#How to unclog your sink

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru wants praise. constant, dramatic, over-the-top praise. and he’s not subtle about it.

he takes out the trash and comes back in with the air of a man who just saved the world. arms spread, chin up, dramatic sigh. “your husband has returned,” he says, expectant. you’re just trying to wash dishes, mind your business, but he’s hovering behind you like a six-foot-tall golden retriever who craves attention. he nudges your shoulder, taps your elbow, bumps your hip with his, until you finally turn around.

“kiss,” he demands, eyes wide and pouty. you blink. he leans in like it’s his right. “i touched the gross bag. i braved the outside. i faced the raccoon that lives near the bins. i deserve a reward.”

he folds one shirt—badly, you might add—and yells from across the hall, “baby! emergency! come here!” you run in thinking he’s set the kitchen on fire or broken a limb, only to find him standing like a proud peacock beside a wobbly stack of laundry.

“look at this craftsmanship,” he says, holding up a towel like it’s the last supper painting. “behold my glory. where’s my trophy? my parade? my standing ovation? did the mayor call yet?”

he pours water into the pitcher—without spilling it, mind you—and turns to you with the smuggest little smirk known to man. “tell me i’m sexy.”

“...you filled the brita.”

“exactly. domestic and desirable. say it with your chest.”

and you do, because unfortunately for you, you’re hopelessly, irrevocably in love with this ridiculous, praise-hungry man. so you coo. you clap. you kiss his cheeks and ruffle his hair and call him your strong, brave househusband. you dramatically wipe a fake tear and tell him how lucky the world is to witness his greatness. you whisper that he’s the hottest man alive for sorting the recycling. and he eats it up. full sparkling eyes, puffed-out chest, giggling like a schoolboy in love, throwing his arms around you like he’s just scored the game-winning point.

he starts making up tasks just to fish for more. he'll tighten a jar lid and then call for you, chest heaving like he’s run a marathon. “babe. babe. i saved the pickles. tell me i’m amazing.”

you try to tease him—“what, you want a gold star every time you do a chore?”

he doesn’t even blink. “yes. and a kiss. and a snack. preferably hand-fed. preferably while you tell me i’m a gift to mankind.”

“you’re impossible,” you huff, already reaching for the cookies and cupping his ridiculous face in your hands.

and he just grins, because he knows. he knows you’ll give in every time. because it’s only fair—he does praise you like a goddess when he’s got you in bed, murmuring sweet things like you hung the moon and stars and he’s the luckiest man alive. he’ll have your name spilling from his lips like worship, hands reverent, voice full of awe. so why shouldn’t you tell him he’s the hottest man on earth when he unclogs the sink?

he pouts if you don’t. preens when you do. flashes you that pretty smile and says, “i’ll do more chores if you promise to thank me with moans next time.”

you smack his arm, but your face is already heating up. because god, he’s stupid. and charming. and annoyingly good at getting what he wants. it doesn’t help that you’re just as down bad.

ugh. disgusting. you love him so much it’s embarrassing.

[lilyinmysoul]

Human Thing

JacksonJoel x F!Reader

WC: 5K

Summary: You jerk Joel to sleep. The request was ‘old man’s first time in subspace’ and I hope I did it justice.

Warnings: subby Joel, Joel with internalized conflict about masculinity, smut, handjob, vivid description of bodily fluids, reader is described as having bony fingers, tit sucking, Joel is 56, anxious Joel, soft!dom reader, palming, embarrassed Joel.

Note: This one doesn’t have as much dialogue and instead more internal stuff, but I think it’s pretty detailed so that’s a win. Sub Joel also revives me, so there. I also noticed how much I overuse em dashes, but I can’t really help it.

Either two jobs really wasn’t enough for Joel, or he still felt like he had something to prove. You didn’t ever know why Joel kept piling on more work—first the obligatory patrols and then the repairs. Little maintenance things around town to occupy him; he was never a pipe guy, but he could unclog a sink. He eventually figured out how to get a dishwasher back up and running, but that was about where his luck ended in the realm of plumbing. But where one road ends, another begins—or so, they say—and so he picked back up on his old practice: his carpentry expertise from times long ago. It almost felt like a lifetime had passed since Joel had spent his days in the sun sawing planks and nailing them down, and maybe it had. However distant the memories, he still remembered the craft like the back of his hand, and the nimbleness of his fingers paired with the handiness of his technique returned as if they had never been gone.

It didn’t take long before Joel was out twice as often, fixing a cupping floor or replacing a bad beam in a roof. The town needed that: helpers. People to be there when you need them, to play their roles and keep things running—and maybe that’s why Joel fell into it so much. It was all he’d ever done. Maybe he really did love that, or maybe he was just still running. Maybe he never stopped. Not when he met Ellie, not when he came to Jackson, and apparently not when he met you. He still had a mighty mind full of buzzing memories—more hurt than life, it sometimes seemed. But that felt like an awful heavy reality to accept. Something you can only come to terms with when you really have to face it, and you don’t want to think about the kind of pain in your cowboy’s heart when you aren’t there to subdue it.

The man seemed very fascinated again by his tools, by the saws in the stables. Joel was a patrolman, and Tommy was surprised to see his brother asking around for more work. It was strange, but that’s not something you deny—so, then, Joel had two jobs. He was building again, helping to cram more new homes into the edge of town, fixing pre-existing ones or doing repairs on shops. It was quite the feat, you imagined, and it showed as Joel began coming home every day with an even more furrowed brow than usual, shirt soaked through with even more sweat. Whenever you’d ask, though, it always sounded the same: I’m alright… I feel fine, even as exhaustion took over his mind and his eyelids drooped like overripe berries.

Joel had always been depended on. He liked that. To provide was to show love in a way that he was comfortable with. It was really the only way he knew how to give his affection, but also to prove his worth. He was strong then—working day in and out to build a shed for a client—and he was strong now—laying the bricks of an old and crumbling house on his own time. He felt a little accomplishment after each, even though he had assumed the belief that fixing things was his duty. Either way, he admits to himself that deep down, he would appreciate some thanks, some congratulation. He usually received none.

Sarah was gone—long gone—and little brother didn’t need him anymore. He’d spent years protecting Tommy amidst a new world with horrifying conditions, and then there was Tess; she always left it upon him to do something, to finish a task, and for Ellie, he had to protect. If he had one job back then, it was to keep that girl alive—but of that responsibility he had long since been dismissed.

He frustrated himself with it sometimes. The desire to get shit done. It was all that his life had allowed him to know, and something he had no choice but to lean into. So, he lets the work pile on. If anything, he pursues it. Being of use, strong, of value… that’s what Joel wants to be. He assured himself of it.

Joel’s shoulders have always beared a certain weight. A tiredness upon them that could only be related to the sheer volume of effort he put into every little thing. A man who tried so hard was a gift, but he would surely work himself to the bone and you worried that you would just never understand it. Accomplishing, building… was he fulfilled by it, or had he spent so long having been expected to do it that it became his nature? Why did he feel so pressured into service—was it tradition or habit? The more it crept into his brain, the harder his mind pushed back, refusing to let himself contemplate. He was a stubborn man—‘Just how I am, always been,’ he’d say in passing. And from what you knew, he was telling the truth.

The week had kept you busy—Joel more so, as always. It was always one thing after another. The wonders of winter were many, and however much Joel hated the cold, he thanked the freezing months that slowed the wandering of infected. The things would freeze and bury themselves in the snow while coming down the mountains or sticking to frosted rocks, even falling through iced over ponds. This kept any of the extra rot-infested creatures away from the town, but as the snowy hilltops began to melt, the bastards began to thaw, and the price of peace was always paid with increased numbers of infected lingering around the gates. Joel’s patrols have been particularly rough and his arms are always tired from aiming at those things from behind the trees, and gosh, he’s getting older.

It’s certainly scary to Joel. This world—this new world—doesn’t accommodate anyone anymore, let alone those with aching backs and weaker wrists. Even in somewhere as quaint as Jackson, it’s impossible to let go of the knowledge of what happens outside. What beasts pace in humid basements or the kinds of people who roam empty streets. He knows what a clicker will do for flesh and what a raider will do for a bullet or two, and soon enough, he worries that the heavy strength in his arms will no longer suffice, giving way to muscle pains and the kinds of headaches that mess with your eyes.

For a week, you had slipped past each other in the mornings, readying for your day. A kiss on the cheek, a rub on the shoulder, and maybe a whispered ‘are you okay’—not because you believed that there was something the matter with Joel—beside his tendency to bite off more than he could chew—but because it was a subtle reassurance where he had trouble giving them. A small conformation that things were fine, that you were fine, even with a little less time to spend together. As much as you worried about Joel taking on too much, you both had to admit that the town needed him right now—construction was heavily underway in Jackson and security measures were up—so for now, you had to deal, and help out a little extra when it came to dinner and chores.

As much as he loved you and loved holding you close, Joel’s focus had to be elsewhere as of late. He’d been working double running around town from house to house, building fences and replacing broken windows.

If it had been a long day, it was about to get a lot longer if his suspicions were correct. The floor of the empty house had been fixed and polished, and Joel hoped to god that the feeling of odd intuition in his gut was wrong.

Joel walks into the center of the room—slowly—his boots making a low knock against the new wood before a dreaded crunch sounds through the room. You’ve got to be kidding me, he thinks, striding back to the doorway so as not to slump the floor further. It was sinking in just a little and his mind says, goddamnit, I can’t catch a break.

“Shit,” Joel mutters, a stained hand rubbing over his sticky forehead. A day’s worth of work in the sun, and this is what it gets him. Some incompetent prick polished a rotting floor as if that would fix it. It’s like filling a pothole with shaving cream, which makes Joel angry. Tired, too. He wants to go home already, but he isn’t one to mope—or quit.

The man rests an exhausted hand upon his hip, the denim under his fingertips acting as the only thing grounding him while his mind spins frustratedly. He’d have to pull up all of these planks—what a goddamn waste—and then he’d have to replace this decaying beam, and then some. Internally, Joel wishes he could just get a day off, but he knows that if he was offered one, he surely wouldn’t accept it. It was already beginning to get dark and he surmised that the new task at hand would take him a couple of hours at least, so he got to work.

