#THE DELIGHTFUL SLOP..

[peachyseen]

Everyone cheered !!!

[swan2swan]

oh I hate that

OH I HATE THAT

sorry, they just showed a clip from The Acolyte, and Darth Vader said "Have you come to DESTROY ME, Obi-Wan?" in the absolute most AI-generated voice, the "destroy me" is the same tone as "only your hatred can destroy me", and the "Obi-Wan" is the "I have been waiting for you, Obi-Wan"...

I really hope that Obi-Wan "I will do what I must" was Jay or Mike dubbing it in silly-ly, because if that line was ACTUALLY in the show, no, no, there's no excuse for Liking It.

[tinysylveon]

like, listen. im going to be incredibly real with you.

the legend of spyro was visually lovely, and the gameplay was fun until it eventually got stale. spyro's design was... okay. it wasn't awful and it wasn't good either. it's just. there, to me. then there was the third game which kinda just. felt like nobody cared and nothing mattered and was incredibly messy. and they made spyro look worse. idk. idk.

skylanders was cash cow "BUY OUR TOYS" slop. i don't remember having any real Fun playing the two or so games i tried. also spyro's design makes me want to chew metal. it sucks so much. why does he look like that.

and as much as i love reignited, there are definitely some issues with it. but at least it attempted to stay true to the original, and that's pretty great.

what i want to spyro 4 is to either make what enter the dragonfly wasn't able to be, or make an Attempt at something new, that isn't exactly like what a hero's tail was. not that that game was bad, it just had some... flavors there that didn't taste entirely right to me.

[kalashnikovlobotomy]

man what the hell...

[keruukat]

This looks like a peak fucking meal

Hmm.

[squeakitties]

every burger joint's menu

The Classic -Just like momma used to make. This third-pound hamburger comes equipped with the basics: tomato, lettuce, onion, pickles, mayo and your choice of cheese. $13.99

The All-timer -The signature experience. Take all you know about what makes a hamburger a hamburger and spin it on its head with, get this, TWO (2) slices of bacon and ONE (1) squirt of barbecue sauce. And the requisite tomato lettuce onion pickles mayo and cheese, of course. $19.99

The Big Wet Daddy Burger -This nasty motherfucker of a half-pounder will drown your suffering AND your gullet with sautéed mushrooms and onions, candied bacon, house-made garlic aioli, three onion rings, an entire pickle spear and a whole-ass cup of our decadent Slop™. Takeout container included. $22.99

The Super Kill-You Death Patty -Hold onto your hats, masochists, this is one spicy burger. Our famous Seven-Alarm Sauce, habanero peppers, a whole scotch bonnet and a dash of Carolina reaper sauce pairs violently with the cooling touch of ranch. The war that shall be raged in your colon will be legendary. $17.99

The Obligatory Old Person Burger -Let's dial it back a bit to the days of yore, when burgers were simple and easy. Relive fond memories of times long past when you bite into this nostalgic delight of Hamburger Patty and Slab Of Raw White Onion and Unmelted Butter Patty. (this is a real menu item at Big Boy restaurants in the midwest btw) $21.99 -- Seniors over 65 get half off!

[slashersiren]

Hi. I was thinking of asking you to write about Elder Yautja and a pregnant reader (hope that's ok, I couldn't find anything about whether you write about pregnancy or not...). They fly to Earth because she is madly wanting to "smell a hedgehog, no, this thing doesn't fit, I want a hedgehog from Earth" (or something like that, I'm not insisting, just so you get the idea). They meet the special forces/military, they classically try to kill them, and our favorite elder has hunted so many people in his long life that he's had enough of it (he's interested in hunting something scarier and spending time with his favorite wife-queen-life) and he just: *tired sigh* 😒

Here you go, I loved this idea so much, hope you’ll like the story too🫶🏻

Elder Yautja x Pregnant Human Reader

Cravings and carnage

He hunted monsters thrice as big as him. He torn spines from warlords. He survived galactic wars, assassination attempts, and the idiocy of youngbloods and yet, none of that prepared him for you, barefoot on the deck of his ship, swollen with his child, waving a human fruit catalog at his face.

"I want watermelon,"

You declare, eyes narrowed, tone threatening.

