#HES SOOO FUCKIN SILLY…..

[cupiidzbow]

ummmm i like him so muchhhh 😚😚😚😚

[chatdae]

love how the older skaters in the senior division give Yurio encouragement and that each time it pisses Yurio off. JJ is intentionally condescending so that makes sense, but with Viktor and Yuuri they're not even being condescending. Yurio's just dialed in on being a hater... and i love that for him <3

[anton-rasputin]

Silly asexual creatures trying to communicate

He kissed him (on cheek!)

[achilleslyre]

the wayyyyy ppl treat my tics can be sooooo annoying way too often all the time…… they’ll comment on it in the dumbest of ways too like “i know u have no choice of saying that but why are u saying that” BABYGIRLLL u literally just said it! i have no choice! mfer do u truly madly deeply think if i don’t have any control over when i say or do things that i have control over what i’m saying and doing?!?! be fuckin for real right nowwwwwww

[groovyangelkisses]

Lumberjack ! Logan secretly love being pampered and spoiled by his girlfriend but is too shy to admit it

oh absolutely, honey! 💌

he'll daydream alllll day at the yard about comin' home to you & you running your nails through his hair, scratching and tugging while kissing his cheeks. and he'll blush, too! swinging his axe with the gratifying chop and thinking about his girl waiting for him at home ᯓᡣ𐭩

on days where you needed the pick-up, mainly to run to the farmer's market down the way for dinner, you'll pick him up from the yard. and ohhhh boy the looks logan gets when the other workers see a pretty little thing like you pulling up for him. and logan absolutely eats it up— loves knowing his pretty girl, so loving and doting, bordering obsessed with him, is the object of every mans dreams. if anyone dares to tease him for the sudden pep in his step as he almost jogs to you in the car, the glare they recieve will be deadly before logan shifts his eyeline back to you with a soft smile— only reserved for you <3

everyday when he comes home from work, there's a warm lavendar bath ready, and his favorite soft sweats warm from the dryer. the first time you drew him the bath, he fiddled with the soft pebbles of lavendar asking himself "what the fuck is this?" when you left the room for a moment to grab him a fluffy towel.

he was skeptical of being loved— never too quick to let his guard down. but when he finally sat in the tub? long, tanned limbs relaxing in the warm water that smelled sooo nice & relaxing? his shoulders dropping with content and his eyes fluttering shut? you washing his hair and telling him about your day? "oh god" he prays to himself "never take me away from her, not even for a second, i won't be able to bear it"

and for a more silly approach, you do a sweet little cucumber face mask on logan during the winter months; shelled up in your cozy home as the snow rages on. his eyes peacefully closed as you sit on his tummy, massaging his face gently as he runs his hands up & down your hips and thighs. a sudden knock at the window reveals one of logan's friendly coworkers, coming to drop off the coat logan left at the sight earlier that day.

and this coworker pauses his sentence in mild shock to stare at this 6'2, mean-eyed hairy lumberjack with green fluff on his face and freshly moisturized lips. and all logan can say is "you tell anyone and i'll fuckin' kill you, i swear to god i will" to which you'll turn, all hurt, "you don't like the mask, baby?" and logan'll backtrack so genuinely "no, no baby, i do. 's nice and cooling, like you said. just don't want this shithead thinkin' i'll do anything wild like this for anyone but my girl"

and when his buddy leaves, head falling back in laughter, logan doesn't even find himself caring so much. especially not when you lay him back down, face now clean of the mask, and slooooowly start massaging his biceps.

"love my girl. love my sweet girl. take such good care'a me, pup, 'm so grateful" he'll coo as he starts to fall asleep after a long day's work— completely content, completely in love, only mildly ashamed of how much he needs you :(((

[fushiguho]

For eons, I’ve been thinking about sweet, well-mannered, farmhand!Gojo ☀️ who fucks the literal breath out of you and you guys WILL hear me out, okay?

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･

As your father’s one and only employee, Satoru is held to incredibly high standards, which essentially boil down to two, very simple rules; never show up to the farm late and never, he means never pursue his daughter romantically. Seems easy enough, right?

Or so Satoru thought.

“Miss,” a thick, meridional voice utters from far behind, “miss, pardon my frankness, but I believe you just might be the prettiest woman I have ever seen.” Satoru admits candidly, briskly jogging to match your fast-paced gait as you trudge up the hill, toward the farmhouse over yonder.

“Oh, don’t be silly now,” you dismiss, waving a banishing hand, suppressing the ever-growing giddiness that threatens to invalidate your dismissal, “my father wouldn’t like that one bit, you know that. He’ll kill you ten times over, Satoru.” Surely he’s kidding, right? Surely he would never disobey your father’s wishes… right?

Now trudging beside you, Satoru nods slowly, adjusting the rusted buckles of his muddy, denim overalls. A dispirited sigh drags from his pretty, pink lips. Of course he knows. Shoulder to shoulder, the two of you plod toward the house, his lingering gaze as subtle as a sledgehammer, but when is it not?

“I’ve been made well aware,” he finally mutters under his breath as if coming to the unfortunate realization all over again, “but you don’t make it particularly easy for me, miss… you must know that.” His voice is a deep, southern drawl—beautifully elongated vowels like silken honey, the perfect melody for battered souls.

“How do you mean?” Your hand is coming up to your face, shielding your eyes from the sun so that you can peer up at the ivory-haired man beside you. “And you don’t have to call me that y’know.”

“What? Miss?” His incredulous tone forces a giggle past your lips. “Just a token of respect is all, blame my momma,” he smiles, cheeks glowing a beautiful crimson from the parching heat, “and it’s fitting… a pretty name for a pretty lady, hm?” He’s nudging you in the shoulder teasingly.

See? Satoru is sweet. So why on this godforsaken planet does he have you painfully spread apart on your family’s dining room table? Why are his large hands pinning your thighs to the stained wood so that he can watch as your desperate, drooling pussy swallows his cock whole? Why is he leaning down to whisper debauched words of praise directly into your ear?

“Look at this wet, little pussy, goddd… you take me sooo fuckin’ well—fuuuuuck, miss,” he’s deliriously tossing his head back to dangle between his shoulder blades, subconsciously yanking you closer to the edge of the rustic table, desperate to feel more of you, “like it was made for me, heh. Was this pretty pussy made for me, miss? Is this my pussy?”

It’s like switch has been flipped, like he’s possessed beyond saving and is now only a shell of his former self. Has he always been this way? Has he always had this filthy of a mouth? You’re not sure, not really. The only thing you’re sure of is the repetitive, obscene strike of his swollen balls against the fat of your ass. It’s the only thing you can hear, feel, think.

“C’monnn now… asked you a question, miss,” he’s leaning closer, mockingly cupping a hand over his ear to observe the way he fucks the breath out of you, “talk to meee, pretty, I wanna hear you. This pussy too loud, huh? Is she too wet for you to hear me?”

“It’s yours! Your p-pussy—mhmm,” you cry, nodding frantically in immense rapture, “fuuuck, you fuck me sooo good… s’good!”

“Yeah, sweet girl? You like how I fuck you?” The dark, breathy chuckle that drags from the depths of his chest sends yours mind blank as you nod dumbly. “You like how I give you everything? All of my cock?” A big, greedy hand is slipping beneath the small of your back, pulling you upright and impossibly closer. “Yeaaaah, you like my cock, look at you…” his hungry gaze is scanning over your stupid expression, “eyes rollin’ to the back of your head like that. Can’t even hear me anymore, can you?”

A pool of light washed denim surrounds Satoru’s feet, the hem of his white t-shirt tucked between his teeth, baring the sweat-ridden skin of his chest and abdomen. The bruising buck of his hips as he fucks himself deeper is only scooting the large table further and further across the hardwood floor. Even his deep, guttural moans are like kindle to an ever growing flame.

It’s always the ones you least expect.