••• ••• •••

When you’re fifty-six, it gets really hard to crouch like you used to. To uproot a shit-ton of floorboards, you have to un-drill each one, and pry it apart through the shiny paste that it had before been coated with. Now, half of the brand new floor was gone from the vacant living room, and his breathing was heavy and deep, his lungs in need of a break and his eyes in need of some rest. Outside, it is dark—almost completely—and Joel runs his fingers through his graying hair that’s a bit damp near his scalp, and decides that this would be one of those rare instances in which he calls it quits. He figures he’d screw it up if he didn’t go get some rest, and so he rubs his dusty hands on the faded denim covering his thighs and lets out his longest sigh in a while.

He looks over his work—not with accomplishment, which was much more rare in the realm of Joel’s mind—but contentment. He could leave this half done because he had more to attend to at home: his girl, for one, whom he had a habit of accidentally disregarding in favor of his work—although, he’d never admit that it was in part due to the secret appreciation he had for her congratulations. He didn’t take compliments—well, or at all—but her recognition flattered him. He liked that she made him work for it.

Languidly, Joel switches off the light that reflects in the bare room, closing the door—which could very well be rotting, too—and leaves, for tonight, his responsibility. His work has been sanctioned off and forgotten for now, and his duty is at home: taking care of the dishes, tidying up the bathroom, and falling into bed with his woman, arms wound around her as he slept, or maybe he could get lucky and make it all up to her. God knows it’s been too long.

As he walks down the old cracking driveway, his steps are weary, yet determined. If you were here, you’d laugh as he told you that even though he had only just left, he was already thinking about when he could get back to work and finish that job. You would pat his shoulder and tell him to take a break, or make some innuendo about needing him at home, and he’d wrap an arm around you. Crickets chirp in his ear as he imagines you and the warmth inside that little home you share.

Joel continues down the road, the gravel crunching under his feet as it waits to be replaced with cement, which would take a damn while if this town didn’t get a move on with all this development. he tells his brain to shut up; pushing the thoughts of work from his mind proved difficult.

Gravel soon gives way to concrete as he begins to near the house. Porch lights illuminate the street, and it’s times like these in this little town that he can begin to forget—for a moment—the world beyond it. What he has now is stable and comfortable. He doesn’t have to fight anymore. When he looks up at the stars, long since cleared of the light that once muted them, his heart holds admiration, rather than fear. There always seems to be a little bit of dread in his heart, a weight in his chest that left an odd anxiety coating his skin. But even so, he was learning to ignore it. Maybe, one day, it would shrink.

Joel crosses the narrow road into his own front yard. He hopes you haven’t gone to sleep yet. He feels fatigued and sore; he hasn’t eaten, and he doesn’t want to—but he wants to see you. And he certainly wouldn’t mind a glass of water.

The wetness of the grass turns the dust on his boots to mud and he kicks them off as he steps up onto the porch. The door is unlocked—you must be awake—and he turns the knob. The homely feeling replaces that of the cold night and the sight of the kitchen—even though it’s empty—warms his heart.

His slow steps cross the room as he shrugs off his jacket, hesitating for a moment before moving to hang it up in the closet. It takes him a few seconds longer than it should, an ache threatening to set in his shoulders.

He quietly shuts the closet door, and over the low hum of the radiator, Joel hears a thump from the bedroom. It could be the closing of a drawer or the drop of a book, but in Joel’s mind  it simply registers as you, and like a moth to a flame, he ambles down the hall through the dim light, the glowing gaps in the door leading him.

Joel splays a hand against the wood, pushing the cracked door open. He hadn’t realized that his brows are knit tight, but his eyes soften when he sees you, perched upon the bed with a book between your soft hands, fingers framing the pages with a sweet languidity.

When you hear the door creak open, you know who’s there—of course you do. You let out a soft hum, finishing the sentence that entranced you before you finally look up—withdrawn from one world and brought back to another, a fantasy just as sweet: one where Joel was with you, back at home, with nobody to come knocking about a broken shelf.

Your eyes meet with Joel’s, his hair quite disheveled. He’s hesitating, now, fingers fidgeting as they rest near his hips. You can always tell when Joel is exhausted, and he is exhausted now.

“Hey,” he mutters with a gruff voice before shuffling toward the closet. He busies himself with undressing, replacing his dusty clothes with soft and clean ones. He looks relieved to be rid of his stiff jeans, sighing as he pulls on new boxers. He grabs the nearest T-shirt off the shelf and pulls it on, turning back to you.

“Hey, Joel,” you return, voice as affectionate as warm honey as you take note of the reddened bags under his eyes, the sharpness in the lines of his forehead and how his gaze lands on you like you’re the only thing left. It’s clear that he’s tired, but he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he stands, for a moment.

You push your now forgotten book away, leaning back against the headboard as Joel’s enervated eyes make your heart quicken, just a little. You open up your arms, holding them out, beckoning him. He knows that if he lies down with you, he’ll fall right asleep, and so he does.

He doesn’t pull back the covers, only sitting atop them like you do, letting his back rest up against the wood.

“What’s this?” Joel picks up your discarded book, clearly trying to make some kind of conversation as his tired body relaxes into the mattress.

“A mystery I found in town.” You look at him, his messy hair casting a shadow over his eyes.

Joel hums, leaning his head down to press a soft kiss on your shoulder. “You’re so smart…” his low voice rumbles. He never really read until you showed him how fun it could be. Even then, he rarely had time.

When you give him a thoughtful hum in response, his thick arm wraps around your shoulder, hand slowly finding your side to rub it sweetly, a position so natural and recurring—your bodies are like magnets, always assuming the same attraction, his body enveloping yours. Right about now, he’d usually roll on top of you, hands cradling your head and caging you in as he showed you his love the way he was taught.

You rest your warm hand over his before lightly lifting it, slipping his arm back over your head. You hold his knuckles to your lips, pressing a little kiss to them, one for each weathered finger. Despite the tenderness of your action, Joel is a little confused, and when you place his hand back on his chest, he’s a little bit hurt. He feels his heartbeat underneath his palm and takes a fistful of fabric into it, unsure what to do with this—it felt like rejection.

Joel’s spine slumps a bit against the headboard, his slouch against the soft pillows leaving his head below yours, and you give a peck to the crown of it, taking the opportunity to sling an arm around his shoulder. The act alone elicits an inhale from Joel; you can hear it, and you can feel his heart rate slowing when you pull him closer, hand splayed on his chest.

“You’re sleepy,” you mutter in his ear before laying another kiss, this time in the crook of his neck.

A grumble sounds from Joel, a stubborn admittance. “Yeah. Well, I still want you.” When his voice is low, you can always hear his accent more clearly. A testament, like all other features, to who he is, who he���s been. You respond by rubbing your hand around his chest, and so he keeps talking. “‘M goin’ crazy.”

“You don’t look like it.” You chuckle into his thick hair.

As you bury your fingers into his hair, rubbing his scalp soothingly, his head turns into your chest and when the muscles in his neck tense and it looks like he might retract, you keep him there. A firm hand on the side of his head that presses him lightly into you. You want him to stay there because he needs it. You do know what he needs.

“You look like you’ll pass out on me any second,” you quip, and by the time you finish your sentence, you know that it likely isn’t true. You see it; the bump in his boxers just beyond the belt of softening flesh at his waist, so you run your wandering palm over that ring of tummy that hid years’ worth of muscle, although less visible now.

Your eyes glance down, and his are wide open. He’s watching you stroke the fabric over his coarse skin with eyes calmer than you’ve seen in quite a while. Continuing to roam, your touch rubs soothingly against Joel’s side and his face nuzzles further into your chest.

“I’m awake,” Joel finally says, his grumbling voice breaking the silence. As you touch his skin, you feel his pulse speeding up once again. “Can you…” ahead of himself, he trails off.

When you reply with an inquisitive hum, he only nuzzles deeper, the thin cotton you wear acting as the only barrier between your supple breast and the worn skin on his face. His cheekbones and the tip of his nose rub against your chest, and he can faintly feel your heartbeat. When he doesn’t answer, you don’t push and instead grip the fabric of your shirt and lift.

You don’t take it off, just bringing the fabric to rest over your chest, the flesh jiggling a bit as it’s freed, Joel’s cheek resting upon the soft tissue. He lets out a shaky breath.

The man looked very tired and very drunk on your touch, his body unmoving in a way that was rare. No fidgeting, no grabbing, just accepting.

Your eyes focus on the sweet lines around his eyes, and you let one hand take the side of his face. Maybe he takes it as encouragement, or possibly permission, but with your hand on his jaw, his nuzzles against your chest turn to kisses. They are wet, and not too coordinated, but they are full of that same kind of admiration that you always see in Joel when he loves you, but it’s missing its possession. He isn’t trying to prove anything, just taking. Is it selfish? He doesn’t know, and he’ll probably think about it later, but he can’t right now.

Rosy lips wrap around your firm nipple, the warmth of Joel’s saliva engulfing it. His kisses are turning to licks and sucks as his mind wanders about—about you, about the pure euphoria of sitting and getting what he wants without busting his ass for it. His tongue against the warm flesh puts a moist sound into the air and your fingers on his hairy jaw were only encouraging him, a little grunt leaving his mouth.

“Yeah…” you mumble, partly to yourself as your free hand wanders down his body again, and when he hears your voice, his lips part, a pop ringing through the air as your nipple slides from mouth. He feels caught, for a moment, like a child doing something wrong.

You push his head toward you again, other hand still wandering, and wow, he is rock hard. Joel’s boxers are thin and blue, making no effort to hide the pressure underneath them that forces the fabric to tent. You don’t want to tease him, not now, but you can’t help but have your fingers meander their way down his hips a bit slower than usual. As your hand traces, nearing too close to his pulsing bulge, Joel’s hips twitch into your empty touch.

Joel wonders to himself about how this all seems to you. Does he look stupid, curled up against you like a goddamn baby? If he was in his right mind—never. But now, there was no way to resist your warm embrace, and your hand was coming closer and closer to his cock, and he worried that if you touched it, he’d only last a few seconds. You’d wrecked him.

Ghosting over the fabric once and then twice, your fingers circle the spot Joel that wants you before cupping your palm over it; it feels like heaven, and you can tell. He mumbles something incoherent against your chest, his mouth reconnecting with the slick skin as he begins to suck once again. Something about the weight of them—it was grounding. He didn’t think, now, that he’d ever have enough of them.

