and rollerblades.

They spend their mornings arguing over what shape is superior to cook batter in (Robin is team waffle, Steve is team pancake) and giggling over the celebrity gossip section like teen girls. More often than not, they end up crashing in Robin’s bed at night even though they have separate bedrooms. It’s wonderful.

But one night, they are so incredibly bored.

They get all dressed up just to pass the time, doing little model walks out to the living room, striking poses, taking goofy pictures to cover the walls in. The outfits turn out honestly kind of great and it feels like a waste not to go anywhere. So they do.

The original plan was to go to this queer club they found in their first week here, the entrance to which was. hidden inside the dry storage room of an Italian restaurant. However, they take a detour through the rich neighborhoods to ogle the stupidly big houses they couldn’t afford even with twenty pooled years of diner salary, making fun of the absurdly shaped topiaries and obnoxiously shiny cars that made Steve’s look like a junk heap.

That’s when they get a reckless idea.

One of the houses a little separate from the others is a mansion with music thrumming from inside and flashing colourful lights, with a guard dressed in all black standing at the front door.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

They blurted at the same time, slowing the car to a stop.

Minutes later, Steve strolled down the long, perfectly even paving stones set into the emerald lawn with an updated, adult version of his signature King Steve ‘I belong everywhere I show up’ face.

He was dressed in a loose silk shirt and dark wash jeans, hazel eyes rimmed in kohl and hair artfully messed on top of his head. Robin had caved into his suggestions earlier, dressed in an eggshell bustier- that she kept awkwardly adjusting where it dug into her side- and black slacks with gold buttons up the legs.

They don’t look underdressed for the place, at least.

Steve gets stopped by the guard almost immediately and asked for his name, and Robin starts to sweat. She’s ready to apologize and say they must have accidentally come to the wrong place.

But Steve just scoffs, hand on his hip, with a righteously offended look on his face. “Excuse me?” He asks, tone dripping false condescension. “Are you seriously asking who I am?”

The guard looks nervous, immediately shuffling with his papers presumably carrying the guest list. A vein throbs in his temple and he flits his gaze between Robin and Steve in their dressy clothes and the door behind him.

What kind of people were at this party that the guard was that nervous about not recognizing someone?

The guard glances subtly at the list again and Robin can see there are only two names not checked off the list.

“No, sir. Of course I recognize you…” The guard trails awkwardly as he lies, “trick of the light, couldn’t see your face before. Come on in, my apologies.”

He checks off both names on the list, without asking again.

That worked?

Robin gave Steve a baffled side eye as they entered the house, to which he simply shrugged.

“My mother always said to pretend I belonged anywhere I went with conviction. She said people would wittle out a spare chair for me with a spoon rather than admit they don’t know why I’m there.”

Robin snorted. “Rich people.”

Steve just barely resisted the urge to elbow her in the ribs. “At least if I was still rich, we wouldn’t have wrestled over the last banana this morning.”

But then he paused, eyes taking in the other scattered guests.

“Hey uh… is it just me or is everyone here-“

“Insanely hot?” Robin finished his sentence, sticking close to his side as she looked around. “Steve where the hell are we?”

Steve didn’t have an answer for her, scanning the crowd of ridiculously attractive people in expensive outfits, mingling and dancing to the music playing from a speaker he couldn’t find in the massive, open concept first floor.

He didn’t get long to try and figure it out, however.

A low, faintly amused voice chimed in from a few feet away. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” The mystery person answered Robin’s query as Steve spun to face them, pulse spiking.

“I certainly would remember a face like that, especially since I made the guest list. So my return question is… how did you get into my house?”

[piratefishmama]

Beware the Thorns

(a NSFW multi-part ficlet)

In many in journalistic circles, Eddie Munson, was Steve Harrington’s partner. The eye candy on his arm, cool, indifferent to everyone, he didn’t stray to the cameras for his five minutes of fame, he breezed by them as if he were just… better than them.