“Not that tiny melon, not whatever that purple slop was yesterday. I want a real one. From Earth."

Your mate, towering, scarred, and very, very tired stares at you for a long moment. Then he makes a sound so deep and guttural it's probably a growl but could also be a sigh. Maybe a death wish.

"You said you want mango yesterday."

He rumbles.

"I changed my mind,"

You say sweetly, rubbing your belly. "Your child wants watermelon."

He pauses. That always works. You know it. He knows it. The baby is a card you shamelessly play.

“Fine…"

He grunts, pressing something on the console. You're getting your watermelon. The ship lowered into a clearing near a rural farming town. It was peaceful. Dark. Quiet. Ideal for a stealthy retrieval. But, of course, nothing ever goes smoothly when humans with guns are involved.

You stayed in the ship, mostly because he commanded you to, while your Elder stepped into the night, cloaked and nearly invisible, heading toward the nearest melon field with the calm patience of a warrior delivering a sacred offering. He had almost reached the field when the first helicopter appeared. Then two. Ground units followed, and soon the voices of human military echoed through the trees.

“Unidentified craft! Stand down!”

He sighed.

Literally.

A long, deep, guttural sigh.

When they fired the first warning shot, his mask deployed.

When they fired the second?

Heads rolled.

You nibbled on a protein bar in the ship, lazily lounging in the captain’s chair, occasionally glancing at the scanners. Blips disappeared one by one. The ship’s control beeped politely.

“Hostile forces neutralized.”

Moments later, the side ramp opened with a whoosh, and there he was. Covered in blood (none of it his) dragging a massive sack. He dropped it at your feet. Inside there were four perfect, massive watermelons. You squealed with delight.

“They smell so good!”

Your Elder just collapsed next to you on one of the padded benches, huffing out another long sigh, resting a blood-slicked hand on your belly.

“I am retiring.”

He rumbled.

“Sure, honey.”

You said, cracking open the first melon with his machete.

Later that night you were curled up beside him in bed, your belly against his side, fingers lazily tracing the long scar across his chest.

“You’re so good to me.”

You whispered.

His claws gently stroked your back. “You are my queen. It is an honor to slay armies for your satisfaction.”

You giggled. He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours.

“Next time,”

He growled softly.

“Warn me before you demand a fruit that requires diplomatic incidents.”

“No promises..”

You murmured, kissing the underside of his mandible.

[txttletale]

hey what DO you watch on youtube? seems like you'd have some neat recommendations :3

i really loathe the like super-highly edited sound effect post-mrbeast slop most of youtube is now so i mostly like stuff that's like... calm and sedate. stuff i've been watching lately in no particular order:

northernlion vods and clips. he's an OG. i especially like his react court series, i must have watched all of them like five times.

speaking of OGs i've been watching zero puncutation (now fully ramblomatic) for like ten years and if anything it's only gotten better. best game review content on the internet. been really enjoying his more recent, slightly longer and more thoughtful 'extra punctuation/semi-ramblomatic' series too.

any austin's skyrim unemployment rate videos. instant classics to me, it's just a guy going around in skyrim trying to figure out the unemployment rate in every town. it's a very dry kind of humour, he plays it admirably straight, and it's weirdly calming.

kitten arcader's foot the bill videos. in a kind of similar vein, he watches the saw movies and then produces an itemized bill for everything jigsaw needed to buy to make his traps. it's kind of like... if cinemasins was fundamentally curious instead of fundamentally incurious, it scratches a similar sort of nitpicky detail-oriented quantifying itch but without inimical to the concept of art.

shuffle up and play. it's a magic the gathering play series that has enough editing that the gamestate is actually legible but not enough editing (or at least, not enough obtrusive in-your-face editing) that its annoying. i also like that they reguilarly play non-edh formats like cube and pauper.

spice8rack. i'm pretty picky about video essays but spice8rack has very obviously actually read books and has interesting things to say about the topics it discusses (mostly magic: the gathering). sometimes it has a kind of grating Theater Kid Energy but the fact that it actually meaningfully structures essays and analysis to earn the silly long runtimes is a rare delight from a video essayist.

jenny nicholson is a long-time favourite and another permanent fixture in my rotation. she's just extremely, remarkably funny which makes her the only 'basically just summarizing a thing' youtuber i think is worth the time of day.