[bergandysam]

Kim Seokjin Fic Recs

‼️18+ minors DNI, if you choose to anyways, PLEASE be careful. try to heed our warnings, we have them for a reason‼️

More Recs Here

he’s insanely good looking your honour

[not in any particular order] [if any users would like me to remove their post from this list please let me know and i will do so immediately!]

thank you daddy @ktheist 19k

sugar daddy!seokjin, WHEEWWW, small angst, hella smut tho LOLL, 9 YEAR AGE GAP!, they’re both horny fucks,

fast lane @yminie 20.6k

racer!seokjin, enemies2lovers, angst, smut !!!!!short depictions of car accidents!!!!!, jin is a PLAYA, reader really hates his guts LOLL

cherry topper @kth1 17.6k

friends2lovers, longtime pining, college!au, reader works at his family’s candy shop :)) fluff, angst, SMUT, reader is dense as hell LOLL

every year @another-army-spot 15.6k

childhood bff2L, chef!seokjin, a yearly new year’s eve party!!, hard fluff, smutty angst, they both grew up hella rich.

final sleigh @floralseokjin 23.3k

coworkers, e2l, reader very much hates seokjin LOLLL, forced proximity fanfic 🤭🤭 smut, fluff(?), angst in Y/N is petty LMAO, it’s christmas!

stuck with you @taleasnewastime 29.6k

strangers2lovers, reader is grumpy :(, they’re stuck in a city they don’t want to be in, Jin is a raining ball of sunshine, angst, smut, fluff, angst. happy ending :)

MENTIONS OF DEATH!

small tuna fish @floralseokjin 17.1k

college!au, jin is a GOOD nice guy, he’s so jinny, FLUFF x10000, smut too LOL, jin is a cutie, he’s inexperienced, there’s a charity car wash too 🤪

warm this winter @jamaisjoons 51.6k

s2l, this was so cute, jk is such a dumbass, but it’s okay seokjin is here to save the day. fluff, angst, SMUT. it just smacks u in the fuckin face.

lost and found @taleasnewastime 21.2k

s2l, seokjin owns a silly lil shop cuz he’s a silly lil guy, reader was cheated on, fluff, angst, they’re so cute. jimin is there too! oneshot.

you guys don’t understand how fucking much i love this story. i’ve re-read it more times than i can count. i think about this Jin once a week

made up love song @floralseokjin series

dilf!seokjin, teacher!reader, arin is saur cute, angsty :(, but fluffy!!! n very smutty, lots of fluff with arin, seokjins ex >:(

turn back time @raplinesmoon 13.3k

seokjin accidentally fast forwards time, smut, angsty fluff, reader is a doctor, JIN POPS A SEMI 💀💀💀💀

sit. stay. @daechwitatamic 14k

dog owners!!!, they live in the same building, jin just wants to help MC, miscommunication :(, fluff, angst, smut, more fluff. literally. cuz dogs. i love this jinnie sooo much

the ikea test @yoon-bug 9.1k

they’re dating, hoseok was right 💀, reader gets upset with seokjin, jin saves the day!!, and then screws the HELL out of MC, so.. smut, fluff too :)

last november @kithtaehyung 24.7k 😭😭

god. exes2l, angst and um oh more angst, smut, all ends well, they’re on a holiday trip with tha gang.

ryen NEVER misses. masterpiece after masterpiece.

the platonic collection @joheunsaram mini series

FWB2L, MC is kinda… she’s kinda dense LOL, seokjin is a cutie, smut, fluff

off limits @floralseokjin series

brothers best friend!seokjin, they’re hiding :(, FWB2L, angst angst angst, yoongi gets puNCHED, smut, readers brother is overprotective, lil fluff

don’t go baking my heart @candlewaxandp0lar0ids 14.7k

i don’t think u understand i love this seokjin. JK is a cutie, S2L, jinnie owns a bakery and is the master of puns, kinda angsty, fluff, they’re also IDIOTS. lil smut

cupids on holiday @persphonesorchid 17k

cupid!seokjin, fluff, angst :(, smut, E2L?? ily jin. but i HATE U. but ily.

all i don’t want for christmas is you @minisugakoobies 23.7k

coworkers AU!, E2L, crack, fluff, smut, jin has a big… ego.. y’all. Y/N pisses me the hell off, but they’re SO CUTE 😭

glazed and dazed @floralseokjin 30.3k

um. PORNSTAR SEOKJIN. thank you that’s all, jk, seokjin ☹️, obviously smut, but they’re fluffy n cute i promise.

the devil wears armani @floralseokjin 65k series

WHEW this one is a doozy, devil!jin, jimin is there too, very much smut smut smut, angsty, fluffy, seokjin has a soft spot.

like i said at the end of my last fic rec post, if any of you have recommendations for me, please send them through!! my inbox is OPEN and i am always looking for more things to read!!! 🫶🫶

[nonuify]

I love your nsfw headcanons 💓

Can you do one for chan??? /nf

ᝰ.ᐟ 📁 — L.CH ; ! nsfw headcanons

nsfw is included ! minors do not interact 18+. [ smut ] ꩜.

we all know how he’s so sweet in the outside but my man is one mean dom if you get under his skin, like it’s so hot seeing him all bothered wanting to fuck you.

I think he’d take you anywhere, anytime he’ll pull you to the closest private room & stretch you out dumb.

he’s obsessed with your boobs I mean OBSESSED. he’ll play with them, slap, bite anything, but his favorite is seeing his cum spread all over them, you know he’s gonna take a picture of it.

he’s such a fuckin tease like I know he’ll rub his cock all over your wet clothed cunt, till his precum painted your ruined panties.

also I think you & him got kinda of a brat & dom dynamic like it’s so hot lol, him being a brat but actually brat taming his lover uhm.. yes please!

idk but he & seungchol would be sooo into pussy slapping ugh like you being a brat chan would put you right into your place by slapping your poor wet cunt :(.

chan adores calling you petnames in bed even if it’s for degrading or whatever, he loves it, deep down he loves when you call him names.

he loves marking you so bad like, every inch of you covered in hickeys he loves showing people that your his & his only.

smth about him screams spanks, he spanks you with a paddle like it’s just so him im screaming, ugh & it has a heart shape in the middle.

even though he’s usually a meanie he has his soft times when you’re stressed vice versa, it’ll only be some of the sweetest things he can say.

his fav place to fuck is the couch like he’d be too needy to do you in the bed so the couch is the closest thing like also he’s vile for letting yalls afterwards uhmmm liquids be there, like he’s just nasty lspsoslsl.

he’s so into dry humping like omg he’d be sooo mean to no fuck you silly with his cock “cmon baby make my pants wet with that little pussy of yours” & you’ll be like a bunny in heat till a spot of arousal is on his pants.

yeahhh, he’d be the to torture you make you cockwarm him with your mouth till he’s satisfied to pound into you.

I think he’d put whip-cream in your cunt & eat it out it’s canon tbh.

! 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ thank you for reading >ᴗ< !! i hope you like this anon!!

[hoodeenie]

ALSO I JUST FOUND THIS STORYBOARD WHERE GUSTAV IS FLYING WITH SNOTLOUT ON HOOKFANG

which i think is sooo fuckin adaorable

he is soo big brother im cryinnvfgg theyre so silly gustav my son

i need ro redraw this omg

[yeyinde]

past and pending | John Price x f!Reader

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me."

(you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue.)

warnings: smut; literal filth; kiiiiiinda an illicit relationship(?) but ya'll are consenting adults; power imbalance by proxy; breeding kink (slight); gendered reader; female anatomy; little substance just pure filth

notes: alt title was: when ur boss has baby fever and ur like, well damn, i guess i'm taking one for the team; this man is sooo damn fine, and Barry Sloane is a 1.88m snack (and tbh, scousers always make me a little weak in the knees)

Price looks like he smells of cigars whiskey cheap leather and hickory and i am feral. 

It starts in Madrid. 

(Though, if you're being honest with yourself, it really starts on a motorway outside of Dorset.)

Scotch in one hand, cigar in the other, he stands on the balcony, and gazes out at the water in the distance. Eyes fixed, crystalline, on the families below playing in the sand. A gaggle of children. Their mothers lean over the railing of the tapas below, shooing them off to find their fathers. 

The sounds carry through the streets, bouncing off of the stucco. High-pitched giggles from the kids playing in the cobblestone roads. The admonishing calls of their parents. Laughter from passersby.

You watch him from the doorway. Catch the longing in his eyes; wistful and melancholic. 