He was beautiful, skin like pale porcelain, dark curls full of lustre, and volume, dark doe eyes mysterious and inviting, broad shoulders, slender waist. His body only ever donned in the most expensive of dark fabrics, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Dolce, nothing touched his skin but perfection.

To those who knew him better, he was Eddie Munson, professional escort, his services were expensive, he catered only to the rich, but he was good at his job.

Services included attending events, non-sexual but intimate bathing, the ‘boyfriend’ package, something Steve had been paying for, for ooooooh two years now? Long distance work, sex… sex was usually a given according to MOST people, and they did like to try and argue for it being included in the price of something basic, but Eddie charged more for it, and was often coy and promising enough to make them wait for him if he wanted to hold off.

And boy did he have them on a hook when he held off, the hunger to sink into his pert little ass keeping them paying, and paying, and paying for his time, for his presence on their arm. He was worth the wait, but he didn’t want to give in too fast, less they cut ties after getting what they wanted, they were his business, he had to keep them wanting.

He was a long game escort, he wasnt a wham bam ka-ching thank u ma’am/man kind of deal, wasnt a one and done sex worker. He put more time into it. He put serious effort into it. He was good at it.

He even had his own website.

Granted the website was listed as something else entirely so you had to know what you were looking for because wow, some of it was illegal, but word of mouth got him around more than enough to keep the lights on in his Indianapolis penthouse apartment, it was cosy, had everything he needed.

It helped that his clients were LOADED. One had to know where to go to get those big bucks, had to know which big fish to dangle the worm in front of.

He’d dangled that worm in front of Steve Harrington while on the arm of someone else, there were… rumours, of his sexuality floating about, stories from his high school years, that one gay bar he’d been spotted in with his friends, the way he’d touch pretty men, and look a little longer than necessary at things a straight boy shouldn’t be looking at while high as a kite.

He just hadn’t come out yet, at least, he hadn't until Eddie had been seen on his arm at a charity gala, having appeared to jump ship from the arm of the Hagan boy somewhere behind the scenes.

Nobody could get a word from the sole heir of the Hagan Hotel fortune as to what happened either, lips were zipped shut on the matter, he hadn't even tried to smear Eddie's name which some journalists found. Strange. Given Hagan's verbal evisceration of his previous exes.

Tommy wasn’t… bad, per-say.

He could be sweet when he wanted to be, but he rarely wanted to be. He was also overconfident, he lacked the ability to hold insults to himself, and had on more than one occasion called Eddie a useless whore in a fit of anger over some such nonsense.

So. Eddie cut those ties at the first big fish opportunity.

He was one of Eddie’s… longer lasting clients though, the half a year he spent seeing him regularly was… sometimes okay, the sex was fun, access to the good drugs was awesome since Hagan didn’t shy away from them, and he got paid nicely for his time, but he was glad he didn’t have to spend all his time with the man as an actual partner would have.

Probably would have strangled him by now.

Steve Harrington wasn’t like him though… Steve was his favourite client.

~~

Eddie Munson had waltzed into Steve Harringtons life with all the ease and grace of a man who’d lived in wealth his entire life.

Like a rose he was beautiful, but hidden beneath the pretty petals there were thorns to consider.

He wasn’t truly his, and therein lay the thorns. He was paying for the privilege of his company, paying for him on his arm, paying for him to breeze by flashing cameras in fancy suits, paying for him to act the part of a loving, attentive boyfriend for the paparazzi trying to catch a glimpse of his love life.

It was easier to pay a professional, than allow a civilian into his life.

It was easier to bring Eddie home with him, watch him waltz around his living room in his tailored semi-sheer silk button-down shirt, tucked neatly into his black Gucci tux trousers, his blazer left draped over one of the chairs, it was easy watching him sway, the twinkle of his draping silver chain ear cuff catching the light from the lit lamps amidst beautiful dark curls, his slender hips swaying to the quiet music Steve had put on that evening after a long night of schmoozing with the press, with his peers.

People who probably knew who Eddie truly was, but… were tight-lipped enough not to spill the beans, because blowing that whistle would of course shine a spotlight on how they’d know.