As you knead gently, rubbing and squeezing his firm bulge, his hips tick up another time, almost imperceptibly. It’s a light movement, something you’d never usually catch, and you wonder if you’ll ever get him like this again.

Even though Joel tended to treat compliments like cardinal sins, you bet he’d let you get away with it now. Your fingers finally slip underneath the band of his briefs and immediately find his length, tip a bit slippery and oh, so firm.

“Lift your hips a bit, handsome,” you instruct gently, and he does it, his mouth leaving your breast again, its slick and spit covered surface dampening his cheek. Now, his head rests against you, his ear on your collarbone as you get a good look, boxers tugged down to his thighs.

Joel has been quiet, but his face tells it all. His look is dazed, like he wouldn’t be able to tell you what day it is, and you smile softly even though he can’t see it. His chin isn’t tilted up or focused on you, it’s on your hand as it wraps around him with such care.

You glance down at your chest, each nipple a bit shiny in the lamp’s glow. “Made a mess here, huh?”

“Yeah…” Joel responds, his voice raspy and only barely above a whisper. “‘Like doin’ it.” His head lolls back against your shoulder, and with the way he’s slumped, you know his back will be sore, but he just doesn’t care. He needed this, you tell yourself, but you know that you did, too.

“I do, too. It’s… comforting,” you let out a low laugh—partly out of hilarity and partly from contentment. This gets a low chuckle out of Joel—if you could even call it that. A low sound made from humor, sure, but one that sounded like it took effort to produce, like someone pretending not to be drunk and failing miserably. “Didn’t know these were so powerful.”

Joel gives you a mindless hum that turns to something of a whine when your thumb circles his tip. It’s a beautiful sight; Joel is laid out, soft and malleable, almost docile. You could hear the shakiness in his breath, like he was completely gone.

When you bring your hand to Joel’s mouth, he isn’t sure what to do with it, and so he watches you with slitted eyes before opening his mouth, leaning in the slightest bit, and enveloping your fingertips.

He sucks them a little, letting his teeth bite lightly on your fingers. Inside of his mouth, his tongue dances with your fingers like he needs them, and you chuckle into his salty hair.

You give him a little bit longer to suck your bony fingers, and he does so as if he were nursing from them. He looks utterly peaceful as you pull them out, your fingers now wet and again cupped by his mouth. Joel had gotten ahead of himself, but it was nothing if not endearing.

“Could you get these wet for me?” You ask him lowly, and you see his face go a bit red when he realizes what you’re asking. You never asked him to suck on your fingers, and so he looks away as he lets a bit of saliva dribble down into your hand. Joel is hit again with another wave of self-consciousness, and he feels compromised. He swallows and lets his eyes close when finally, your slick hand wraps around his cock again.

“Sorry,” a puff from Joel when he feels your touch. “Fuck.”

“I like it, Joel,” you give him a tight stroke and then a giggle in his ear. “Told you how nice it is to have something to suck on.”

He inhales through his teeth as you continue to touch him, and if he wasn’t so far gone, his face would have gone redder. His skin is damp and rosy, but the embarrassment is leaving as his responsiveness does, making more room in his head for that still softness that he never knew until now.

Joel only watches as your hand slides up and down his length, first taking a slow pace that makes his hands shake a little at his sides. He could no longer think about the contrast between this and the usual arrangements, how he let his strong body rest as you cared for him. His arms were littered with scars, hands tainted by the sun, abdomen dusted with dark hairs that trailed down into the graying abyss at which your hand rested now, your touch so caring.

His hands and his mouth are unoccupied, his eyes misty as he watches. Again, you press a kiss to his temple, nuzzling into his hair, free hand cupping his bearded jaw. Joel lets out heavy breaths, little deep sounds that he doesn’t bother to contain. His face turns again toward your breast. His mouth doesn’t open, but he leans against you, enveloped by the comfort of your body. When your hand speeds its pace, rubbing him quicker, his grunts only amplify, another bud of pre-cum excreting from his cock and dripping down it, slowly.

There’s a kind of gravel to his voice that you only hear when he’s close, and as you murmur little compliments into his ear, you know he hears you, he just doesn’t have it in him to answer. Joel’s mind is spinning a bit, and his eyes fall shut, some mix of a whine and a grunt passing his lips.

What seems to do it, though, is when your arm tightens around him, holding him even closer and even tighter as you work him. His mind has a fuzziness to it that he never wants to let go of—so new, and yet so organic.

He doesn’t tell you when he’s going to cum, he just does, but you can tell by the tightness in his muscles. His thighs tense up, and so do his hands, and when the milky liquid spills out of him, it comes slow. It trickles down onto your hand, and when you think it’ll stop, it keeps going. It’s certainly more than he’s ever given you before, its drips landing at his base and tangling with the hair there.

Joel’s head, slightly sweaty and slack, is rested against your chest, his eyes in slits and fighting not to close.

“Oh, Joel…” you give his warm forehead a rub, looking around the room for something to clean your hand and chest with. You can’t fall asleep like this, so you pull your shirt, already half off, over your head, using the fabric to dab at your damp skin.

You’re extra careful when you wipe Joel, his cock now soft as you dry him off, scrubbing the coarse hair lightly as you try to get it dry. By the time the cloth has done its job and you’ve tossed it aside to the floor, Joel’s eyes have long since been closed and his breaths are shallow against your bare chest, mouth open the slightest bit.

You click off the lamp and your hand finds his head in the dark, fingers running through his hair as you murmur to him sweet nothings that he surely won’t remember.

Thank’s for reading!! Tell me what you think

[lizawithaz-notlisawithans]

The Pitt Crew and their Preferred YouTube Rabbit Hole

Robby: Those survivalist dudes building homes off the grid. Also vintage watch collecting videos. It’s a hobby born from being Dr Adamsons mentee. He has a very small but unique collection.

Collins: Leather handbag refurbishing. She is a vintage bag enthusiast and enjoys watching the slow craftsmanship.

Langdon: He has two under four so he has watched every Ms Rachel video under the sun (his wife strictly prohibits cocomelon but he has caved a couple of times so he could have some peace). On his own, he is watching medical videos cause it’s easier for him to process than just reading journals.

Mel: She is a Trixie Mattel stan. She has watched every Unnnh video and jumps to watch every new Queens Who Like to Watch video that drops. She and her sister love watching Defunctland videos together.

Dana: Live concert footage from 80s/90s artists. She loves reading the sweet comments of people sharing stories about the song being their wedding dance or their passed lovers favorite song. She will share them on facebook with her own stories about seeing Springsteen with her sisters in 88.

Santos: She has the most chaotic Youtube Homepage of anyone at the Pitt. It’s MMA videos, video essays that just recap whole TV shows verbatim that are 6 hours long, music videos from queer artists and knife sharpening videos. Whitaker doesn’t understand a single thing thats going on.

Whitaker: Since moving in with Santos and wanting to earn his keep he has been watching all those internet dad teaches you how to unclog a sink/caulk a tub/fix your fridge videos. Other than that he loves watching soul train performances, npr tiny desks and music history video essays.

Javadi: She watches all the study influencers and has BIG opinions on who is legit and who is a phony looking for a cash grab. She also watches a bunch of lifestyle vloggers to lowkey live vicariously through. She loves Emma Chamberlain and her Paris vlogs.

Mohan: (sry this is so sad) She watches ASMR Hair Brushing/Massage videos to go to bed. She has a hard time falling asleep especially after an adrenaline filled shift. She watched one as a joke but it instantly relaxed and made her think about how her dad used to brush and oil her hair before bed when her mom worked late. (Not sad) Perfume influencers especially ones that focus on indie fragrances.

McKay: She’s watching Mr Beast with her son. She holds no opinion on him.

Abbot: he only watches videos people send him. Samira sent him a Ted Talk hosted by a journal author they were talking about. His therapist recommends guided meditation videos to help with his PTSD but he got bored and stumbled onto those dancing fruit videos for toddlers. He unironically loves them.

Ellis: She plays DJ sets (Chicago House/Louisiana Bounce/etc) while she cleans her apartment. She has few Loc influencers that she follows to find ways to make her wash days shorter and find new hairstyles.

Shen: He is a Dropout Subscriber. But he will still watch the old collegehumor sketches. If he’s feeling nostalgic he’ll marathon lonely island, BriTaNick and good neighbor videos.

Mateo: He is mainlining the most insane Youtube shorts.

Walsh: She ironically loves the dancing fruit videos for toddlers.

Garcia: old clips from the L Word. And she gets into fights in the comments.

Princess: recap podcasts for dating reality shows like Love Island/Bachelor/Love is Blind. The long shifts make it hard to watch every show but she needs to know the tea.

Perlah: She uses Youtube as her gym. Her house is chaos with her kids and pets but she will do her daily Chloe Ting workout!

Donnie: He loves those British guys who are amazed at seasoned food in America. Also grilling videos and reviews of smokers.

Please comment your thoughts on these characters youtube rabbit holes (tell me that im wrong!)

[lavandulawrites]

Q-Tip

Jiaoqiu x reader

This idea is rather silly, but I felt the need to write it down. Do as Jiaoqiu kids and don’t use Q-tips in the ears!

Masterlist

Warnings: Overprotective Jiaoqiu, Jiaoqiu can be read as a very soft yandere, but you chose yourself what you interpreted him as, can be read as a follow-up to my other fic “Orange Slices”

Your wet hair damped your t-shirt, making the soft cotton fabric cling to your skin. The shower had been nice and it felt good to finally have washed your hair that had been long overdue. Fog and gathered on the mirror which you wiped away with your fingers after drawing a heart. You look much fresher and your eye bags had gotten better and your nose was no longer red. You had been out with a cold for the past few days, resulting in your hair getting greasy and your ears to get clogged.

The subtle smell of your shampoo entered your nose and you exhaled, luckily your nose had all cleared up and your sense of smell was back to normal. Water poured down in the sink as you turned on the faucet. The sound was distant and muffled as if your ears were stuffed to the brim with cotton. You cupped your hand under the water and brought it up to your ear. The warm water was tickling, but it didn’t clear your ears as you hoped.