A family. Children. 

It's not your mission—this isn't what you're here for—but there is an ache in his gaze that makes you bite your tongue, words stifled in your throat. 

You've never seen your Captain look like this. 

He notices you—has probably known, you don't doubt, that you were there from the start—but there is something almost painful about the way he gives himself one more moment of this, one more fleeting glance, before he has to take up the mantle of a commander, of a leader. 

When he turns to you, it lingers in his eyes. A shade of mourning you can't quite understand. Can't quite reconcile about the man who, hours earlier, was barking out well done! and nice shot! when you took down an enemy operative. A bullet an inch below the eye. He clasped you on your back, grinned wide under the moustache, and it tasted of gunfire when he leaned in close. 

("Mm, got 'em right in the fuckin' head!")

John Price is a man you'd never thought could feel anything except the high of the challenge, the chase. He smelled of scotch, Maduro, and gasoline. His voice was always ragged, and hoarse, from how loudly he bellowed on the battlefield, a roar that echoed in the distance. 

This—

This is new. Different. It's both softer and sadder than you'd ever imagined him, and how it fits inside the man you'd known as one of the only people you could genuinely trust, is jarring. And simply put: it doesn't. 

The idea of his longing fills you with a visceral ache. 

(You're a good soldier. You wonder if you could—)

"Ready, then?" He asks, and digs his teeth into the cigar until it dents. The glass is placed on the dresser, empty. His lips stain the rim, and you think about bottle caps and Iceland.

You can't stop staring at him, now. Like an idiot. Like a—

Silly little girl with a crush. 

You fluster. Force a nod when his brows buoy, bunching in concern. Bewilderment. You're not acting like yourself. 

(You really haven't been since Reykjavik when he turned to you, and said—)

It's pushed aside when he takes one last drag, chest swelling with the inhale, and breathes out, words a plume of smoke. 

"Let's get these steamin' bastards."

If Madrid started it all, then his hand on your thigh is certainly the cataclysmic finale, the end. 

Well, that isn't entirely true. 

It's the offer of a cigar. A little scotch. 

(Maybe more than a little, really.)

Alone in a tapas in Madrid, he orders too much food for two people, and a bottle of their best scotch. 

Asks, gruffly in aborted Spanish, if he can have a smoke, too. 

(You end up having to translate both his Spanish and English to the befuddled waiter; the heavy accent renders his words to nothing but growled smoke.)

The mission was a success. Gaz perched on the loft across the street, the man cornered by Price, his only exit cut off by you—it was as smooth as one could go. Easy, almost. Effortless. 

It should have been the first sign that things were going to unravel, quite quickly, from that point on. 

Gaz declines the invitation. Laswell in your ear, well, you've earned it. You should have said no, too. Stayed in your room, ordered out, and poured over the piles of documents that will be waiting for you sooner or later. Red-tape means every moment must be noted down, each breath counted. Each step. Each choice. It's a mountain. 

But Price had his face turned toward the streets when he asked. The breadcrumbs of his gaze led you to a woman holding a blue swaddle in her arms, cooing down at the lump hidden under soft cashmere. Old ladies congregated around her, faces lit up with joy. 

He watched for a moment, and you saw that aching thing in his eyes when the woman peeled back the layers, showing off a ruddy-cheeked baby with a smattering of curly brown hair on his tiny head. 

A catch, then, in your throat, when the words were out before you could stop them: I want to.  

"...to go," you added hastily, flushing brilliantly under the lights in the hotel room. His hotel room. The one used to reconvene, to plot, to plan. The one that reeks of him—

The man you captured is held in a prison by the authorities, departing tonight under the cover of darkness. His weapons sit in the corner. Focus. You stare at them to ground yourself. "With you, that is."

Price turns, eyes finding yours when you lift your chin—automatic, magnetic: your Captain looks at you, and you offer a nod in response. 

The longing is thick, palpable. It burns, and it aches, because it isn't for you. It's for some unattainable thing he's decided not to pursue. 

You taste the flavour of it when he speaks, when he clears his throat, and gives a gruff good in response. 

It, of course, is not good.

It's very bad. 

Dangerous, even. 

The attraction you feel toward Price—Captain, boss; off-limits —isn't anything new. It's not incipient, but it hasn't had a chance to take root, to hold firm. You haven't let it.

You'd felt the same swell of intrigue before; a fledgling thing that always dissipates before trouble starts. This should have been no different. 

(But trouble comes quicker than you'd expect.

And you've always been rather good at lying to yourself.)

The look in his eyes. The tightness in your chest. Scotch on your tongue. 

It festers when he leans over, eyes pools of cerulean, and says, want a cigar?

And now—

Now: 

Your lungs are heavy with smoke that, apparently, isn't supposed to be there. 

Not supposed to inhale, dove, he tells you, words rough from his own puff, and drenched in humour. 

You sputter, knuckles pressed to your mouth to stop yourself from looking foolish in front of your Captain. Too late, of course. His eyes dance with mirth, lips crooked with the tang of it. 

You duck your head. "Fuck, that's disgusting." 

"Don't blame the cigar." He grins, easy, relaxed. The bucket hat on his head looks out of place in a tapas in Centro, but he's never felt more touchable to you when he's bathed in the mundane. 

(At least it isn't the leather jacket, the beanie—)

You swallow down the acrid taste of tobacco on your tongue, sending him a sharp glance from the corner of your eye. "Who do I blame, then? The teacher?" 

Price lets out a soft huff, a little chuckle under his breath, and tips his head in concession. "Yeah, alright. My fault, love." 

Love. It makes your chest feel tight. Head dizzy. You can blame it on the pungent concoction of cigars and scotch, but it sits too heavy in your chest for you to pretend. 

You drop your gaze to the table, to the half-eaten plate of setas al ajillo that sits in front of you as if it will somehow have an answer in the oil. That you might find god amongst the sauteed mushrooms, and he'll smack sense into your head. Don't be stupid. Don't be—

"Another?" He rasps, the word sticks to his throat. 

The smoke from the cigar makes your head feel gummy. It's a balm that soothes over all the little voices in the back of your head that scream at you to stop. This is a bad idea, they say. You'll regret it in the morning. 

But—

You want to impress him. Stupid. Price meets your stare when you lift your head. A smile. A nod. 

He doesn't mention the way your hand trembles when you take the cigar proffered to you between a thick thumb and forefinger. He has a burn scar on his first knuckle. A round circle. 

It's not the way you'd hold a cigar. 

Your eyes linger for a moment on the burn, mind startlingly empty, as if refusing to partake in piecing together whatever it means, if only for his privacy. His own sense of untouchability. 

Price is the core of the group. The man who everyone—even Ghost, to some extent—relies on, and absolutely respects. It's ironclad. Unshakeable. 

He's the man who is always looking at you, at others, first. When something happens, his eyes are drawn to everyone else, making sure they are stable on their feet as the world around them crashes, and burns. 

You know because, now, you're always watching him. 

A silly little girl with a crush. 

It began in Reykjavik.

A slurry of imported chemicals drafted by a man with an abhorrent agenda led you, Price, and Laswell on a chase through the city. It was close, down to the last nanoseconds. And then—

"You alright?" 

Shaken. Terrified. You turn to him, and he's there, watching you. Eyes drawn tight. Taut, humourless smile pulling on the corners of his—for once—clean-shaven face. 

It's hard to begin to grasp the words necessary to properly convey what you felt at that moment. Panic. Horror. Dread. Fear. They come close, but they miss that unnameable feeling of your heart leaping into your throat when the seconds ticked down to five, four, three…

Too late. Too—

And then a gunshot. A bullet in the man's head. Success. It felt too close to be considered a win. Like grasping at victory with the tips of your fingers as it fumbles from hand to hand. Narrowly snatching the win from the jowls of defeat that nipped at you. 

"S-sir—"

He's there. Hand on your shoulder, firm and steady: it's the only thing that keeps you from toppling over. 

"Mm, stay alert," he mumbles, eyes cutting back to the throng of agents—on loan from Norway as Iceland hadn't the means to take care of it on their own, the very same people whose pride refused to allow you any intel, almost leading to—

"Eyes, ears are everywhere."