It was safer for them to just smile and nod.

It was easy, joining him, slipping behind him, and pulling him close, ass to groin, trailing kiss after kiss down his warm, smooth neck, hands on his hips easing him back, into him, close to him in a slow, rhythmic grind of intent.

Easy to convey what he wanted to a professional, knowing he’d get it.

It was easy to lose himself in the idea that this man was his to take to bed, and because he wasn’t truly his, but an employee…

It was easy to let him go in the morning, his wallet some three grand lighter, depending on what they did the night before… it was easy… until it wasn’t easy anymore.

Until the brief press of lips to his forehead as he feigned sleep in the morning, and the soft rustle of his wallet being rifled through for the exact amount owed and nothing more, because he’d long since told Eddie where he kept it, and gave him permission to just take what was owed and go if he had to go.

Until all the things he’d found so easy about Eddie’s presence in his life… stopped being easy for his heart to ignore.

The soft press of lips to his brow in silent goodbye left him wanting nothing more than to pull his beautiful porcelain rose, thorns and all, back into bed and demand he stay just a few more hours, the feel of his body pressed close in the night, curled under the Egyptian cotton sheets with him, had him lying awake at night longing for the sun to take just a little longer to rise.

Eddie Munson wasn’t his. Not really.

And maybe, maybe he figured, as he slipped on a pair of dark leather gloves for his early Monday meeting, the touch of his hired lover still lingering on his skin, the bruising hickey the brunette had left during the night, before disappearing before dawn as he KNEW Steve had an early meeting, knuckles cracking as he flexed them within the reinforced gloves.

Maybe, he figured as the iron knuckles embedded in his gloves met the soft, weak, easily breakable jaw of the latest person to cross him and his business partners, the sickening crunch of bone breaking beneath skin...

Maybe Eddie not really being his was a good thing.

That didn’t stop him, or his heart, from wanting.

It being a good thing didn’t stop his hands from dialling those digits he’d long since memorised, he didn’t even need them saved in his contacts, he had them, the only number he’d ever memorized, he had it there by pure muscle memory. A number carved into his very soul.

Sometimes even if he wasn’t trying to call the brunette, his fingers would dial as if his heart had simply taken over his mind when it came to him. This time however, he purposefully dialled.

After cleaning his hands of the sickly, dark red that’d stained them, gotten under the fabric of his gloves and ruined them, he dialled, knowing that when his addiction answered, and he always answered… everything would feel okay again.

The racing of his heart would slow, calm would wash over him like waves slowing their turbulent rolls after a storm had passed.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite person in the whole wide world~” his voice thick and throaty, he always sounded so fucked out when he answered the phone, like the strongest whiskey mixed with the finest of honey. Steve knew this wasn’t a greeting purely for him, Eddie didn’t save numbers, he didn’t to keep his clients safe in case the police got hold of his phone, and he sure as fuck didn’t speak like that in private, he’d heard Eddie in private…

Heard him when the brunette didn’t think he could hear, when he thought Steve to still be in the shower, he was on the phone to someone, probably a friend, who Steve didn’t know but definitely not a client, Eddie always sounded different when speaking to a client… somewhere deep down… Steve almost wished he had that relationship with him instead. Almost.

He did wished he could see the real him, hear the real him instead of this imposter, instead of the façade he put on, it worked for him, fuck did it work, he could fuck his own fist for hours just listening to that voice, but… he wanted more, he’d wanted more for some time.

But he’d take what he could get. If all Eddie would give him were an imposter, then… an imposter he’d take. It wasn’t as though Steve were being truly honest about himself either.

Thorns. So many little thorns.

“Flatterer” he hummed, earning a deep laugh from the speaker that had his heart thump against his ribcage, fuck, he didn’t deserve that laugh, didn’t deserve the warmth it filled him with, a man lay broken not far from his feet, blood pooled around his head, barely alive, he didn’t deserve the warmth Eddie gave him.

But he’d greedily soak what was offered up.