You groaned as you shut tap with a harsh motion. This was truly starting to drive you insane. Your eyes wandered across the bathroom till they ended on the medicine cabinet. An idea lit up inside you.

You carefully twisted the Q-tip around in your right ear and you immediately sighed of relief. Jiaoqiu had forbidden you from using cotton swabs in your ear, saying it could damage both your ear and your hearing. You knew he knew best when it came to the body, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. You swirled the Q-tip around and groaned as you hit the spot. You knew you were overdramatic, but the relief was way too good. You were slowly starting to feel the clog despite and your heating started to get back to its normal self.

You threw the swab in the trash and brought a new one to your left ear. You repeated the motion and a new sense of relief filled you. You took it out and was about to put the other end in when a voice broke the silence.

“What do you think you are doing?”

Oh shit.

“How many times have I told you that you are not allowed to use Q-tips? Do you know how dangerous it is?” Jiaoqiu was right in front of you in two long strides. He plucked the swab from your hand and threw it in the trash.

“One time doesn’t hurt. And do you really expect me to sit around and wait for my ears to get unclogged? I was literally going insane. And see no damage is done!” you pointed to your ear.

“I have told you I was going out to buy a few oils for your ears! Why couldn’t you wait?” he groaned as he dragged his hand over his face.

You rolled your eyes, you had grown annoyed by his overprotective behaviour. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“It is” he gave you a side eye as he turned and exited the room. “Come, let fix your ears” his words were final. “I really can’t leave you alone can I?” despite his frustration leaking through his expression, a certain fondness was present in his clementine orange eyes.

[satinritual]

TETHERED.

CHAPTER THREE: Fix it.

Summary: given your father’s innate talent to break things instead of fixing ‘em, Joel drops by to help.

Wc: 2.9k. | Warnings: none.

Previous chapter | Series’ masterlist.

The steady, rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water from under the bathroom sink was the only sound piercing the heavy silence of the house, each drop a tiny, relentless intruder in the morning’s fragile calm. It fell with a soft, wet plop onto the tiles, pooling in a shallow, shimmering puddle that gleamed under the fluorescent light. The noise was insidious, burrowing into your mind like a splinter, gnawing at your patience. You’d tried to ignore it, to drown it out with the hum of your thoughts, but it wove itself into the fabric of the morning, a maddening metronome that mocked your attempts at peace.

You’d noticed the leak earlier, stepping into the bathroom to brush your teeth, your mind still foggy from a restless night. The tiles were cool under your feet, a brief comfort—until your socked foot hit the slick puddle spreading from beneath the sink. One moment, you were steady; the next, you were slipping, your balance betrayed by the wet floor. “Shit,” you’d hissed, the curse a reflex as you grabbed the doorframe, your fingers digging into the chipped paint to steady yourself. Your pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding your veins, a sharp jolt that left your heart pounding. You’d caught yourself, no harm done, but the sting lingered, you’d pulled a muscle or two. The morning, already off-kilter, seemed determined to pile on its petty grievances, each one a pebble adding to the weight on your chest.

What twisted the annoyance into irritation, was hearing your father’s voice downstairs, muffled through the walls, chuckling about your near-accident as if it were a harmless anecdote. You hadn’t gotten hurt and it wasn’t serious, but an ‘Are you alright?’ Would’ve been appreciated.

The text he had sent to Joel, glimpsed later on his phone while he poured you coffee, was simple: ‘Hey, got a leak under the sink upstairs, she almost slipped. Can you swing by and fix it when you get a chance? Thanks, man.’

Your father’s aversion to household repairs was no secret. He had a peculiar talent for turning minor fixes into catastrophes, a running joke in the family that had lost its humor somewhere along the way. Last summer, he’d tackled the floor fan, dismantling the grilles to wipe the blades clean, only to reassemble it into a lifeless husk that refused to spin. The toilet had been another victim, his earnest attempt at unclogging it leaving the tank gurgling and useless for days, forcing you to use his bathroom. And the toaster—God, the toaster—had erupted in flames after he’d “just cleaned the crumb tray,” the kitchen filled with acrid smoke and his sheepish apologies. 

Each failure was a testament to his relentless optimism, a belief that sheer willpower could salvage any broken thing, no matter how doomed. But willpower wasn’t enough, and every fix birthed a new disaster. The leak under the sink was just the latest casualty, and he wasn’t about to risk making it worse.

A soft knock on the house door sliced through the quiet, light but deliberate, startling you from your spiraling thoughts. You’d been crouched by the sink, staring at the puddle as if you could will the leak to stop, your hands damp from futile attempts to tighten the pipe with a dish towel. The knock jolted you upright, your knee bumping the cabinet, a dull ache blooming as you straightened.

“Come in!” you called, aiming for nonchalance, though your voice wavered, betraying the nerves coiled tight in your chest. You wiped your hands on your jeans, leaving faint wet streaks, and stepped back, brushing a stray hair from your face as the door creaked open.

You heard the door open and someone coming upstairs, and Joel stepped inside, his presence filling the small bathroom with an effortless, rugged ease that felt both comforting and disarming. His faded flannel hung loose over a worn t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair, the kind of strength earned from years as a forest ranger. His jeans, scuffed and faded at the knees, clung to his frame in a way that spoke of practicality, not vanity, yet there was an undeniable pull in the way he carried himself—steady, grounded, like he belonged anywhere he stood. His eyes flicked to the puddle under the sink, narrowing with a quick assessment, then to you, a faint nod acknowledging your presence before he spoke.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, his voice low, smooth, with a warmth that caught you off guard. Your heart skipped a beat at the word—darlin’—a casual endearment that landed like a spark, igniting a flush of warmth in your chest. It was nothing, you told yourself, just a Southern quirk, but the way it rolled off his tongue, soft and deliberate, made your pulse flutter, your breath hitch for a fraction of a second. You swallowed, hoping he hadn’t noticed, and forced your focus to his words. “Your dad sent me over. Said you got a leak under here, and you nearly took a spill.”

You nodded, crossing your arms to steady yourself, the damp denim of your jeans cool against your skin. “Yeah, it’s been dripping all morning,” you said, your voice tighter than you meant, frustration leaking through. “I tried to mess with it, but… I’m not exactly a plumber. Sorry he dragged you over for this.”

Joel’s lips twitched, a half-smile that was more amusement than pity, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “No trouble at all,” he said, kneeling by the sink with a practiced ease, his broad shoulders brushing the cabinet as he peered underneath. “Your dad’s got a knack for breakin’ things, not fixin’ ’em. Learned that when he tried to ‘help’ with my coffee machine last year. Damn thing never worked again.”

A laugh escaped you, sharp and unexpected, cutting through the tension in your chest. “Oh, God,” you said, leaning against the counter, the edge digging into your hip. “I swear, he’s cursed when it comes to appliances.”

“Tell me about it,” Joel muttered, his voice muffled as he reached into his toolbox, the metal clinking softly. “Man’s a menace with a screwdriver. I ain’t lettin’ him near my house, that’s for damn sure.” He glanced up, his grin playful, inviting you into the shared humor, and for a moment, the bathroom felt less like a battleground and more like a space you could share.

You hesitated, unsure of your role, your hands fidgeting at your sides. Standing there, useless while he worked, felt awkward, exposing the raw edges of your vulnerability. You weren’t used to being the one who needed help, not like this. 

“Can I… do anything?” you ventured, half-joking, your voice lighter than you felt. “I mean, I’m not completely hopeless. I can at least tell a wrench from a hammer.”

Joel chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the small space, easing the knot in your stomach. “That’s a start,” he said, his tone teasing but kind, tossing you a wrench with a flick of his wrist.

You caught it, fumbling slightly, the cold metal heavy in your palm, your fingers closing around it with a mix of surprise and determination. “C’mon, darlin’, let’s see what you got.” You ducked your head, hoping the dim light hid your flush, and knelt beside him, the tiles cold through your jeans.

You peered under the sink, the copper pipes glinting faintly, a slow drip forming a bead that fell into the puddle below. Joel’s shoulder brushed yours as he leaned in, his presence steady, grounding, the faint scent of pine and sawdust clinging to his flannel. 

“Alright,” he said, pointing to a bolt on the pipe. “We’re gonna tighten this here, stop the leak. Hold the wrench like this—” He guided your hand, his calloused fingers wrapping over yours, warm and firm, adjusting your grip with a gentle precision that sent a shiver down your spine. The touch was practical, necessary, but it lingered, a quiet connection that made the small bathroom feel smaller, the air thicker.

“Like this?” you asked, your voice softer, focusing on the bolt to distract from the warmth of his hand, the way it made your pulse quicken. You turned the wrench, the metal resisting, your movements clumsy but earnest.

“Close,” Joel said, his voice calm, encouraging, his breath close enough to stir the hair at your temple. “Little more pressure, don’t be shy.” He adjusted your hand again, his fingers lingering a moment longer, and you swallowed, your throat dry, as you tried to focus on the task, not the man beside you.

You worked together, the rhythm of metal on metal a quiet counterpoint to the drip’s fading cadence. Joel’s grunts of effort mingled with your own hesitant movements, the wrench slipping once, twice, as you struggled to find the right angle. “Easy, now,” he murmured, his voice a low anchor, steadying you. “You’re doin’ fine, just take your time.”

But then, predictably, you pushed too hard, and the wrench slipped, stripping the bolt with a faint screech of metal. “Fuck,” you muttered, wincing, bracing for the judgment, the sigh, the proof you were as useless as you felt. Your cheeks burned, shame prickling your skin, a reflex from years of being told you weren’t enough.

Joel didn’t flinch. He paused, his hands stilling, assessing the damage with the same calm he’d brought to the room. “Hey, it’s alright, darlin’,” he said, his voice soft, sure, the endearment hitting you like a warm wave, your heart stuttering again, a mix of comfort and something sharper, unnamed. “These old bolts strip easy. We’ll swap it out, no harm done.”

He reached into his toolbox, pulling out a replacement, his movements unhurried, as if your mistake was just a bump in the road, not a failure.

You blinked, caught off guard by his kindness, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Sorry,” you said, your voice small, the word automatic, a habit from too many apologies.