It's the solid weight of his presence, his unmovable utilitarianism, that reinforces the liquid relief in your knees, giving it the stability needed to congeal, to harden.

Iceland was the first taste of reality. The first mission where you realised every single second mattered. 

"Did good," he says under his breath, and nods at you when you turn, bewildered, to him. "Might not seem like it, but you held yourself up. Did what needed to be done. Good job."

There is a softness in his eyes, one that you can't place, but it makes your pulse race. 

And now, that same something swims in his cerulean gaze, slightly misted from the scotch, but remarkably the same. 

You drop your gaze again. His stare is heavy—its not oppressive, or intense, but its—

A lot. Weighed down by something that has been steadily building since you bunkered down in a frozen bivouac on the fringes of the Arctic. Each breath of plume of pure white. Nestled tight together under a single insulated blanket, sharing heat. Keeping each other from the white death looming at the edge of the door. 

It sits there, now. The tendrils of frostbite in his eyes: memories of when the snow piled so high outside your door, you'd begun to fear that this little shack was going to be your icy prison. 

His chest under your chin. Heat bleeding into you. 

("Gotta stay warm," he'd rasped, gaze flickering to you in steady intervals. "Can't turn the heat on. They'll see us.")

In the morning after everything, he found you on the terrace overlooking the landscape, the rolling hills of white in the distance. Back in the sanctum of your hotel. The one free from tundra and sleet. From the howling winds that slammed against the shack you both holed up in for the night. Surveillance. Your first taste of it. 

"You good?" He murmurs. It's a loaded question, and feels more like a test. 

Still—

"I will be." A lie.

"Go on." He calls it. 

You turn to him. "We—;" the words are heavy on your tongue. Blame, and anger, and— "if they shared information with us, we would have gotten to them sooner."

And then you bite your tongue, eyes darting across the barren balconies. Eyes and ears are everywhere, he'd said. Test: failed. 

"Mm, yeah," he mumbles. His presence is comforting. A kinship born from ice and darkness. He leans against the railing beside you, fingers looped into the straps on his tactical vest. "Could have done a lot of things quicker."

"Why did we need to wait?"

His laugh is caustic. "Bureaucracy." 

"Sounds pointless when people are waging chemical warfare on the innocent." 

"Mm, you're not wrong." He adds, his breath a plume of white when he huffs. "But red tape is the line that keeps us in check. Can't go around shooting whoever looks at us funny."

"But—"

"I agree, though." His words are low, and doused in the residuum of anger from missions you've yet to experience. A chasm is carved between you. An uncrossable moor. "Fuckin' politics."

His hand is almost as heavy as the steel in his eyes when he pulls it free from the strap on his chest, and lays it on your shoulder. "Get some rest. Maybe a bloody drink if you can. They only got vodka," he spits the word out like it's blasphemous, and considering he's never too far away from a cigar in one hand, and a scotch in the other, you think, to him, it might be. 

It's a dismissal. A nice chat, have a lovely day, ta. He's your Captain, a man who shares each success with everyone, but bears the weight of each failure on his own. This debacle only reinforced the notion that you can't keep operating in the strict lines given to you, but there is very little you can do to stop it.

Fuckin' politics, you think. And then—

Cacoethes. 

"I mix a mean vodka cranberry," the offer is out before you can swallow it down. "I mean—it isn't scotch, but—"

He pauses by the door, hand in stasis over the handle. The silence is stifling. 

"Sorry," you murmur, chastised. Embarrassed. "I didn't—I hope I didn't cross a line."

He turns his head, brows drawn together. 

(You wonder if he, too, thinks of the cabin. Of the bottled water shared between you, the heavy breath that settled in the middle of the negligible space that separated you, turned toward each other to protect your vulnerable pieces from the frigid cold.)

Then, a flash of teeth. His moustache wobbles. "Sure," he murmurs. "If you can make it taste like it isn't vodka, I'll go for one. Not much of a pint, but…"

"Should have taught me how to smoke in Iceland," you say, reaching for the proffered cigar in his hands. Your eyes slide over the burns, the pock marks in his flesh that could not be self-inflicted, but you turn from them; your gaze, instead, fixed on him. "Might have kept us warm."

A rasping chuckle falls from his lips. He has a smear of ash in the corner. A dollop of oil on his beard by the seam of his mouth. "Iceland," he repeats the word, and it sounds like an old friend, filled with a touch of fondness you can't quite capture when you think back on the time spent there. 

(A panic attack in the shower stall, head full of vodka and cranberries— definitely not a pint, he rasped, but still took another swallow; your eyes were fixed on the bob of his Adam's apple—and him. Run. Run. Don't look back—

Alright? His eyes are on you. On Gaz. Laswell. He makes his rounds between everyone, silently checking in. It warms you, and makes you think of the taste you caught on the rim of the water bottle. Hickory. Smoked sandalwood. Scotch. Your nose pressed tight to his chest. The heavy weight of his arm around you. Gotta get up, lo— 

Love. You wonder if that's what he was going to say before he cleared his throat, and looked away from you.

A lie. Yes. 

He calls it. Yeah? 

No. Never. The way the amber light from the early morning sun caught the lazuli in his eyes made your heart shatter, and ever since he pulled you from the wreck years ago, you haven't stopped thinking of what it would feel like to burn your lips on his cigar, and numb the sting with the scotch on his tongue. 

A tight smile. Distant. Hidden. Always, Cap.

He relents.

You wished he pushed. Gave you a reason to spill your vodka-filled guts on the tarmac to rid yourself of this rut you'd fallen into. An endless stasis of does he, he can't, could he, he might, don't get your hopes up—

His hand is between your shoulder blades. A soft smile in your direction.

—too late.)

"Ah, Reykjavik," it's a slow burn when he speaks, heavy with smoke. Voice thick, full of static. His eyes catch yours. Price leans in close, as if he's sharing a secret; something confidential and meant only for you. The heady scent of hickory fills your nose. You roll the scotch in your glass, but taste vodka on your tongue. "Might have, but then we would've had to keep it lit while running away from the terrorists in the snow." 

"I've seen you keep one lit in a hurricane, sir." 

There is something coarse in the way he huffs; a gravel-filled husk of droll mirth that rumbles from his chest. His knuckles brush yours when he passes the cigar over. "Only time I ever lost one was when our heli went down in Mexico. Simon got an earful that day."

"Amazing." 

The cigar is less intense when you let it fill just your mouth until the smoke is stagnant between your teeth. It's—sweet. Robust. 

"You sound very impressed," he husks again, words pitched low. "But I'll have you know it was my last good one. Quite a shame."

Fingers touch again. You wonder if it's on purpose. If he, like you, can't get enough of the warmth on your skin. If it makes him think of the chill—

"It sounds like one. I don't know how you finished the mission at all, sir." 

"I had a spare." He smiles, but it's taut around the edges. Then: "none of that—," he stops, clears his throat again. Lower, barely a whisper, he adds: "none of that sir stuff here. Just call me—"

"Cap?" You breathe, heart thudding in your chest. The scotch. The cigar. Maybe, it was packed with weed. A little nicotine. Something that might make your heart race, your palms sweat. Your stomach burn. 

"John." 

Your heart pounds, but it's off-rhythm. An irregular beat. The pattern is wrong, the crescendo stutters. It's not—

"John," his name is caught in your throat; a corrugated wobble of a breath barely recognisable as a word, but he finds it, anyway. His eyes lift, catching yours. It's heavy. Oppressive. You think of his arm on your waist, his breath in your ear—

Another tight smile. His eyes are liquid sapphires. "Yeah, love."

Love. Love. Twice, now, he slipped and uttered it.

(Lo—

Thrice, then, if you count Iceland.)

"John—," you need to stop. To put distance between yourself and this man who is wholly off-limits before the wet tip of the cigar, once clipped between those full lips, will become a crutch. Addicting. 

You don't know where it starts. 

The cigar in your mouth makes him groan low in his throat. Your eyes drop when he shudders. His hand on your thigh. Voice in your ear. 

"Gotta stop this, love." 

The first thought: he knows. 

The second: he knows. 