Eddie didn’t seem surprised it was him either, which was nice, it made his greeting seem all the more real, he just… adapted, quick as lightning “as if you don’t deserve it, are you gonna be home tonight, baby?” Deep down he knew this wasn’t Eddie… deep down there was a fiery, excitable, loud, nerdy man hidden beneath the surface probably cringing at the tone of voice being used, but it was what he was allowed to hear, it was all Eddie was willing to share with him, and that was okay.

In every part of his life, he was in control, he could have what he wanted, get what he demanded… but with Eddie… he got what he was given, and he was happy for it.

“I should be home by eight…”

“Ugh good… I’ve missed you, sweetheart.” Whether it was the truth or not Steve never knew, he liked to believe it was, he liked to think his addiction missed him as much as he missed his addiction while he was away “what do you want for dinner?” He smiled against the phone, silent for a moment as he basked in the domesticity of it all, how easily Eddie made him just… BELIEVE that he was a sweet housewife, ready to tend to his every need “… baby?”

“Just thinking… you know I love everything you cook, so many options…” Eddie was incredible at everything, he used a knife better than some of his most skilled bodyguards, men who’d trained with a bladed weapon for most of their lives, he had two ex-black ops on his staff and neither of them could handle a knife quite like him, of course comparing them wasn’t exactly fair, one used it to fillet fish and cut vegetables, the others… cut into other things.

He liked Eddie’s use of them far more than the other.

“Want me to surprise you?” He liked giving Eddie creative freedom, liked it far more than when he told him what to do, telling him… didn’t always get the best results, Eddie liked his freedom to create far too much, surprises tended to feel more… personal, tailored to what he thought Steve might like.

“Please, I could never choose, it’s all so good” another laugh, softer, it sounded so real… so honest, a spell he dare not break by saying the wrong thing, tearing into the space they created together, the fantasy life together by insinuating that this wasn’t the norm… that he couldn’t always have Eddie making his dinner like he longed for.

“Have a safe flight, okay? I’ll see you when you get home…” he was doing something, couldn’t stay on the call, was he with someone else? No… he’d never answer if he was with someone else, the thought made him grip the phone tighter though, jealousy coursing through him at the mere idea that someone else could be occupying his time… stealing his attention away. “Love you, baby” it wasn’t real, just a fantasy.

It still made all his fears, all his worries vanish, pop like bubbles, washed away by the torrent of warmth that flooded him with those simple words.

“Love you too” he only wished Eddie’s words were as real as his own.

Part 2

[finniestoncrane]

🩷🍿 Finnie's 2k Follower Event 🍿💚

🩷💚🩷 EVENT NOW CLOSED 🩷💚🩷 hello and welcome to my silly little cinema 🩷💚🩷💚 this time around i've got options for moodboards, mini playlists, character pairings, and as always, ficlets and headcanons!! as always my little beloveds, read my rules, & send your requests in (and include reader's gender/pronoun/genital info where needed!) i don't know how many requests i'll do (edit: i'll be doing 50 requests for this event, there are still plenty of spaces!!) and i'll try to avoid similar prompts!! (normal requests are still open just now but i won't be writing them or posting them until after the event) along with the drabbles and headcanons, i'll also do a little giveaway of sorts with some commissions, so anyone who asks off anon will be included into a little draw for a free 500 word commission, and i'll pick some winners just to express how much love i have for you all ;-;💚 🔞minors dni🔞 • masterlist • kofi link • tag: finnie2k (to follow or to block)

hi welcome to the cinema!! are you ready to purchase your tickets?

i'll let my date decide [tell me a bit about yourself for a character pairing!]

yes!! [please scroll for options and prompts!]

if you're not here for a date, please choose from the options below and let me know which character you want!! (pick literally any character from my "will write" list! 1 for x reader, 2 for ships)

no more requests for btaa!scarecrow or zero year!riddler, please! their egos will explode lmao

where would you like to be seated? (pick 1 option)

right in the middle [movie soundtrack - mini playlist based on the character]

aisle seat [movie poster - i'll make a little moodboard based on the character]

front rows [short fic/drabble - scroll for the next options!]

back rows [headcanons/short form - scroll for the next options!]

which genre of movie would you like to see? (pick 1)

science-fiction [smut/pwp]

horror [dead dove/something dark]

action [hurt/comfort - physical]

drama [hurt/comfort - emotional]

romantic comedy [tooth rotting fluff]

thriller [angst]

and what would you like in your snack box? (pick up to 3, also yeah whatever my theatre serves fries and burgers!!)