Joel’s gaze met yours, steady, a flicker of something—understanding, maybe—passing through his eyes. “No need to apologize,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “Everybody fumbles at first. Hell, I’ve stripped more bolts than I can count. You’re doin’ better than you think.” His words were casual, but they landed deep, soothing the raw edges of your self-doubt, wrapping around you like a quiet promise. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, and handed him the new bolt, your fingers brushing his, the contact brief but electric.

He worked quickly, securing the new bolt, tightening the pipe until the drip slowed, then stopped, the puddle no longer growing. “Let’s test it,” he said, turning the faucet on, the water flowing clear, no leaks. He stood, stretching his back with a low grunt, his flannel riding up to reveal a sliver of tanned skin above his jeans. “There we go. Good as new.”

You exhaled, relief flooding you, a weight lifting from your shoulders. “Thank you,” you said, your voice quieter, laced with gratitude. “I would’ve turned this place into a swimming pool if you hadn’t shown up.”

Joel laughed, a deep, unguarded sound that warmed the room, his grin wide and easy. “Wouldn’t let that happen, darlin’. Just watch your step next time, yeah? Your dad said you took a slide.” His tone was light, but his eyes held a flicker of concern, searching yours for a moment longer than necessary.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, brushing it off, though the memory of your father’s casual dismissal still stung. “Just a clumsy morning.”

He nodded, wiping his hands on a rag, his movements deliberate, unhurried. “Happens to the best of us,” he said, tossing the rag into his toolbox. “You need anything else while I’m here?”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Think you’ve saved the day enough for now,” you said, the words lighter than you felt, a tentative step toward ease.

He chuckled, shouldering his toolbox, and gestured toward the door. “C’mon, let’s get outta this bathroom.”

(***)

Later that evening, as the last blush of sunset melted into a velvet sky, you found yourself on the creaking wooden porch, the air cool and scented with pine and dew, a promise of rain lingering in the breeze. Joel sat beside you, his chair angled toward the yard, his boots propped on the railing, the leather scuffed and worn, dusted with the day’s work. His flannel hung open over a faded t-shirt, the porch light casting a golden halo across his face, softening the lines etched by years of sun and responsibility. The house behind you was dim, your father still at work, his absence a quiet ache you didn’t want to name. Joel’s presence, though, was a steady counterpoint, his decision to stay a small, unexpected comfort.

“I’m on night shift later,” he’d said earlier, shrugging as if it were nothing, his voice carrying that same easy calm. “Didn’t wanna leave you here alone. Figured I’d stick around a bit, if that’s alright.”

You’d nodded, the words settling in your chest, warm and heavy. “I don’t mind,” you’d murmured, meaning it more than you’d expected.

Now, the silence between you was companionable, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the distant hum of cicadas staking their claim on the dusk. Joel tilted his head back, eyes tracing the stars beginning to prick the indigo sky, his posture relaxed but alert, a man at ease with the quiet.

“You ever notice,” he said after a long pause, his voice low, warm, cutting through the stillness, “how your dad’s got a God-given talent for breakin’ things?”

You huffed a laugh, the sound escaping like a release, warm and unguarded. “Don’t I know it,” you replied, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, your sweater bunching at your wrists. “He’s a walking disaster. Tries so hard, but it’s like the house fights back. I feel bad for him sometimes—he wants to fix everything, but it just… falls apart.”

Joel’s lips quirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Yeah, learned that the hard way,” he said, scratching his jaw, the scruff rasping under his fingers. “Last month, he called me over to ‘help’ with the backyard fence. Deer tore through, messed up the garden. Poor thing was limpin’, so I took it to a vet—part of the ranger gig. Came back, and there’s your dad, starin’ at the fence like it’s a damn puzzle, talkin’ about rebuildin’ it from scratch.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips as the memory flickered—how the fence, once a rickety eyesore, now stood straight, sturdy, the wood stained a rich cedar. “Wait, you fixed the fence?” you asked, your voice tinged with surprise, the realization settling like a gentle ripple.

“Had to. Your dad was about to take a sledgehammer to it, swear to God. Figured I’d save us both the headache. Plus, I know my way around a hammer—comes with the territory.” He gestured vaguely, likely to the forests he patrolled, the ranger life that left his hands calloused and his frame strong.

You laughed, shaking your head, the sound bright against the quiet night. “That’s so him,” you said, your voice fond but exasperated. “He’s got this unshakable confidence, like he can wrestle any problem into submission. Works great for cars—engines, gears, all that gritty stuff. But house appliances? It’s like he’s cursed.”

Joel chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that warmed the air between you. “Man can rebuild a V8 blindfolded, but give him a pipe wrench, and it’s chaos. I swear, he looked at that fence like it was written in Latin.” He paused, his grin softening. “Still, you gotta give him credit. He tries. Ain’t many who’d keep swingin’ like that.”

You nodded, the words sinking in, a quiet respect in Joel’s tone mirroring your own complicated love for your father. “Yeah,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “He does.”

The conversation lapsed into silence, not awkward but sacred, a shared understanding settling between you. You leaned back in your chair, the wood creaking under your weight, the coolness seeping through your sweater as you exhaled, the tension in your shoulders easing. The silence here was different from the city’s restless clamor—car horns, sirens, the constant hum of life that never slept. In Jackson, the quiet was expansive, patient, honest, a stillness that didn’t demand anything of you, only asked you to be. You hadn’t realized how much you’d craved it, how your body had ached for a moment that didn’t require performance or pretense, just presence.

You glanced at Joel, his profile sharp against the starlit sky, his eyes still on the horizon, content in the quiet. There was a steadiness to him, a man who’d made peace with silence, who carried it like an old friend. You wondered what shaped that in him, what storms he’d weathered to sit so comfortably in this moment, but you didn’t ask. Not yet. Instead, you let the silence speak, a wordless connection that felt real, grounding.

The air grew cooler, the scent of pine and impending rain sharper now, and you pulled your sweater tighter, the sleeves bunching at your wrists. You didn’t know what lay ahead—not in this town, not in the fractured pieces of yourself you were still learning to name—but here, on this porch, with Joel’s quiet presence and the stars blooming overhead, you felt anchored. Not whole, not yet, but here. And for now, that was enough.

Series’ Masterlist | Next Chapter

[urjustaguyonahorse]

you KNOW cathy was so glad when kate came back home after all that time no matter how broken she was but she also must have been so so so unbelievably relieved as a mother to see that kate was opening up to others again and she had people taking care of her. like obviously part of her making tyler stay for dinner and giving him the guest room was typical mom scheming because why would you let a guy like that slip through your daughters fingers? but also, she watched her daughter lose three of her best friends and push everybody else away as a coping mechanism and there's no way she wasn't so comforted by the sight of somebody coming her her aid when she obviously didn't ask for it and staying for her even when it was an awkward situation to say the least. i just know she would love the rest of the wranglers and let them set up base there whenever. she would love having javi back and cooking them all bbq while they play poker in her living room after a long day. she'd let them redo the barn and put bedrooms in the loft and not bat an eye if any of them moved in more permanently in the off season. she would love boone's help with the animals and dani's help with the machinery. she would let dexter move a whole library into the loft "as light reading when we stay" and let lilly spread new t-shirt design ideas across her whole kitchen and give her feedback while she's deciding. she'd love tyler like a son (in law cause she's still a schemer after all) and tease him when she wears his t-shirt and he'd unclog the sink drain like a man. she'd love javi like a (more favorite) son and the guest bedroom in the house would be permanently his and they'd watch house md together. i just feel like a safe place to come back to that's filled with laughter and home cooked food would be exactly what kate and all of them would need to heal and carry on. and knowing kate's in good hands with good people who love her and let her be in their lives would be exactly what cathy needs as a mother who lost her daughter once.

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Peeking in to say maybe Kotenok having to cockwarm Nikolai as he's meeting with John? Maybe something like that?

cw: sensory deprivation, cockwarming, Price being a dick

"Want you with me while I work." He had a set of headphones in his hand. "Keep these on, no matter what."

He slipped them on over your head. Noise cancelling with ambient noise coming through the speakers. You could scarcely hear your own footsteps.

You'd never been in his office before. It was regal with large bookshelves lining one wall and maps covering the other. He guided you under his desk. This wasn't anything unfamiliar for you. Cockwarming was a favorite of his, keeping you on his lap or between his thighs. He was patient too, a plus considering how large his cock was.

While he started work he let you ease your throat open around him, growing hard while he filled your mouth. He'd stroke that back of your head as you took him inch by inch till the coarse hairs surrounding the base of him tickled your nose.

He lifted one ear of the headphones up, "Good girl. Stay like that."

You hummed in affirmation and let your head rest against his thigh. He didn't mind the drool that soaked his pant leg or seat. He was always clean, a little musky but never gross. Salty not foul. You could guess his taste blindfolded at this point.

There were muffled noises around you; the clack of laptop keys, his occasional, cursing over the phone. You let your thoughts drain out of your brain like an unclogged sink. Your forehead rested against his navel, feeling him breath, matching his breaths. His clothes smelled nice, fresh and a little floral. Went well with the remnants of his cologne.

When you pulled up to catch your breath he'd pat your cheek and smile down at you. It was almost endearing and you were angry at yourself that you felt your cunt pulse whenever he hit the back of your throat with a groan you feel rumble through his stomach.

You startled when you a cool brush of air came across the back of your bare thighs. You could feel the vibrations across the floor as someone came up on the other side of the desk and took a seat in the empty chair.

A shoe heel came to rest on the small of your back. You didn't need to turn around to know it was John, the singular friend of Nik you'd had the displeasure of meeting.

You scooted on your knees to further hide yourself between Nik's legs. He laid a possessive hand on the back of your head but John's foot stayed on you.

Nik stroked your head and cheek during the entirety of his meeting with John. You would had rather neither acknowledge you than treat you like furniture or an animal that needed calming.

You held onto his pant leg, tugging in a quiet plea for help whenever John dug his heel into your tailbone. He only stopped when you yelped around Nik's cock.

You sighed in relief when John's foot moved off you completely and you could feel him leave.

Nik held the back of your head and thrusted into your throat several times before spilling into your mouth.

He pulled the headphones off and tossed them to the side.

"Shhh... catch your breath." He helped you up to your feet. Your knees burned with the imprint from the rug fibers. "Go upstairs and clean up. Then we'll get dinner, yeah?"