i watch some sketch comedy, mainly wizards with guns and aunty donna, who both consistently put out really funny stuff that's kind of ITYSL-adjacent in its barefaced absurdism and contenmpt for concepts like "stopping a joke at the logical punchline". i also really like alasdair beckett-king and binging the old clickhole backlog for short-form comedy on youtube.

wolfeyvgc is right on the edge of the level of editing i find tolerable but as a long-time fan of multiple esports he Has It, he's absolutelyt fantastic at t elling the narrative of a tournament, explaining plays clearly, and generally making competitive pokemon esports thrilling and interesting ti someone (me) who#s never played it and doesn't care about pkoemon that much

i religously watch every elliespectacular/dathings YTP, the absolute best in the game right now, top tier snetence mixing and really good at actually setting up and paying off jokes in a way it feels like a lot of ytp doesn't. verytallbart is also pretty good.

trapperdapper is a channel i recently binged, it's a really fucking funny parody of minecraft challenge content that veers slowly from obvious angles of parody into pure absurdism with tons of blink-and-you'll miss it subtle visual gags.

too much future is a great youtube series where the two guys from just king things/homestuck made this world play through every fallout game and analyze them in that context. extremely funny and also just top-tier very sharp analysis. really good

another one of the rare good video essayists is jan misali. they're really funny and will go into topics that kind of seem narrow or strange to begin with in such depth and make them so interesting that it's consistently astonishing.

oh and finally sarah z makes pretty good videos. 'the narcissist scare' is an absolutely brilliant deconstruction of one of the most annoying pop-psych phenomena of the last couple years. and remarkably well script supervised i think did anyone else watch it and think 'wow the script supervisor on this must have been, a mind geniuse'

ok i think that's all i've been watching lately. hope you like whcihever of these recs you check out :)

[cupidsworstcrime]

Oh my god I just can't get over the idea that all the TF141 members are completely disgusting in their own ways. But especially Johnny, I desperately need a fic of Johnny being plain disgusting during sex.

OR

Kidnapping/stalking fic of any member with major stockholm syndrome <333

nasty soap nasty soap nasty soap

johnny x f!reader

smuttyyyyyy

contains spit , impact , soap being weird , piss (after the heart banner)

You should be ashamed. That’s what Johnny thinks, cock twitching as he watches you gag around his fingers—three of them, stuffed in your mouth like he’s checking your molars for cavities.

He calls your moans “wee squeaks,” says it like he’s patronizing a dog begging for scraps, and he grins when your eyes roll at it, like he’s pleased you hate it.

“Christ, listen to that messy wee gob. You like bein’ used, don’t you, bunny?” he mutters, voice thick with that gruff Glaswegian lilt that makes everything filthier. “Bet your fanny’s droolin’ already. Is it?”

You’d correct him—call it a cunt, not a fanny, Jesus Christ—but he’s already sliding down your body, spitting right on your chest and smearing it over your tits with his whole damn palm. Then he slaps one. Hard. Not sexy hard. Stupid hard. Red hard. Like a toddler punishing a stuffed toy.

“Fucking bounce nice when I do that,” he mutters proudly, watching the wobble like it’s high art. “That’s a good tit. Real good. That one too,”—slap—“but she’s shy.”

You want to laugh. You want to cry. You want to slap him back for calling your left tit shy.

Instead you choke when he shoves two spit-slick fingers between your legs and hums, low and approving. “Awright, that’s a proper dribble. What a nasty slit. She’s smilin’ at me.”

He talks to your cunt. To it. Not you. He thanks it.

When he fucks you—messy, wet, grinding down like he’s trying to leave a stain inside you—he grabs your face, not to kiss, but to spit right in your mouth. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t even warn. Just watches it land, grinning like a fuckin’ animal.

“Swallow that down, pretty bucket,” he croons. Bucket. Not babe. Not princess. Bucket.

You're going to kill him. You're going to marry him. It's unclear.

He’s been thinking about it for weeks. Not constantly—but enough. Enough that when you’re laid out for him like this, all spread and used-up and wet, his mind goes somewhere ugly. Somewhere foul.

You’re flushed and dripping and ruined-looking already, and it only makes the thought worse. Makes it better.