🥤 soda [praise kink]

🧋 bubble tea [posessiveness]

🧃 fruit juice [touch starved, tensing up when shown affection]

🍹 cocktail [acts of care]

🍷 wine [confessing feelings]

🍺 beer ["i didn't mean it... it was an accident"]

🍕 pizza slice [dry humping]

🍔 slider [begging]

🌭 hotdog ["they'd/you'd never feel that way about me"]

🌶️ nachos [comforting through a breakup while pining]

🍟 fries [pet play]

🥓 jerky [oral sex/rimming]

🍿 sweet popcorn [sex as a tension release]

🧂 salted popcorn [watching a movie together]

🧈 butter popcorn ["look at you, you're dripping all over yourself"]

🧀 cheese popcorn [rough sex]

🥨 pretzel [roleplaying]

🍩 donut ["i think i love you"]

🍪 chocolate cookie [biting/licking/sucking]

🌈 rainbow cookie [clumsy first kisses]

🧁 cupcake [cnc/noncon/dubcon]

🍎 fruit cup ["you're going to ruin me"]

🍫 chocolate bar [voyeurism]

🍬 candy ["keep your eyes open, i want you to look at me"]

🍭 lollipop [choking]

🍧 frozen yoghurt [blushing in front of your crush, who finds it cute]

🍨 sundae [blind date]

🍦 vanilla ice cream ["that feels nice... it feels right"]

🍌 banana ice cream [sitting in their lap]

🍑 peach ice cream [spanking/impact play]

🍒 cherry ice cream [a kiss, then a slap, then a returned kiss]

🍓 strawberry ice cream ["your hands are so soft"]

🌰 trail mix [facefucking/face riding]

🥜 peanuts ["you're doing such a good job"]

🧅 grilled onions ["i want to smell myself on you"]

🥒 pickles [humiliation/degradation]

🥬 slaw [memorising the scars/marks on their body]

🔴 ketchup ["you said you'd never be caught dead doing something like this"]

🟡 mustard [piss]

🟢 ranch [feeling safe enough to fall asleep in each others' arms]

🥛 sour cream [cockwarming]

🥚 mayo ["let me show you"]

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Hey! Can I please get 13 with Cal or Hunter? Here’s some context- the reader is having a bad day.

A/N: Thanks for the request @sleepycreativewriter! The prompt is "cuddles of consolation." I’ve never written Cal before, but I love him beyond reason, and I did my best. I hope you enjoy, and even more, I hope the day is kind to you. If you need to talk, my DMs are open. 🩶

Pairing: Cal Kestis x Reader (GN)

Rating: G (but as always, minors DNI)

Wordcount: 475

Warnings and tags: hurt comfort, cuddles, Cal’s love language is acts of service

Summary: Some days just suck. Cal understands, and he’s there for you.

Suggested Listening: 

This fic smells like: Remarkable People by Etat Libre d'Orange (cardamom, jasmine, sandalwood)

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

The Mantis was unusually, even suspiciously, quiet. If you had to guess, the rest of the crew were avoiding you like the blue shadow virus, and you didn’t blame them. In a way, it was a relief. After the day you’d just had, all you really wanted to do was sit alone in the dark and lick your metaphorical wounds. Your head ached, your throat felt raw, and the last thing you wanted to do was socialize, so when you heard a soft footfall behind you, you took a deep breath and braced yourself for an interaction that you desperately wished to avoid.