You nodded and walked slowly to his bedroom, your tail bone aching.

[tired-biscuit]

men who trip over themselves to open jars for you and do household repairs because they like to feel needed and useful and manly>>>>

this is so golden retriever boyfriend.

they’re huge pleasers out of the goodness of their own hearts, so they constantly want to make sure you’re being well taken care of and are happy with them. a relationship with them tends to last, though only if you put in the effort, too.

you calling their name so that they can help you with something feels like pure euphoria even if it’s for the smallest, most unimportant of things like placing a new frame on the wall or unclogging the sink. accepting a kiss to the cheek and a small ‘thank you’ makes them soar. they’re happiest whenever you act like a damsel in distress just for their own sake so that they can spring into action and ‘save’ you from whichever trouble you’ve got yourself wound up in.

they’re the type of dudes who feel genuine happiness when you pretend to swoon and say the words ‘big boy’ the moment they flex their muscles jokingly or when you lick your finger and step onto your tippy-toes to rub off some dirt off their cheek. the type who eat you out for ages; until you’re literally shaking in their arms from all the stimulation and they’re nearly blinded with joy from how blatantly your body needs them; how blatantly it reacts to them.

they’re simple and easy-going but so warm to be around that it turns them complex in its own way. you grow addicted to their presence and the sunshine they bring along without even realizing it and all of a sudden you’re wrapped tightly in his bear-like embrace and you’re mumbling “my man, my man, my man” into his strong chest without stop.

and that’s just fine.

they want to be the hero, the knight in shining armor, the person you come running to whenever the world feels wrong anyway.

they really do want to be your man.

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - On the Rag

steddie, early 1960s, newlyweds, menstruation, period sex, mdni 🔞

Eddie comes home from work a bit late—he stayed after to help a couple students plan their research papers—but not so late Steve should be worried. They’ve only been married a month, and he just wants to hold his pretty wife and kiss his neck to make him giggle.

He finds Steve in the kitchen, throwing together a caesar salad to go with the lasagne in the oven, and presses up behind him. “Hey, Baby,” he murmurs, hands gripping Steve’s hips. Then he kisses Steve’s neck, just like he’s been wanting to and he smells so sweet. “How was your day?”

“Good! I got groceries and drove Mrs. Driscoll to her doctor’s appointment. Oh! And I got the sink in our bathroom unclogged! Drains fine now.” Steve sets aside the salad and turns in Eddie’s arms, smiling brightly. “Supper will be ready soon.”

“I don’t know how you have enough hours in the day,” Eddie says, smile just as wide. “And to think I’m exhausted after trying to get 200 twelve-year-olds to diagram sentences.”

“Diagramming sentences is pretty exhausting,” Steve teases. “Now go wash up so we can eat.”

Eddie does as he’s told, and he and Steve eat at the kitchen table, talking more about their days and planning the rest of the week. After, they do the dishes together, Eddie washes and Steve dries. Steve’s got his eye on an electric dishwasher, but Eddie’s second-year teaching salary isn’t enough for one just yet.

Everything put away, they settle in the living room to watch Petticoat Junction. Or, Steve watches while Eddie grades quizzes. Eddie mostly listens, but he notices that Steve is having trouble finding a comfortable spot on the couch, shifting every couple minutes snd eventually settling with one leg tucked under himself.

And his scent is getting even stronger, like it would before his heat, but he isn’t due for a few months… “Baby,” Eddie asks, “Are you feeling okay? Do you need me to grab you an aspirin?”

Steve has a hand over his belly, but he looks up and forces a smile. “I’m fine, Puppy. Just a little tired, it’s nothing.”

“Then let’s head up to bed.” Eddie puts away the graded quizzes and gets up to turn off the television. He holds a hand out for Steve, rumbling a purr when he takes it.

They get ready for bed together, Steve’s scent even stronger in their shared bathroom, with the slightest sour-sharp hint to it. Teeth brushed, Eddie can’t help but pull Steve in for a kiss, and it turns heated as their kisses so often do.

But before Eddie can even suggest that they move to the bed and worry about the rest of their toilette after, Steve pushes him away. “Not tonight, Puppy.”

Eddie points to the medicine cabinet, concerned. “Sure you don’t need an aspirin?”

“No, it’s just… Aunt Flo is visiting.”

“You don’t have an Aunt Flo?” Steve’s only aunt is named Patricia. as far as Eddie knows.

“Eddie…” Steve says, sounding pained. And a little disappointed. “It’s my time of the month… I’m on the rag.”

“Oh!”

“Right.”

“Still no aspirin?”

“It doesn’t really help with my cramps, so why bother?” Steve says with a shrug.

“Is there anything that does help?”

“A hot bath, chocolate…”

“What about an orgasm?”

“Eddie!”

“What, something that feels good down there should counteract the things that feel bad down there,” Eddie replies with a shrug of hus own.

Steve pouts and shakes his head. “It’ll make a mess.”

“We can put down a towel.”

“Eddie! Those are nice towels!” They are, their house is stocked with matching towels thanks to their wedding registry.

“And I am a-okay with sacrificing one if it means I get to make you feel better, Baby.” He pulls Steve close, guiding his nose towards his neck to calm him. “Please, Baby, let me take care of you.”

Steve doesn’t answer with words, he simply nods. Then he hands Eddie a towel and murmurs, “I’ll join you in a minute.”

Eddie spreads the towel on their bed, and watches as Steve strips down, taking off his shirt and slacks, folding them neatly, followed by his panties, revealing the elastic of his sanitary belt, holding the cloth between his legs. He takes it all off and fetches a clean cloth from his cabinet under the sink, deftly working the small pins to trade the cloths and rinsing the used one in the sink.

His flow must not be heavy, since he safely walks to the bed and sits on the towel, but there’s dried blood on his mound, a bit in the crease of his thigh. He’s beautiful. His body ready to create life.

Eddie kisses Steve soundly, then hurries out of his own clothes, ready to do all he can to make his baby feel good.

[dotted-shrimp]

Narumitsu AU I have been thinking about

I talked about this a bit in the Narumitsu server but I'll leave my thoughts here too: I've been thinking about an AU where Edgeworth -- having grown up rich -- does not know his way around any kind of home problem as simple as it may be, and Phoenix is your average service worker.

Both of them are nearing 30 and Miles (still a prosecutor here) finally decides to settle down. So he buys an apartment in a fancy condo and is very unpleasantly surprised at the sheer amount of problems that start to emerge. One day he sees an advertisement that went like this: "From unclogging your sink to painting your house, call the Wright Anything Agency!" and decides to give them a call.

Obviously, they send Phoenix. Annoyed with his snarkiness Miles asks the Agency to send another worker if he ever solicits a service again -- when he does, they send Larry, and Miles deeply, deeply regrets his decision.

Despite everything, Phoenix did a good work the first time so Miles requests him. Again and again, because my man cannot fix a showerhead for his life. With time they start to warm up to each other -- they see one another fairly frequently, after all, which is something Phoenix relentlessly teases him about. At some point Phoenix even sends him a quick text asking if he could take Trucy over since he didn't have anyone to babysit her (she's about 10) and needless to say, Miles immediately loves her -- it is Trucy.

One day though, Miles is ranting about the many, many problems this supposedly fancy apartment he bought has and Phoenix pipes up, offering to teach him how to detect bad indicators in a home that signal internal problems or a problem about to emerge. Miles accepts, and now armed with knowledge he carefully picks another apartment to move to.

He does. And he is very satisfied with his pick! Nothing goes wrong.

For a week. Two weeks. A month. Two months.

Nothing goes wrong. And he doesn't see Phoenix anymore.

So he pulls up his laptop and sits down, looking only at the lowest prices, determined to find the absolute worst apartment in this part of the city.

He feels only joy when he encounters a terrible one and moves there -- the first thing he does after everything is in place is calling the Wright Anything Agency and soliciting a complete overhaul of the place.

From here he not only goes back to seeing Phoenix on a regular basis, but the other people who work there -- Apollo, a law student working there as a side hustle; Athena, a psychology student in the same situation; Maya, who, when on city, flits between pestering her lawyer sister and doing decoration at the Agency; Larry, who I've mentioned earlier, and does interior design plus a few other, smaller things (he is a starving artist, after all); and even Phoenix's own dad, who only needs to take a look at Phoenix and Miles interacting to realize what's going on and start akwardly trying to matchmake them in true supportive dad fashion (with some help from Trucy and Maya).

I haven't thought a lot on where to go after this, but rest assured they will kiss at some point.

[artdcnaldson]

Neeeeeed. sweet throuple life with your boys… i need to lay down in the road. thinking about, like, we know patrick is a cocky little shit.. likes being gross etc.. but he can be so sweet sometimes too, especially to you two. feels like he finally has a #family. won’t admit it but loves the little domestic moments and the nights in when it’s just the three of you in the little apartment together

Soooo so true

Idk I feel like Patrick would use fucking to convey a lot of how he’s feeling. Good and bad. So you and Art would constantly be accusing him of cheapening the moment but he just gets this overwhelming loving feeling tugging at his chest and he can’t just let it lie. That’s not who he is.

So yeah maybe Art was making dinner, crowded over the stove, brows knit as he looked from the cookbook back to the pan, making sure everything was right. And Patrick got on his knees, told him to focus, he just wanted to do something really quick, and took Art’s cock down his throat.

And you, when you come home from your shitty post-grad job, looking stressed out and happy to be home. He wants to be your stress relief, wants to wring as many orgasms as he can from your exhausted body until you can’t even complete a sentence. Wants to keep you taken care of.

sighhhhhhh but the opposite can happen too yk?? Patrick’s more hands on, fixing things after a quick wikihow search because he’s not fucking paying anyone, and he can totally do it. Sure he’s doing the least sexy thing of all time— unclogging the kitchen sink— but his biceps are flexing and he’s so concentrated and focused. For someone who does it so often to everyone else, he doesn’t get why you and Art like to stand around and watch him do shit like that.

[ellieslittleburrow]

Requested by : @tr4zh-k1tty : Could I request like young adult Winchester reader having a huge one-sided crush on Rowena, I mean sure it's a 300 age gap or more idk, but they are probably worst.