Could I? he wonders, staring between your legs like your cunt’s a personal challenge. Would she even stop me?

It’s not about marking you. It’s not some primal dominance bullshit. It’s just gross. It's funny. It’s filthy in a way that makes his cock pulse, the way a teenager might get off on a prank. Like peeing in the pool. Like defiling a chapel.

You whimper when he slides back in, warm and sticky and still twitching from the last round.

“Still open f��me, sweetie-pot,” he purrs, breathless and delighted. “Fuckin’ greedy bin, aren’t ya?”

You nod. Poor thing. You’ve said yes to everything else.

So when he’s buried to the hilt, rocking lazy, he lets go. Lets go.

It starts slow—just a warm trickle. Your eyes go wide. His grin goes feral.

“Aye, that’s it,” he moans, voice thick with filth. “Good wee hole, just takin’ it. Cunt’s not for cum anymore, huh? It’s a fuckin’ toilet.”

You should be mad. Should be disgusted. But the heat spreads low in your belly, involuntary and wrong, as his piss fills you up like you’re nothing but a drain. Like a wastebin for his body.

He groans like it’s the best relief he’s ever felt. You swear he’s shaking.

“Ahh, fuckin’ knew you’d let me. Knew it. What a slop bucket you are.”

It shouldn’t be hot. It isn’t hot.

But you’re clenching around him like you want to keep every drop inside.

And that’s what really gets him: the idea that you do.

[ashthesalamipiece]

HAIII can you do some more dad katsuki? and they have a daughter, she’s turning one and her first word was ‘boom’ after katsuki was feeding her in the highchair and he was showing off his quirk to her to distract her

BOOM

Her first word was an explosion.

Katsuki swore he wasn’t gonna cry. He really did.

But then again, he also swore he wouldn’t let that weird mushy banana slop touch his shirt again, and here they were — bib stained, chest stained, hair probably stained, too. His daughter, cheeks stuffed and wild-eyed in her high chair, was giggling like he’d just told the world’s funniest joke.

"Look at Daddy, huh? Watch this."

He held out two fingers and popped a tiny snap of a blast in the air, harmless and warm, like a sparkler fizzing in his palm. She squealed, thrilled. He did it again, a little bigger this time.

"Boom," he said, watching her eyes track the flash, like little golden suns locked on target.

"Boom," she echoed.

Katsuki froze.

"What'd you just say?"

She blinked up at him. Then grinned. "Boom!"

Bakugou’s heart made a weird, lurching thud in his chest — like maybe it exploded too. He staggered back a step, nearly knocking over the applesauce jar on the counter.

"You—you said boom," he whispered, voice suddenly rough. "Holy hell, you said boom."

He scooped her out of the chair without a second thought, banana goop and all, cradling her like she was made of glass and nitroglycerin all at once.

Her tiny hands patted his cheeks. “Boom!” she repeated proudly, absolutely delighted by the sound.

He buried his face in her soft hair and exhaled like he’d just run a mile. “You’re my kid, alright.”

Behind him, you peeked around the corner with your phone recording, catching the exact moment Katsuki Bakugou let out a choked laugh and said, “Shit, her first word was my damn quirk sound.”

“No swearing in front of the baby,” you reminded him gently.

"Yeah, yeah," he murmured, already rocking her in his arms, murmuring boom back to her in return, every single time she said it — like it was her name, her power, her birthright.

And damn it if it wasn’t perfect.

[crazysodomite]

MORE. MORE. MORE. MORE.

DELIGHTFUL SLOPS. I NEED MORE. so cuuuuteeeeeeeeee. i love basyapede. basyapedes catching pavels with their limbs. I love it. basyapedes like to squeeze their pavels for fun. I LOVE THIS YAYYYY YAYY

[liiixsturniolos]

⋆ LAVENDER HAZE ⋆

“I just wanna stay in the lavender haze”

★ SMUT: fratboy!chris eats you out

this is part of my fratboy chris collection!

~ The room smells like chris' strong aftershave mixed with weed and is lit with only his purple led lights. Clouds of smoke fog up the room...

His white bedsheets are wrinkled underneath your bucking hips, chris gripping your smooth thighs, eating you out like he's fucking ravenous.