As it happened, though, the person who intruded on your solitude was the only one in the galaxy you actually wanted to see at the moment. Cal approached the sofa and sank down next to your huddled form. He reached for you slowly, giving you plenty of time to stop him, and when you made no move to do so, he grazed his knuckles down your cheek, then cupped his fingers beneath your chin and tilted your head toward him so he could look into your eyes. His concerned expression was almost more than you could bear, so you looked away, staring blankly at the table in front of you.

Please, please don’t ask how I’m doing, you mentally begged.

“Have you eaten anything today?” he asked instead.

You blinked, then gave a halfhearted smile. “Equinox Day candy.”

He kindly refrained from pointing out that Equinox Day had passed weeks earlier. Instead, he pulled a ration bar out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and handed it to you. You took a reluctant bite, then crammed half of it into your mouth, suddenly realizing you were famished.

“When was the last time you drank water?” he asked.

You finished chewing and swallowed, then admitted the truth somewhat hesitantly. “Uh... Yesterday.”

Without a word, he handed you a canteen of water and watched as you drank the entire bottle, then polished off your ration bar.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly.

“Not really.”

“Okay,” he replied. 

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you close, not stopping until you were practically sitting in his lap with your head resting against his chest, then he began to rub tiny circles between your shoulder blades. He cradled your head with his free hand, then rested against your neck, his fingers grazing over your pulse. 

“Today sucked,” you muttered with a choked, sardonic laugh.

“I know,” he replied. “I’ve got you.”

You didn’t even realize your tears had begun to fall until his thumb brushed across your cheek, smoothing them away. He didn’t say a word about it, just held you tightly, as long as you needed.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, and you knew he would never lie to you.

---

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[itsokbbygrl]

A lil random drabble/ficlet prompt or two-- hope your drugged out haze is the best kind ♡

Prompts (take your pick, as many/few as you want):

Warm hands on a cold night

Cotton candy skies

"You said you knew where we were going"

Joel Miller x F!Reader Drabble: Warm Hands, Warm Heart

Tags: fluff, unspecified age gap (post TLOU part 1 Joel, reader is old enough to remember some things from pre-outbreak and is of childbearing age), very brief pregnancy mention

Joel stands on the porch of the old farmhouse, mug of coffee warming his hands as he leans against the railing. It's uncharacteristically warm for a late-February evening in Wyoming, but the air sweeping down from the nearby mountains gives all who have wandered out from their shelter a warning that winter is not nearly ready to surrender to the impending and inevitable spring.

The old screened front door squeaks on its hinges, opening and then closing softly. There is a soft patter of feet on the wood. He knows those steps, has memorized their sound, reminds himself there is no danger here. He relaxes the muscles that tightened subconsciously.

"Thought I might find you out here," you vocalize, letting your presence be known to him, even if you already knew he knew it was you. He's gotten better at this--allowing you the option of being known. He hasn't pushed, not since that one time, years ago. He's never forced you to be in any space you haven't chosen to be in since, especially since finding the relative safety of Jackson and subsequently the farmhouse that lies just to its northern outskirts.

Joel brings his mug to his mouth and slurps a sip before returning it to the gentle hold between his palms. He doesn't turn to look at you, keeps his eyes focused ahead. You join him at the railing, leaning your forearms against the old wood, and look out to the scene in front of you. You're both quiet for a moment, taking in the beauty of your home. Home, that is not a word you ever thought you'd use again, yet here you are, through terror and anguish and more pain than you ever thought you could endure, you survived. And now you're home.

"Sky's pretty tonight," you say. Joel hums in agreement, taking another drink from his cup. "Like cotton candy. God, I haven't thought about that stuff in decades," you continue, laughing a little at the absurdity of the pastel fairground treat in a world this ravaged by darkness.

"Sarah used to love that stuff. Begged for it every year at the big State Fair back in Austin. Hated it, just got her all sticky n'sugared up which always led to skipping nap time and then she'd have a damn tantrum," Joel gives. You've noticed he's been talking about her more easily over the last couple of years. Slowly but surely opening up. "Would always get it for her anyway. S'worth it, the way it made her so happy."