There is a chasm between them. In that paradoxical degree of separation lingers a firm, judicious no. It is resolute. Ironclad. 

But the sheath is made of latex. Your hands feel the sting of the rubber bands when your fingers pluck at the bonds holding it all back. 

"And if I don't want to?" Your lashes fan your cheeks, eyes peering up at him through the wisps cresting over your pupils. Tongue peaks out. A tease. "John? "

His pupils dilate in response, blown wide until pits of coal eclipse the sapphire; a black hole lined with a thin halo of blue. The hairs on his upper lip flutter when he heaves out a breath through his nose. 

John's smile is tight. A fleeting thing that flickers across his face before disappearing into a hard frown. "You don't know what you're getting into, love—;" he stops himself, clears his throat. Your name falls from his lips, saturated in smoke. 

You meet him. One step back, one step forward. A dance until those blues fix themselves solely on you. 

Maybe, it's the scotch. You've always been more brazen with amber than clear. 

His Adam's apple bounces when your hand drops, covering his. Your fingers stroke the powerful hands that hold your flesh firm between scarred fingers; nimble and dexterous despite the thickness of them. 

"Then show me."

His groan tastes of tobacco and ash. 

It should be awkward, and uncomfortable, but it isn't. 

Price's hand curls over your waist, tucking you to his side as you lean against him, hip bumping into his thigh, hand settled on the warmth of his back. 

You wonder if everyone around you can tell that you're going home with this man, your boss, and he's going to fuck you when you get there. It feels sacrilegious. Wrong. 

But not even the spume of trepidation that wells inside of your gut is enough to stop you from getting this. Him.

You want it. Need it. 

Your hand slips over his chest on the corner of the street. His eyes flash, caught in the light from the veranda. 

Does he feel it, too, you wonder? All those moments that lead up to this? Soft words over the comm. Late nights spent pouring over coordinates and maps, reaching for something at the same time. Hands brushing. Eyes meeting over the median. Smiles shared. A world in the dead of night when everyone else had long gone to bed. You should have, too. You didn't. You stayed up as long as you could, soaking up his company. 

Mornings met by the coffee maker. 

No tea, it seems. 

They have tea, sir. 

Not the good kind. 

You're just picky.

Look at this—it almost makes you ashamed to be British. 

Only that? 

He's untouchable—well: should be, rather; but Price is anything but. He's a constant amid many raging storms, a rock in times when the world feels like it's spiralling down toward some cataclysmic abyss and your fingers aren't quick enough to reach out and catch it. 

But he is. 

Always. 

Your failsafe. Your security net. The only man on the planet who will rage against insurgents and terrorists, and politicians and red tape in equal measure for his team. He'll risk his neck, offer his jugular, if it means you can finish the mission. 

Gaz in your head. He said something to me once… stuck to me, y'know? We get dirty, and the world stays clean. 

It bludgeoned into you then just like it does now. It's the perfect iteration of exactly who Price is. He's not a hero. He doesn't pretend to be one. But if him gunning down a man on the fringes of society means that innocent people in the cities get to sleep at night without even knowing what he, and his men, sacrificed, he's content. He never asks for anything except the freedom to keep peace—however it comes about: in a hail of bullets, a fist against a man's jaw until he spits out blood and teeth and the truth, or in cuddling together on the verge of hypothermia so people in a country he has no connection to can continue to live without fear. 

John is—

Well. It was inevitable, wasn't it? 

They can't forge a man like him into existence, and expect you not to feel overwhelmed in his presence. 

This feels inevitable. 

And sure—human resources and internal affairs might have opinions about that, but it's been brewing since he pulled you from a burning wreck on the motorway (a small travesty in what could have been calamitous had you not decided to trust the SAS with an impeccable moustache, and your gut, and broke every rule in the book), and then looked you in your soot-covered face, and asked: have you considered a transfer? 

Your drug enforcement days slipped into the past when he offered you a spot on his team.

And now—

Your lip is raw from the cigar burn, but the taste of scotch on your tongue soothes the ache. His hand is heavy on your waist, flesh hot to the touch like he is burning up in a fever. 

A woman wanders past, the same one you saw earlier with a baby swaddled in blue, but—

Price only has eyes for you. 

"C'mon, love," he husks in your ear, his breath heavy with smoke and scotch, and sending shivers racing down your spine. "Wanna come back with me?"

And you—

("I'll follow you—")

"Anywhere, John."

His hands are reverent when they brush across your skin. The heavy weight of his palms pressing against the back of your thighs makes you tremble. His rough skin feels good as it grazes yours, touch softer, more gentle than you thought he'd be. 

It's a strange contrast—you'd come to expect gruffness with your Captain. His voice, his words, his practices all carry the same abrasive lilt to you, and you assumed that he'd fuck you the same way. Rough hands, brutal commands barked out. 

It's none of that. It's—

His eyes peer down at you, spread out below him, and he carries the same tenderness in his eyes as when he stared at the women from before. Families. It settles inside of you. This unexpected way he handles you so gingerly makes your heart pound, and makes your core knot. 

He looks at you as if you're the best thing that has ever happened to him. 

And you can't be. It's impossible, isn't it? This man who'd lived many lives before you even knew how to shoot a gun, or tie your shoelaces, should not be looking at you as if you'd offered him salvation. 

But he is. 

You press the back of your forearm to your crown, arching your back for him. His eyes are drawn to your body, to the way you open up for him, and the darkening of his eyes makes you pant. 

Your hand reaches up to his chest, palm pressed against the thick bed of unruly auburn hair that covers his pulse, and the feel of his thick body over you makes your cunt throb with need. You want him. You want him so badly that it hurts. 

"This what you want, love?" He husks in your ear, beard tickling your skin. "Want me to fuck you, yeah?"

It had sprung up when you first tumbled into the room. The dance is familiar—the steps ingrained in your head, now muscle memory—but he isn't just any partner. You stood before him, unsure for the first time since you caught that aching sense of wishfulness in his eyes and knew that you wanted whatever permeated in those cerulean depths to look at you, and hold you in the same regard. 

Now—

Your body is fever-hot, and he stands by the minibar, offering you scotch. 

"I want you—," the words tumble out, a breathless lull in the otherwise silent room, broken only by the glass nozzle clanking against the side of the cup he set out. You've shocked him. You swallow thickly when he turns, brows lifting. 

"I want you." You repeat, firmer this time. 

"Are you—"

You skip the introductory waltz and immediately jump into a tango when you breathe: I want you inside me, John. 

You know he aches for it. You can feel him twitching inside of you; deep and full. The head of his cock nudges against something soft in your cunt that makes you spasm around him, whimpering. 

"Yes, sir…" you pant, heavy and breathless. The way you address him makes him grunt, makes his hips cant into you, the movement tinged in desperation. "Fill me up."

Price groans, rolling his hips into you. Each thrust knocks the air from your lungs until only the cloying smoke from his cigar resides inside. You're dizzy, dazed. He fucks you like he's worshipping you—each time he moves inside of you, he aims for that gummy place that has your nails digging into his sides, legs locking around his waist, caught on the bend of his thighs, as he rides you through it. 

"Fuck, love," his voice carries the taste of cigars and scotch when it rumbles in your ear. You smell the heady Maduro on his skin when you sink your teeth into the freckles on his shoulder. He tips his head forward; his rasping groan is heavy with smoke. "The things you do to me…."

He tastes of smoke. Loam. Sandalwood. Butterscotch. "Please," you murmur, tongue laving over the indents of your teeth in his skin. You wish it was permanent. "It's your own fault, Captain."

"Yeah?" He grinds his cock inside of you until your eyes roll back, mouth dropping open as white-hot pleasure spools in your core. "Sounds like you need some discipline then, soldier." 

Fuck —

He does it again, thrusting into you this time until he's seated in deep. You whine at the bliss flooding your core. 

His hand lifts from your thigh, and you blink your eyes open, watching as his tongue sweeps across the pad. His eyes are wicked in the soft light spilling from street lights outside; bluer than the wide, open ocean. 

You shiver when they drop to your cunt, spread out for him and stretched taut over his twitching cock. A frisson passes; waves crashing against the shores, frothing white. 