His bedroom is almost distorted, all you can see is his brown hair and the outline of his body, his face buried between your legs. You could feel everything for some reason, it felt heightened, every lick, flick of a tongue. Your shaky whines and the noises of Chris' panting breath and tongue slopping against your wet cunt were all that you could hear, the background noises of a party drowned out by the closed door.

Chris' fingers dig into your skin, grunting against your pussy, begging to get his head in deeper. He cant stop himself, his lips magnetise to your needy clit, sucking it and kissing it. His red eyes stuck on your pretty face, mouth agape and your eyes almost rolling back... His gaze makes your stomach flip, so needy, wanting, hungry.

He cant help but smirk in pure delight at the moans sprouting from your throat. He bites his lip, “You taste so fuckin' good ma.” he tells you, diving back into you.

“sshh-shi-shit chris, ugh.” you gasp, fisting the sheets, your eyes flickering to stay open, your raspy voice letting our quiet moans, urging chris to continue. “d-dont stop!” you shout, luckily covered by loud music from the floor below.

His tongue swirls your clit, the action makes you grip the the sheets rougher, “mmhmm..” you whine, eyes squeezed shut.

“Look at me ma. I want you to watch me, you can do that.” Chris asks, thumbing your thigh and rubbing up your lower stomach with his long fingers. “Yes.” you say, your eyes following his, fighting to contain yourself and not immediately burst from his eye contact.

He begins again, slow, his wet tongue flat on your clit, teasing an orgasm out of you. “Mhmm..” you murmur quietly, as he laps at you like a cat, one that was once tame but has gone wild for you.

He needs you to unwrap for him, “C'mon darlin, come for me ma.” he mutters, mouth still wrapped around you, hand stroking your inner thigh, teasing you.

“Fuck! Chris!” you practically scream out at the swirling motion of his tongue, a euphoric feeling waving through you. The high made it even better, only heightening your feelings, making your toes curl and hands pull his long brown hair.

You had never been more glad for shitty house music than right now, where you glad it could cover your squeals and pornographic praises to Chris, “You're so fucking- ughh good..” you whine, followed by moans as he guides you through an orgasm you fear would never be replicated.

Your hips loosen and you fall back down onto the bed bellow you, huffing and catching your breath, the skin around you pretty pink acrylics red from gripping the sheets so hard and your glossy lips stinging from being bitten.

Chris lifts up from you with a pleased smirk, his dead eyes focus for a second onto your dripping heat and the red hand marks painted on your thighs.

“So pretty ma.” He tells you, his eyes widening at your wetness, he dunks his head down, flattening his tongue and closing his eyes to take one last drop of you, cleaning up the mess he created.

“We better bounce, wouldn't want no one catchin' us” he smiles as he watches you pull up your lacy pink thong, still in awe.

A/n!: consider interacting it helps alot :) ily all! <33

𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔: @matthewsroses @chrislilcumslvt @pvssychicken @ivysturnss @mattsbitchh @sturniolo-fann @matts-myloverboy @emely9274 @sophand4n4 @uncannyguava @chrissweetheart @certifiedstarrr @slut4chris888 @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @chrepsi

[incidentallysunny]

Through The Skin

Real Uncle!Leon

Dead dove warning.

7k word count. Proof read lightly. Critique is welcomed and my skin is thick for it.

I'd like to appear in the tagz pls so here's a warning. My writing is not ever meant to be taken literally and is just for the sake of writing fxcked up content that I enjoy writing. If you do not wish to read this, please do not as my intentions are not to offend or make you intentionally uncomfortable but if you choose to read- don't be hateful. With that out of the way, extremely sensitive content and dead dove material ahead.

Specifically blood-related incest, smut, suicidal ideation, mentions of grotesque imagery, light mentions of gore in a hypothetical scenario, age-gap, overall just some disturbing topics.

As far as smut specifically: this includes talking of public sex, public female oral-recieving, Leon has dick piercings surprise, make and female oral, fingering, unprotected sex, cream-pie (wrap your willy irl pls) praise, dirty talk, spitting, any probably some other irrelevant shit I'm forgetting my bad.

PROCEED if you read the above, are okay with it, and are mentally unwell like I am. Happy reading, it's a long one.