Pairings : Rowena Macleod x reader

Warning : curse wordss

-----

"Helloooooooo!"

Oh...You've been impatiently waiting to hear those words... They hit your stomach so much more than anything else did. More than the spiciest taco ever could-

All of a sudden, a wave of embarrassment hit you. Rowena only decided to come when your hands were deep down the sink, unclogging the drain. You hurriedly soaped up your hands and rinsed them, faltering as you turned to look at...

Oh my....

It was as though a light transcended the thick walls and beamed against the witch's skin. She glowed as her bangs fell just over her eyebrows, ironic since her eyebrows are the most expressive part of her....her lovely fucking face...and you...your stomach...

"H-Hey-" You leaned back against the counter, the words slipping out your damned mouth like butter on wet marble. You cursed yourself internally. Did you have to sound so damn stupid?

The worst part of it all is that- As she walked by you, Rowena's lips tugged upwards, her eyes blazing through you.

Your nose picked up her scent and it sent adneraline coursing through you.

She knows how you feel about her and she loves it. She loves playing around like-

"Could you play with anything but my emotions?"

The witch froze and so did you-Fuck, man- you didn't mean to say that out fucking loud-

You agonizingly watched, body stiff as she turned around, lips curling in a wry smile.

What? Your head tilted to the side in confusion.

"Oh darling." Rowena purred as she leaped forward, stopping only an inch away from your face. Her eyes brightened and eyebrows arched upwards as she stared right through your eyes.

Her presence felt like it was pressing on yours. God-

"You know i'm...a teeny bit too old for you"

About 300 years but-i would've cared earlier if i wanted to.

"Plus, I...I must admit i don't share your feelings-"

Your heart stung, although she hadn't finished her sentence.

"but..." The witch brought her index finger to your cheek, ghosting over it. "I am...flattered!"

Pinching your chin, she pulled it forward toward her. "Sorry, darling." Then she tilted your head to the side, gluing a sensual kiss to your cheek before pulling away.

You stood frozen, all coked up- your face flooded with heat. No way that just happened to you. Classic Rowena, playing you like this-

"Did you just get friend-zoned by a medieval scammer?"

You spun around, snapping back to reality. Dean- not now, my guy.

You clicked your tongue as your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Dean wasn't actually looking for an answer and you weren't planning on answering him, anyway.

"I get it- she's hot but....Rowena?"

Apparently, he wasn't done either.

"I mean come on, man!"

------

Hiiii, sorry for the wait- hope you liiiked it! What do we think? 🖤🖤🖤🥀🥀🥀

[anjelicawrites]

The perfect stay at home husband

Paring: Billy Washington x reader

Synopsis: slowly Billy learns to become the perfect house husband and welcomes his spouse home in the best of ways.

Warnings: dom / sub vibes, kissing, crying, oral (f receiving), hair pulling, collar and leash usage, Billy being very needy, ‘pup’ used a pet name, f masturbation with a rabbit vibrator.

A/N: reader is AFAB but not described. Where needed, they/them pronouns used.

NSFW and 18+ only under the cut!

Your life with Billy didn’t start in the best of ways. Indeed, the fact that he was jobless didn’t help his mental health; that the job market was, and still is, a nightmare for someone without big credentials like his, was another nail in that specific coffin. To you it wasn’t an issue, you didn’t think any less of him because of this, temporary, condition and you were more than happy to provide for the two of you, your job paying you well enough for the feat; if only Billy pulled his weight at home!

You had told Lana repeatedly that their parents didn’t do a good job at making sure Billy was capable of taking care of himself, he mostly left the bulk of the housework to you and would look at you with his baby blue opened wide, telling you he didn’t realize that those chores needed to be carried out.

One Friday you literally exploded at him, screaming that he wasn’t a guest in the house and that you were sick and tired of picking up his slack! You didn’t even give him the chance to explain himself, you left slamming the door and went to your friend’s house to spend the night, getting absolutely hammered in the process. 

Billy came to pick you up in the morning, his head more hidden between his shoulders than usual, the judging glares of your friend didn’t help his already crumbling self worth: he knew well enough your friend didn’t like him and believed you could have so much better than him. You two walked home blanketed by a tick silence, only enhanced by the sounds of London around you two, your head hurting and him more pathetic than his usual self. 

The apartment wasn’t as messy as you left it the day before: the array of dirty plates and cups had disappeared from the sink, the reusable shopping bags all neatly folded and the mountain of shoes shelved in the shoe rack next to the door.

“That's all I could do.” Billy told you, his eyes not truly meeting yours. “You were right, I should help you more with housework. I don’t know what to do, but I’ll try.”

You cupped his cheek and he nuzzled your palm like a cat: he missed you last night, his guilty heart keeping him awake most of the night.

“You can ask me, if you want. And there’s Google to help you.”

And that’s where you made a huge mistake: not considering how much of a people pleaser Billy is, how much he lives to be told that he's done good and that he is not as subpar as he thinks he is. 

He tries, bless his heart, but his learning curve is very steep. 

You’ve lost count of the amount of shirts he burned while ironing, or the plants he knocked off by mistake while he was dusting, or that one time he tried to unclog the drain and almost flooded the apartment. 

And then there's TikTok. 

In his personal quest to become good at maintaining the apartment clean, he stumbles upon the videos of people mixing up chemicals, and he follows them religiously, without truly thinking about which detergents he's using at the same time, if he should put those together and that, perhaps, he should keep the window open. You've lost count of the amount of times your local A&E called, because he's almost poisoned himself; you are basically on a friendship level with the nurses there and one, a friendly brunette, has told you they tend to get worried when they don't see Billy pop up every once in a while. 

As steep as his learning curve had been, he's now become very good at keeping the house spotless, so much so you two decided he should be a stay at home husband, by the time you two tightened the knot. 

It had taken him a while to unpack all the toxic ideas he was raised with, how a man should be and act: be the breadwinner or be a failure, find yourself a job and don’t live off your spouse and housework is not real work and it’s not for a man to do.  It hasn’t been easy for him to accept that he could still be a man and take care of you in ways that aren’t a big paycheck, that the world outside, how competitive it is, isn’t truly for him, and that he isn’t less of a man for this.

The last nail in the coffin had been your promotion and the probable move to the Milan office; neither of you wanted to suffer through a long distance relationship and the meager positions Billy had applied for, didn’t have the option for him to work overseas.  When Milan stopped being an option, you both had decided that he should still stay at home and be happy.

When you unlock the door you welcome the sight of Billy kneeling on a pillow, naked and collared, with his head bent and the leash neatly folded in his hands; his eyes fleetingly meet yours to then focus on the freshly clean carpet again.

“Welcome back” He says with a deep voice, tinged with a need you know all too well.

“Hi sweetling.” You answer back.

Slowly you remove your shoes and leave them on the rack; you savor the feel of the carpet under your feet and that your heels are finally off for the day. Through your lashes you observe Billy’s body vibrate with need and decide to play with him, because you haven’t tormented him in a while.

You walk towards him and stand where he’s kneeling, your center in front of his face and you can see the way his pink tongue darts out to lick his beautiful lips.

“Is there something the matter, my love?” You ask with a sweet voice.

“Please.” He whines.

“What do you need, pup?”

His face falls against your skirt, right where your cunt is and he takes a long whiff.

“Use your words Billy.”

Your voice is stern now, your fingers in his hair hurt him when you force his face up, to stare at his expression.

“I need it, please.”

His voice is a pathetic, little whine, his eyes don’t meet yours to show his submission to you.

“Billy, Billy Billy.” You punctuate every iteration of his name with a strong pull to his hair. “You need to be more specific and don’t act like a dog in heat.”

With that you use your fist in his hair to pull him towards the couch; you could have used leash, you could have ordered him to walk, but you need that extra bout of ownership over him, as he does and he complies with small whines as he tries to crawl at your pace and can’t truly manage.

You lose your hold when you sit on the couch with your legs spread, Billy kneeling between them; you see the way his eyes focus on your, now, exposed panties. You can’t help but smirk at his naked desire, his need to bury his face in your cunt: with him is almost a daily occurrence, one way or another he’s on his knees, worshiping you, hungry for you like you are the only meal he’s going to have for days.

“I’m going to ask you for the last time, BIlly: what do you need, my sweet pup?”

“Please, let me eat you?”

For the first time since you returned home, his pretty blue eyes bore into yours, so huge and sad and pathetic.

“But I’ve been out and about for the whole day Billy, I need a shower.”

You pretend to stand up and he panics, his hands go to your hips and his face burrows against your clothed cunt.

“No, no, please! Don’t make me wait!”

You try to dislodge his face from between your legs and he just curls his hands tighter around the soft meat of your hips, as he whines, desperately against your clothed cunt, the vibrations traveling up your spine, almost stealing a moan from you.

“Billy! Billy!” You try to say as you grab fistfuls of his hair to make him move. “Be good and behave or I will not let you eat me!”

You know that he knows you’re not kidding, your tone carries the weight of your treat, and he pulls his face back, but doesn’t stop him from pouting, staring at you with big, accusatory eyes.

You wind your hand around the leash before he can start any more shenanigans.

“I need you so bad!” He wails, with a pathetic, sad voice.

“I know I have been at work a lot, pup, but you should remember your manners, always.”

He looks contrite now, with his head lowered again.

“I just missed you so much.” He mumbles.

“As I did you. Look at me now.” You say with a firm, yet gentle, voice.

Billy complies, his eyes are glossy with unshed tears and his lower lip is bitten raw: he’s not kidding when he’s saying that he needs you badly.

“You will eat my pussy, eventually. I will have to punish you first, though.”

His breathing quickens after your words and the tears start to fall, silently they roll down his pink cheeks, making him look even more pathetic. You hug him and his long arms sneak around you, curling as tight as possible around your frame: he needs you, needs to know you’re not mad at him.

“Shh, sweetest pup, shh.” You kiss the crown of his head. “I love you so much.”

He cries harder at your words, the sobs wreak his big body and you have to hug him with all your strength, gently rocking your bodies until he calms down and lifts his head to look at you; his eyes are crystal clear, the color of the mountain sky after a rainstorm and his cheeks are apple red.

“Do you feel better?” You ask, caressing his cheekbones with your thumbs.

“Yes. I worked myself up over nothing. I’m sorry.” He sounds contrite and ashamed of himself.