His hand drops, thumb pressing against your clit. "Gonna cum for me?" He murmurs, a sonorous knot in the quiet room. You hear the roar of the ocean in the distance. Humid breeze flutters through the open balcony. 

Anyone can hear you. Can hear how badly you want your Captain to fill your cunt, to make you see stars, and swaddles of blue—

You keen low in your throat when his thumb rubs tight circles over your throbbing clit, cock knocking against the gummy walls of your cunt. His head brushes your womb, presses there tight for a moment until your back arches in that deep-seated ache, that quiver of pleasure-pain that lacerates through your core. 

"Fuck, fuck—," you whimper, needy and breathless, hips working in time with the insistent press of his thumb, working you in small, shallow circles. "Cap— Captain, please—"

"Fuck, love—," he throaty words a bitten, jagged plea that sticks, thick and molten, between his molars. You can feel him twitch within you. Feel the way he batters into that spongey nook inside of you that has the Aurora Borealis flashing behind your lids. "You're a cheeky little thing, aren't you?" He pants, bending down to press his teeth over your raw neck, already bitten and bruised, chafed by the coarse hair of his beard. 

His groan rolls out of him; dredged up from deep within his chest. The rumble of pleasure, the sloppy way his hips snap into you, now, all practise and control dissociating with his desperation to get you to cum on his cock so he can fill your pussy up with cum, deep enough that it floods your womb—

"Cum for me—!" He snaps, the words chewed out and broken, punctuated by a deep grind of his cock. "Need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock, love; you want it, don't you? If you be a good girl and cum for me, I'll fill your pussy up—"

Your toes curl at the wrecked, raw tone of his voice, breaking over the end. He wants it. You feel him throb within you at just the thought. 

"Yeah," you whine, that spooling coil in your belly pulling tighter and tighter with each brutal thrust, each nudge of his cock as it bludgeons inside of you. "Want you cum inside my pussy, John—"

His head tips, forehead dropping to rest on yours as his eyes roll back, fluttering with the sultry plea that drips from your cigar-singed lips. 

You taste smoke when his thumb presses against you, the other sliding over your body until he has a palmful of your breast in his grasp. Each roll of his hips makes you see white; tendrils and wisps of smog fill your eyes until all you can see is a hazy blue through the curtain of snow. Fog on your breath. His words in your ear. 

It pinches taut when he turns his head, beard scraping your skin, and presses his lips to your temple. Slurred words that taste of tobacco. "Need to feel you cum on my cock, love —"

Liquid bliss spumes deep when you cum—a deluge of euphoria richer than scotch, and more addictive than nicotine. 

His name is a choked sob into the thick blanket of desire that weighs down on you. 

He drops, his torso flat against your chest as he slots his mouth over you, tongue delving deep as he ruts into your pulsing cunt, fluttering like a heartbeat as you cum around his cock. He groans into the messy kiss—hickory and smoke and the bitter tang of scotch—and you feel him jerk within you before he pushes in as far as he can. He doesn't stop until your cunt swallows him to the base, where he sits taut against the seal of your cervix. And then you feel it. You feel him throb deep inside of you, stuffed full of his cock, and a molten spume spills out when he cums. 

He's cumming inside of you, filling your pussy up—

Your cunt clenches, a soft flutter against him at the thought of it, the feeling. 

His head lifts, then, and you can see the draw of his brows, the clench of his jaw, the grunts that slip out, deep and punctured, from between the grit of his teeth, and you think you could get addicted to the sight of him in bliss. 

Your hands slide over the slick bulk of his back, nails raking softly over the skin as he shudders against you, heaving from exertion. 

"Christ," he rasps in your ear, whiskey-timbered and heady with malt. "You're gonna make me lose my goddamn mind, love."

You tip your head back, grinning. "What is it you like to say, Cap?" You purr, fingers dancing over the indent of your teeth. "We're all a bit crazy."

You lay with your head tucked on his shoulder. His arm is bent at the elbow with his palm under his head; your hand rests on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart under your skin. 

It's—

Cosy. A little moment where you feel liquid and blissful, eyes lidding as you peer at his naked chest—flushed roseate, peppered with auburn that that runs all the way down to the indent of his groin—and map the dusting of rust-coloured freckles that peak through the wisps of coarse hair. It's domestic. Basking in the acrid afterglow of your illicit coupling. 

Your index presses into a thick patch of hair just below his pectoral, catching the curls on the tip until they wrap around your finger. He rumbles deep in his chest, and pulls the lit cigar up to his mouth, biting it between his teeth, before dropping his hand down on yours. 

Cerulean peaks through a thick breath of ashen smoke. You feel shy, suddenly. Demure. Maybe, it's the scent of sex and tobacco thick in the air, the taste of spice and scotch on your tongue, or the way his cum stains your inner thighs, leaking out of you, and drenching the sheets below. Proof, then, that you fucked your Captain. 

Most people start at the bottom of the totem and work up. It was a running joke amongst your class when the physical demands of the role became too much, and the drills got harder, and harder the more you sloughed through the ropes. 

All the way to the top. The easy way. On your knees, soldier, you'd pass between each other in covert secrecy, eyes fatigued but grinning wide. How easy it would be, comparatively, to just lay back and let your drill sergeant have his fill. It was all chatter. Jokes. None of it was real, and if anyone of you ever had the notion to act on it—

That has never been your goal. Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain—none of it meant anything to you until a hand appeared out of dense, black smoke, a gruff: c'mon, now, I got you following. It still doesn't. Not really. Does he know that, though? That you'd followed along dutifully behind him, not over some sense of grandeur or hero-complex, but because you admired the shape of him, the grit. 

John's hand slides over yours, fingers tangling between the brackets of your own until you're locked together, palm pressed against palm. 

There are years worth of things you want to say, but they dissolve in the malt still saturating your tongue. 

Price's hand is rough. Scarred and weathered; aged and worn. 

Your hands don't quite fit together. His brackets are too wide for your slender digits to rest without being swallowed whole by him. His fingers are the exact opposite: too wide, too thick. The seam between your knuckles aches when he slides his into the gaps. Like everything about him, this, too, is stretched taut. 

Still. Still—

His hand folds over yours, devouring your palm, and suddenly all your listing axes are righted, centred. The ground you walk on is firm, solid. 

It's always like that with him, you find. 

His warmth bleeds into your palm. 

Price shifts. His hand slips from behind his head to take hold of the cigar in his mouth. The knob of his wrist rests on your shoulder, cigar dangling between his fingers. 

You wonder if this is the moment when we shouldn't have, we can't come in. 

He clears his throat, always a low rasp as if he'd just gotten done screaming. Hoarse and rough. You don't think you can go back to before when you didn't know what your name sounded like falling from his lips when he cums—

"You don't know what you do to me, love."

Don't hope—

"And what is that?" You peer up at him through the wisps of auburn. 

His eyes make your pulse race. A lagoon in the middle of the Arctic. A deep, endless pool of blue. 

Price offers you the cigar, and bends down to press his sweaty forehead against your temple when you lean up and take it. 

Scotch. Hickory. Smoke. 

A motorway in Dorset. Your superiors snapping at you to leave it alone. You followed him then, and when he mumbles in your ear, words drenched in malt and petrol, you know you'll follow him even now. 

"You make me want things, love. Things I shouldn't."

You catch his clear blues in yours. The cigar burns when you press it to your bottom lip, catching the taste of him on the end. 

"You have no one to blame but yourself," you whisper, squeezing his too-big hand in yours. "I learned from the best, you know." 

"Cheeky—"

—he takes you back to Iceland when your allotted off-time mysteriously syncs together: a fumbling romantic at heart. he has no idea what he's doing. wooing, courtship, and long-lasting were never words in his vocabulary, but he tries.

—on his phone, you catch a glimpse of what he was looking at so intently on the plane: romantic places in Iceland: romance for idiots

—it doesn't surprise you, then, when you find the article yourself that he sticks to each individual one like it's a personal mission. flowers. chocolates. "don't know what's so special about these bloody things. do you really like them?"

—it surprises you, even more, when you press your lips to cheek, murmuring, "i like you more," and see the flash of roseate flooding his cheeks.