You reach over then and take one of his hands off his mug and interlace your fingers with his own, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. Warm hands, warm heart, you think. These hands that have known such violence now softened, holding your own tenderly, tracing your knuckles with his thumb. Hands that create rather than destroy. You bring your hands to your mouth and leave a kiss to the back of his palm, leaving a stamp of your love there and think of all the beautiful things you've already created together, including the one you're not ready to share with him just yet. For now, you just enjoy the moment, cementing the memory of his warm hands and the cotton candy sky and the peace you feel into place. There will be time for the rest later, when Joel will have a new set of tiny hands to help keep warm.

[nshtn]

Effervescent You

Edward Nashton x GN!Reader

A little ficlet about Edward's feelings for you. TW for stalking and voyeurism. Suggestive.

Edward laid in his bed, thoughts consuming his ragged mind each night the way they always had – aside from one tiny detail, that was.

Tonight they focused deeply on you.

He wondered when it was, exactly, that he had fallen for you. When it was that his mind decided to insert you into the messied fray of mental gunfire, tried to force you to fit into the fragments of a framework he couldn’t afford. And he knew, deep down, that you couldn’t afford it either; if he abducted you into his world you’d fall ill immediately and become a withered rose, the last petals of your pure intention rotting in the decrepit vestiges of his mind. You had to be a savored candy, to be preserved like a limited gem; you were the sparkling foil mastercraft card of his mind, legendarily glinting in the light.

Oh... He could never say that one out loud. You would make fun of him… would you? For all the truth he could unfold from you, he couldn’t understand the absence of your outright social rejection. He waited, and waited, and waited on it, ears back and tail tucked, but the guillotine of cut contact never descended upon him. Hypersensitive hearing that focused on every word you spoke as he trudged past you in the office had you defending him when your coworkers called him a creep. Why? You were making things worse for yourself. He was a creep. Edward Nashton was a massive, horrible, gnashing and terrible creep, the kind that wanted to be the monster under your bed if only it meant another moment of you.

He sniffled and blinked as his tired eyes burned with salt. No more of that. He needed a distraction, now. But… he needed your distraction, yes.

His eyes sweeped across the litter of photos he had taken of you. You were snagged in time, the tiny crooks of your upturned smile radiating through him warmly as you pressed a wad of ones into a waitress’s hand. Oh, you were always so kind and giving, it comforted him at night when the cold crackled in his bones; he could imagine you there, pushing your jacket across his shoulders, and his cheeks would warm him. There was one where you bit into a sandwich, eyebrows knitted in savored concentration, the ends of your fingers paling with the size of it in your grasp. Cute – he wished he could feed you. One he loved, where you were walking home, hoodie raised to shield you from the cacophony of life as you adjusted a pair of bassy Bluetooth headphones. He had loved listening in ever since. He was so glad you’d purchased them.

And, then, another. This one... that made his face flush and guts churn, shamefully: your delicate tongue rasping across the surface of a swirl of ice cream, the flat of the soft pink muscle cream-covered and draping out from the pillows of your lips. Edward swallowed as his eyes lagged across it, taking in the little bumps of your tongue and the soft curve it made, wishing so badly that he could snake his own against it, mentally writhing with the need to have you for his own. But he couldn’t! You? You would never want someone like Edward, you barely knew he existed, and he knew that the less you knew the better off he was to stoke the flames of this… hobby. The more attention he drew to himself, the less of his mask of normalcy would be left for your curious mind to recognize, and you – unlike his other coworkers, he thought – were smart enough to rip it off of him if he didn’t checkmate your every reply.

He shook a little. He needed you like a drug, like drops, he was diseased and disgusting and deathly and delirious and… and you were dovish, decadent, pillow-plush and dreamlike. He needed to distract himself again, from… from you, this time. Edward coughed, a shaky hand fumbling through dusty crosswords until he felt the staple of a fresh one, snagging it with one finger pad and into the bed before pulling a pencil from his pillowcase. Silence. Silence the spiral.

All he knew was that he needed more of you. He'd get more of you.