“No pup, I’m the one that’s sorry. I’ve let work overrun my life, and that should have never happened.”

You tend to do that, hyperfocus and work yourself into exhaustion; even with Billy in your life you still make the mistake to forget that there’s a life outside your office. When you were still single, you were the only one suffering, but now you have to consider your husband’s feelings and needs as well, and you were terrible at that, as of late.

“I’ll tell you, next time. I will not let your job steal you away from me again.”

“Thank you, pup. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

You lean into him and kiss him slowly, tongue sliding against his with sensual strokes that have him moan wantonly, precume leaking from his reddened tip copiously with every slide of your tongue against his.

“Let’s go to bed. Your knees must be raw.”

“As long as you’re happy, I don’t care.”

“This is the reason why that’s my job.” You smile down at him.

You help him stand up and interlock your fingers with his; he stares at you as if you’re a miracle and you can’t help yourself but kiss his stubby cheek, giggling like a teenager.

You let him undress you, his big hands caress your body with gentle strokes that turn heated when your breasts and cunt are revealed to his hungry eyes.

“Go kneel on the bed, pup. I need something before you can feast on me.”

Billy follows your order with his eyes fixed on you, drinking down the sight of your naked skin as you retrieve the small box with the toys; you make sure he sees the rabbit vibrator in your hands, and the lube.

Leisurely you walk to the bed and stand behind him, before bending to kiss his nape.

“I’m going to be quick with your punishment. I’ve missed your mouth so much, pup” You whisper in his ear and he shudders, willing himself not to come untouched.

Billy is kneeling at the end of the bed, you sit with your legs spread and your back against the pillows; your hole is already wet and you know he can see it, the thought makes you clench and he moans.

“Are you thinking about my cunt strangling your cock? How tight I can be just for you?”

Billy moans and his hands curl into fists.

“Yes. I love your cunt so much.” He whines.

“What a good pup that you are.”

Looking straight into his blue eyes you uncap the lube and pour a generous amount on the vibrator, before turning it on and spreading your labia for Billy to see.

“Tell me, pup, why do you like my cunt so much?”

His intake of breath is visible when you insert the vibe which is set on the lowest speed.

“It’s…” He gulps. “It’s pretty and warm.”

He has to close his eyes when you start pumping the vibrator in and out, nice and slow, your eyes never leaving his.

“Yeah?” You moan.

“Your lips are so plump and soft. Christ please!”

“Keep going, pup.” Your hips jut up when you insert the vibe fully, letting the small part sit against your clit.

Billy is staring at your center unabashedly, his tongue is liking his lips with hunger.

“Puppy please, tell me more.”

You can feel your body arch under his stare and your hands go to your breasts to play with your nipples: you want to be as wet as possible for him, give him all of your essence.

“Taste so good.” He pants, visibly restraining himself. “So much of it for me, can live off it.”

“Yes, oh!” 

The head of the vibe pushes against your G spot as you writhe on the bed and you almost come.

“Clit so small and pretty, needs licking and sucking, baby please!”

He’s so desperate, thinking about your perfect cunt has him fuck the air like a dog in heat and seeing you touching your body, all your muscles vibrating with pleasure, drives him absolutely mad, his nerves burning with the need for your body.

“Yes pup, come to me. Drink from me.”

You lift your hand to him and he jumps to you, hastily removing the vibe to suck your essence there and discard it on the bed.

He lays on the mattress and grabs your hips to plaster his face against your center, his tongue licking at your folds desperately, his nose pushing haphazardly against your puffy clit. You keen and moan, your hips pushing against his face as his tongue fucks you and you curl your muscles around it to feel him fully.

“Billy! Billy, yes!!!” You scream. “So close Billy!”

You explode in his face, and he keeps going, slipping one finger inside of you and sucking on your clit like a desperate man, the pad rough against your G spot and you fuck yourself against his face, the pleasure making you delirious for him.

“Fuck all my holes Billy” You keen. “I love you so much!”

You scream when you come again, tears streaming down your face when he doesn’t stop and licks fat stripes up and down your cunt, his hands hurt where he’s keeping you in place and your feet kick against his back, you beg and cry, too much pleasure burning through your body life wildfire.

You try to slip away and he grunts, making you jump, forcing you closer to his hungry mouth and tongue, his teeth nibble at your abused clit and you squirm and cry, your body arching under him, so much pleasure, too much pleasure frying your brain, 

It hurts, you can’t get enough of him, so much pressure builds inside of you, his tongue flicks your poor clit and his lips suck it harshly as you whine and cry. 

He slurps on your honey, hungry and fast, your nerves burning for him, your hands in his hair grabbing the strands with desperation; his moans destroy you and you squirt all over him, his tongue fast to lick everything you’re giving him, until it hurts and he lets go, only to lay his face on your tummy, breathing your intoxicating scent in.

“So good, Billy.” You smil, drunkenly at him.

BIlly stares at you with adoring eyes, his lips leave small kisses on your tummy and you laugh, his stubble tickles you and, you fear, you’re going to have burns everywhere on your tights.

“Were you serious?” He asks, after a bit.

“About what?”

He’s cuddling you now, keeping your face close to his chest.

“Me using all your holes.”

His cheeks burn bright with embarrassment and you hug him with all your might. 

“I very much like it, Billy. I love your cock so much and I would gladly let you use it on me however you want.”

Billy almost chokes on his tongue and can’t meet your eyes.

“Even your arse?”

Sweet Billy; you don’t laugh because you know he will likely feel offended. He’s still exploring his sexuality, trying with you all that he has never had the courage to do in his past relationships.

“Even that. I want to feel you for days. Every time I walk and sit, I want to remember the weekend you fucked me like a whore.”

Billy’s hips stutter against your tummy, and you feel a drop of come splutter against your skin.

“Would you like that, pup?”

Billy’s eyes cross at the mere idea: he’ll do anything you want, tarnish your body  in all the ways you’ll order him to use.

“Yes.” He moans. “I can’t wait.”

[pomegranateshrimp]

⚕️Always (James Wilson x Reader)

Fluff Oneshot

No NSFW

Decently short read

—————————————————

You had a rough day yesterday. You work as a psychologist at the Princeton–Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and no matter how much you tried it seemed like everything was going wrong with your work, and you had developed a sore throat of your own. When you finally came home you took a melatonin. You usually don’t take any because it messes with your sleep schedule, but tonight was going to be one of those sleepless nights; you could feel it. You finally went to bed at around 9 or 10pm. Somehow you knew it wouldn’t help.

You had just woken up from a nightmare, one where you lost James. It was terrible. You looked around to see he had his arms wrapped around you. It was still nighttime it seemed. You felt terrible. You had a headache and a sore throat, you were congested and nauseous as well. You went out into the kitchen to grab a water bottle from the fridge to somewhat soothe your throat and you noticed the time on the microwave. “2:18am?!?” You think to yourself. It was obviously early but you didn’t think it’d be that early. You thought about going to bed but quickly realized you wouldn’t be able to, you had already woken up, and if you took a melatonin you were worried you would be asleep for the next 8 hours, and you had to be in at work by seven. But at this point you weren’t sure if you were even gonna go. You groan and stumble across the kitchen to grab tissues, having ran out of the ones in the bedroom and needing to unclog your nose. You stand there staring at nothing in particular, in a sort of sick half awake haze. Suddenly you feel a familiar hand wrapping around your waist from behind you, with his head resting on your shoulders.

“Mm.. What are you doing up?” He mumbled with his face still leaning on your body, he was obviously much more tired than you. It was no surprise you woke him up though, he holds on to you almost for dear life when you guys are in bed

“I’m sorry did I wake you?”

“That doesn’t matter, what’s wrong?” He turns you around to look at him despite the dark atmosphere

“Nothing I just don’t feel the best… my throat is sore and I didn’t have the greatest day at work yesterday I guess”

“Are you sure that’s it? I may be half asleep but something doesn’t feel right”

“I… I don’t know, it’s really childish and.. weird” You struggled to get the words out. Although it was just a dream, it was bothering you a lot, but you weren’t sure whether to tell him. Tears pricked your eyes.

“You can tell me anything, I won’t think it’s ‘weird’, trust me”

Tears start threatening to roll down your cheeks, and you let some of them go.

“I- I had a dream where.. where I lost you”

He pulls you into a tight embrace.

“It’s not childish, or weird. I’m scared of losing you too. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me”

You both stay there like that for some time, just holding each other and crying on the other persons shoulders as James draws circles on your back with his fingers.

After a bit James pulls away and plants a kiss on your forehead.

“As much as I would love to continue doing this, we should probably go check your temperature.” He says with a soft giggle and wipes away the tears from your cheeks with his thumb “Don’t worry, it’ll be okay, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” He pulls you into the bathroom and sits you up on the sink counter and takes your temperature.

“No fever.” A slight beep comes from the machine. “But you’re still hot to me.” He smirks and leans in closer to you

“Oh shut up!” You blush and lean in a bit closer as well. He closes the gap of space between you two and kisses you. You pull away after a few long seconds.

“I don’t want you getting sick..”

“I’d be honored to get sick by you but.. you’re probably right especially with work tomorrow.”

“Yea”

“Hey uhm, speaking of work tomorrow, what did you wanna do? Because it’s really early and I know you can’t go back to sleep because you’re ‘already up’. I mean if you’re going to stay home I’d be willing to cancel tomorrow to take care of you if you’d like.”

“That actually sounds really nice, especially with some of the cases I’m working on at work right now.” You smile at him. “Thank you, for everything this morning.”

“I’ll choose you always.”

He picks you up from the counter and takes you to the bedroom where he cuddled and took care of you as you rambled on about your work troubles, giving you water, tissues, a hot towel for your headache, and even a lot of kisses despite your protesting and concern for his well-being.

-Blooper thingy!!!

Cuddy: *Enters Houses office* “Hey have you seen Wilson or L/n?”

House: “Oh please they’re probably staying home cause Wilson fucked them too hard or something.”

Cuddy: *Rolls eyes at him* “Thanks for the helpful very needed input.”

House: “Anytime!” *The door slams*

[fivepebbles]

Hay siri how do I unclog a sink?

I am NOT your personal assistent. Find someone else to entertain your dumbass goal.