—Gaz is firmly on team "i don't want to know" but too bad for him, he's the only one you can really tell.

"please tell me he doesn't wear The Hat... y'know...," his face looks a little ashen when he says it. You smile. "...Please. No, you can't—hey! You can't just walk away—!"

[chosokamosbf]

⋆L⋆I⋆G⋆H⋆T⋆H⋆E⋆A⋆D⋆E⋆D⋆

☆ 18+ only/no minors. | jason todd x male! reader.

SUMMARY: a nsft fic where jason puts his boyfriend into a chokehold. WARNINGs: 18+, established relationship, choking, m! sub! reader, dom! jason, (reader receiving) light degradation, overstimulation. WORD COUNT 700+ NOTEs: second person & no plot. insert/reader is a woozy in this one sooo they act a bit "silly." ["Stupid/pretty boy," and no pronouns used to refer to the insert/reader.]

Your pants are caught around your knees; everything else is pushed aside to the barest amount so the desperation leaking in between an otherwise gentle make-out wouldn't have been left unattended. His boxers are ruined—stripped right to his thighs after a near hour or so of caged between them and the man sitting on his lap.

His head was resting in the crook of your neck the whole time, so every hitch in it was caught straight away whenever you had to adjust your sitting.

Whatever movie was playing ended long ago, and now some senseless drama is playing on mute.

You don't know how long you've been doing this.

He hasn't let you move much to even see the clock sitting by on the nightstand. Your only sense of passing time other than the building ache is how the sun is now descending over the city and, in turn, your two's little slice of paradise of a mediocre apartment. It cascades on one side of the room in a dark orange glow after hours of singing in a brighter tone through a small opening in the curtains.

It's all fun and games with someone with a trunk load of stamina until your endless pleas have gotten your eyes rolled back to the very edge, a hazy mind overwhelmed with every single sensation. It's almost painful, even.

Your stomach convulses as you come over and over on his cock while you're stuck being pulled back on it by the hip. His breaths are coming out in heated pants as he bottoms out in you again, pressed against your back like he's using you for support.

Words almost don't process through the fog. "You like this, huh? Fuckin' nasty." 

"Yeaa—yeah. Love it so much—love you. It feels so... so good."

Jason doesn't want to hold it in, so he doesn't—and so a snort carries through before he's mimicking how your voice slurs. He barely gets through his sentence before laughter bubbles up, and his chest is softly trembling against your back from the restraint.

"Awh, you looove me? Stupid boy's drunk on some dick."

An arm braces itself right next to yours, and then a hand toys and intertwines the tips of both your fingers.

The other hand wraps around your jaw to turn your face to the side, and he doesn't bother containing the smile that comes with watching the way you have to crane your head to meet his gaze. The few tears streaming down your face catch what little light is still in the room.

He presses a kiss against your own lips, and it ends right after so he can dry your face with his sleeve. That arm wraps around your neck to keep you against him—make you feel how fast the pace of his heart is through the fabric.

The thrusts of his hips into yours stutter, and he uses those few moments of peace to round his arm further off, bit by bit, so his hand can squeeze nicely around you. His teeth catch on his bottom lip, almost slipping through an old cut on it as he tries to muffle some groans.

Your head falls back onto his shoulder as most thoughts fade into the background with the fleeting air.

Jason presses down on the evident bulge in your lower stomach where his cock shows through, and he rubs it gently, knowing how overstimulated you have to be by now. Your body retracts back into his, moving away from the assaulting hand, and he just laughs despite his sore throat.

And he tries to make sure you share the feeling by tightening the grip around your throat.

Slowly, he settles you on your stomach.

He keeps your bottom half propped up by the knees, your legs pressed together so he can push in deep still. The arm holding the two of you up only seconds ago traces your back to rub rough calluses at the tense muscles building up around the top. He keeps your face from getting buried in the sheets and listens close to every sound that comes from the drooling mouth.

"C'mon." His voice trails out into a rough drawl, making sure you take every inch. "Be a good boy and cum f'me again, okay?"

[trendywaifus]

Ok this is a pretty goofy idea I’ve had for some time so

Yk Hanu? The little monke that says Hmph? Well what if we somehow found ourselves stuck as Hanu (Hanu! Reader) basically in Penacony, the various goofy things that’ll come out of the characters finding us

Imagine Acheron finding you and just carrying you around while you’re both lost, suddenly all the enemies flee as quick as they can from you when you think did an intimidating enough hmph (it’s actual Acheron they’re afraid of)

Firefly and Robin will prob just gush at our small size and keep us in their hands at all times

goofy?? this is sooo cute???? lil hanu is so adorable bro. also hanu’s a wolf!

acheron prob gonna find you sticking out of a small hole in a wall by the tv, your little legs frantically kicking around.

acheron would def get lost while trying to find someone to help you revert back to your normal form. you’d be perched on her shoulder, trying to use your hms’ to make conversation or get her attention. you’d grumble a small hm’ and point to some random direction and she’s go towards it because she’s silly and trusts you.

“ do you think we strayed too far, little one? “

“ hm. hm. hm. hm. hm. “

“ . . .uh–huh. thank you for the input. “

she ends up facing a dead end and sighs. her head perks up at the sound of crowded footsteps and turns around to see a bunch of angry men in suits cornering you and acheron. “ found you! i’m here to return the favor by beating you up for what you did to me and my buddies earlier! i brought my boss here too!” a dark suited beefy man comes forth with a cocky grin on his face. that must be their boss! you let out a loud, angry hm, jumping down from her shoulder and protectively stepped between acheron and the men with your little chest puffed up and hands on your hips.

“ wait a damn minute! “ the large man’s smug demeanor fell and he suddenly appears anxious. he frantically smacks one of the men who apparently gotten beaten up on the back of his head. the poor guy’s hat drops down on the asphalt. “ you fuckin’ knucklehead! do you know who you just brought us to?! let’s scram! “ as quickly as they came, they left, leaving a little you hming in triumph and a confused acheron. not a moment later, the guy hurriedly comes back for his hat and scrambles away.

“ hmmm!! (don’t come back, losers!) “ you huffed.

she blinks before emitting a soft chuckle and gets down on her knees, offering a open hand for you to hop on. “ it seems like you scared them away, my little one. that little body of yours is deceiving. “

yeah robin would be gushing over how adorable you are as hanu. she’s gon cradle you in her hands and smooch your face while resisting the urge to drown you in even more kisses. “ my little cool cutie. “

firefly’s the same! she’d awe and hug you close to her chest. if you want, she’ll place you on the top of her head so you can have a nice view of everything.

“ i think i don’t mind you staying like this, (name).” she giggles at you cutely stomping your little feet on her open palm with an annoyed hm!

[memento-rory]

watching the jackbox comp schlatt & co. put out recently and the part where schlatt talked about stealing nancy pelosi’s scent and like spraying it when he’s in the mood and while that is sooo silly i am now thinking about it sooo seriously.

schlatt with his face in your neck constantly because “you smell so fuckin’ good, doll.”

schlatt giving you his crewnecks to wear so they’ll smell like you when he gets them back.

schlatt cuddling the pillow you usually sleep on at his place because it smells like your shampoo.

schlatt keeping your favorite perfume STOCKED so you never run out. man spends an obscene amount on it, buying you a couple bottles at a time.

[burntb4bydoll]

more bratty reader and one of the twins i'm begging

Welll what about both twins🤭 and maybee more Georg..?😳 im feeling a little silly rn😇

More bratty fem!reader headcannons

Bill Kaulitz

•if you tease him around other people he would be so embarrassed

•buttt that turns into anger once you two are alone

•he makes you sit in the floor between his knees while he sits on the bed and jerks off

•and you have to watch him with no touching him or yourself until he decides to let you

•he’ll watch you beg and cry for his attention but he won’t even talk to you until you apologize for being a brat

•if you disobey and do something he specifically told you not to do, hes sooo mean about it

•he’ll tie you up and overstimulate you for hours while telling you how much of a bad girl you are

•he would find amusement in your sassy and bratty attitude

•he just loves when you have an attitude because he gets to put you back in your place after

Tom Kaulitz

•he loves when you tease him in public

•as long as you dont take it too far ofc (take it too far btw he loves to have a reason to punish you)

•Tom just loves that people can see you all over him so that they know you’re his.

•but that doesn’t stop him from punishing you for it, why would he miss out on the fun?

•you’re laid ass up and face down on the bed while he roughly fucks you

•and hes got a handful you your hair which he uses to push your face into the pillow

•loves calling you things like “his slut” or “his pretty little whore”

•he’ll fuck you in front of a mirror so you can watch yourself get your attitude readjustment from him

•he holds your face and forces you look at yourself if you try to close your eyes

Georg Listing

•oh my does he love brat taming you

•if you had an attitude with him he would laugh in your face

•then he grabs your jaw tightly and puts you in your place

“You think you’re so tough huh? Just wait until I fuck you so hard that your crying for me.”

“You wanna be a brat? I’ll treat you like a fuckin brat but you’re not gonna like it”

“Such a little slut. Acting out to get me to fuck you, well I’ll fuck you baby don’t worry.”

[thenewausten]

Quackity showing you his hair for the first time (and asking you to date him) <3

You and Alex were almost dating, you were seeing each other and you were very in love for him, and of course, he was very in love for you.

But... The boy didn't show you his hair, not yet. Well, he never had the opportunity and you never asked him to, wanting to give him his own time.

Alex decided that, today was the day. He'd show you his hair.

You arrived at his home earlier that day, and as soon as he sees you, he kisses your lips and hugs you. "Hiii." You say to him. "Hey, hermosa. How are you?!"

"I'm good, you?!" You enter in his apartment and he smiles. "I'm better now, you know?!"

"Silly..." You laugh and he approaches you to kiss you again. "I have a surprise for you, Y/N."

"I love surprises, what is it?!" Alex sits you on the sofa and grabs a little box. "First, I want to show you my hair, then, I want to ask you somethin'."

"Alrightttt." You say and smile, he's a little nervous when his hand grabs his beanie and take it off. Alex messes up his hair a little and look at you. Damn, he was so fuckin' handsome with the beanie, but for some fucking reason he's even more handsome without it. "You're very handsome, you know?!" You say and get up, the first thing you do as you approach him is to touch his hair, he blushes and smiles to you, holding your waist. "Thank you, princess." You kiss his lips. "Your hair is very soft, 'Lex." You whisper and he laughs. "Yeah, I know." Alex holds your face with one of his hands. "I'm so in love with you, Y/N. Do you want to be my girlfriend?!"

"Of course I want to!" You hug him and he smiles. "I'm in love with you too, Alex. I love you sooo much!" You kiss his face a lot of times, Alex laughing and kissing your lips before giving to you the little box. It's a very beautiful necklace with a little heart as a pendant. "Alex, you didn't need to give me anything." You whisper. "Of course I needed to, amor." He says and you smile to him, hugging the boy in front of you. "Thank you so much, 'Lex."

"No problem, love. Let me put it on you." You turn around and Alex puts the necklace around your neck. You turn around again and he kisses your face. "You look so pretty, baby."

"Thank you." You smile to him and mess up with his hair. "I can't wait to spend hours caressing this beautiful hair." You say and he smiles. "We can start now, uh???"

"Of course! Let's watch some movie." You say and he nods.

You and Alex spent the rest of the day together, cuddling and kissing, and, of course, you with your hands on his soft hair <3

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy the writing! :)

Requests are open!

[ninnosaurus]

Three’s a Crowd: Two vs. One

I've had this silly thing from my topside AU in my head for literal AGES now and I just had to write it out.

Contains: Brotherly shenanigans. Mikey and Raph decides to tap dance on Leo's every nerve during a car ride by blasting music Leo can't stand. (It's CupcaKke, they're blasting 'Duck Duck Goose' with the sole purpose of pissing Leo off in public). Bayverse.

Warnings: Vulgar language, but it's literally just song lyrics

Leo laid half on his couch, half off it, his iPad resting on its stand on his plastron. He'd been watching the same livestream for about two hours. Not moving from his place. He was bored. Out. Of. His. Mind.

He'd already done the chores. Laundry was folded and put away. He'd scrolled his forums. Checked the auction sites. Nothing.

Groaning he picked his iPad up, got off the couch and trudged to the kitchen where he heard the familiar tune of a FaceTime call coming in. Touching accept he put the pad on the counter next to the fridge.

"Hey, Raph."

Leo smiled to himself when he heard the familiar sound of a large family in the background.

"Who are you calling?!"

"Guys, guys. Tone it down a notch, yea?"

Raph grunted as he was attacked and his arms pulled down.

"Leo."

Leo chuckled to himself, leaning back and watching Raphael get tugged at. Two faces came into view before his brother managed to yank himself loose. "HI UNCLE LEE!"

"Offsprings. Go harrass your mom instead." He shook his head as his face came back into view. "Tanner and Harls says hey."

The oldest popped a grape into his mouth. "I noticed. What's up?"

"Me and Mike are going grocery shopping, ya in?"

He chewed slowly, contemplating the offer. It's better than sitting at home, but he's also probably going to get shit he don't need.

" 'kay, I'm in. Pick me up in 20?"

"Mhm."

"Hey, boys!"

Their oldest brothers slapped them both on their shoulders as he climbed into the backseat. They chat about anything and everything for a while, until Mikey pipes up as he notice how they get closer to the city.

"Oh, yeah? Ya hear that, Fearless? Mikey has a new sound system."

"Sooo... I got a hold of Don the other week and we put a new sound system in my car."

The turtle next to him picked up on the tone of his brother's voice, catching on right away.

Dread. Fear.

"No!" Grabbing ahold of Raph's back rest he pulls himself forward. "Don't."

At a red light, Mikey pulls his phone up. "Let's try it out!"

All it takes for Leo to want to die is to hear the first sound of the song, before long he's trapped in a car with two brothers singing along to the song.

"Mikey, please turn it off!"

I thought I came but I peed on the dick

Pubic hair got inches, that's weave on the dick

Pussy like a tree, it got leaves on the shit

"Turn it UP? Yeah I can turn it up!" He cackles as he cranks the volume up even more. The bass making the sides of the car vibrate.

"WHAT? NO! Ughh..." Leo rubs his face with his hands before putting them over his ears. He fuckin' hates this music...

"My cakes got fatter by usin' cum as the batter!"

My nudes in your phone, takin' up your data

My cakes got fatter by usin' cum as the batter

Raph nudged Mikey on the arm. "Man, it's WARM out today!"

The voice of Raphael brings Leo back to the now. "No! Absolutely not! Don't you fucking dare do what I think you're about to, Raph!" He looks on in fear as another red light is coming closer and closer, fearing what is about to go down.

"You're right, bro. It IS warm out today. I'll lower the windows for us!"

I only call you Captain, 'cause your dick is off the hook

I can make your dick stand up (are you ready?)

Like Statue of Liberty once we fuck (so hard)

"MICHELANGELO! I am BEGGING YOU! Turn. It. Off or I'm disowning your ugly ass!"

His brother just laughed as he continued to sing along, albeit being way too into it.

"Cut the dick off, took it home with me, 'cause any dick that long, it belong with me"

Just in time for them to stop at a red light. All of the car's windows are down. It was enough for them all to already be famous for being the savior of human kind, and for allowing other mutants to walk the streets.

"This pussy iconic, yeah it moan with me, put your finger in the hole, come bowl with me."

Turn double-dutch with yo' balls while I'm jumpin' on your dick

Tell your grandma sew my pussy, since you split open my clit

Coochie guaranteed to put you to sleep so damn soon

Ridin' on that dick, I'm readin' Goodnight Moon

Ugh... I'm not looking forward to seeing this on Twitter later.

Some girls next to him laughed as he saw them pull up a phone, obviously filming how the youngest was grinding his hips in tune with the song. With Raphael laughing so hard he was having a hard time breathing. Meanwhile, Leo was trying, but failing, to hide from everything.

The brief thought of faking his own death and moving back into the sewers crossed his mind.

Taglist: @redsrooftopprincess, @the-cauldron-witch, I have to tag @thelaundrybitch too because Leo is s u f f e r i n g and needs a hug.

Lemme know if you want on iiiit!