To be quite frank, you didn’t give a shit about a single holiday party that your parents threw. Having to hug and touch on people you didn’t even know, putting on a fake smile and pretending as if you remembered them at all. Exhausting for a young woman to keep up this charade for so long. You’re sure your relatives noticed the dying spark in your eyes over time. Living Growing does that to a person. You spent all night fetching beers and other pre-packaged, alcoholic drinks- hoping he would show up every time you had to hand one out. Still one less face you’re can be enthralled to see.

You sat at the dining table, leaned onto an elbow with your face in your palm. Clearly a dejected and annoyed pose but everyone here was too cheery or already deep in the ‘special occasion’ wine bottle to even piece that together. Your other hand traced the ringed patterns in the wood surface, wondering how old it had been before it was chopped down ruthlessly by some hot guy with a chainsaw who was getting paid way too much to be fucking up nature left and right. All so that some college-aged girl could sit at the furniture it had been made into and sulk. God, an almost 40 year old tree. That’s pretty fucking old. You’re glad it lived a somewhat long life (in human years, not tree years.) ‘Cause some trees live a few hundred or even thousand years. So maybe it was taken too soon before it became the placeholder for your familial drunken talks. While you were distracted, annoyed, and pitying yourself, the table all erupted into ‘Hey, long time no see!’s , laughter, and other delightful sentiments that were jolly and deafening enough to make you jump. Loud noises weren’t your thing.

Before you could regain your composure and turn your torso in the hand-carved, deep-brown varnished chair- a hand graced the presence of your slumped shoulder.

“Hey, babydoll. Long time no see.” The voice greeted, husky and rough like a patch of concrete you’ve definitely scraped your knee on a time or two. Basically, it was familiar, which is what you’re getting at.

Uncle Leon.

You turned your full body now, swinging your legs to the side of the seat- a few laughs slopped from the table.

Everyone knew how much you loved and fawned over your Uncle- your dad rivaling how much you seemed to prefer his brother over him. Well duh, dad. It’s because he’s fun and you’re a hard-ass. And ugly to look at. Your poor, poor mom.

It had been years since you saw your uncle. Since you were freshly 18, to be exact. Your dad wasn’t too keen on having him around his barely-legal daughter- probably because he could practically smell it on you that you want your uncle to pop your cherry. You still remembered his few quirks, too. He was always sloppy yet casually drunk wherever he was, he hated fireworks (due to PTSD as your dad explained), and he had always been known to be grabby with people- probably because of the alcohol. He was a weird guy, but you loved him all the same. It broke the normalcy of your home and made things interesting to be around him. However- none of this was the focus. His stubble, dark-liquored bags under his eyes that almost resemble eyeliner, and dark-tinted hair were. And god, his chin. Could be a replacement for a Sybian, if you had one. All of that aside, he looks sexy. That’s so fucking weird to say about your dad’s brother, but calling it weird is also so outdated. Fucking your hot, middle-aged uncle is in; getting a boyfriend your age is out.

You stood up swiftly, hugging him tightly around the waist and almost toppling him. He chuckled, steadying himself with one arm around your back and the other on the table to catch himself. Once he felt he was steady enough, the other arm joined around you- the embrace squeezing you like a stress ball. You worried that your eyes might be a little more loose in your skull than before.

“Gotta be careful, kiddo. You’re gonna take down your uncle one of these days.” He teases, moving out of the hug and letting his hands explore their way down your back- resting on the small of it. Digits perched like a bird where your back starts to curve into your ass- not sweetly or gentle- but like one of those huge-taloned hawks that would rip your flesh off. You only say that because his hands are big and rough- and you’ve heard stories of what your uncle does for work (plus the alcohol is making him need to stabilize himself so he doesn’t crash you both into the nearby counter and cause any serious brain injury. At least then you could excuse the bubbling of strange feelings as TBI). Oh, and with how handsy he was known to be (Just ask your Aunt Claire on your mom’s side). But he had never been that way with you- not until now.

You see your dad eyeing him like the same kind of big-taloned hawk from across the table. They’re cut from the same feathers- except your dad must have been the one that never learned to fly. Pushed out of the nest by a sharp shove of a beak and bit every branch of the ugly tree on the way down. Cause he’s a lot weaker and uglier than your uncle. How he pulled your mom is a miracle and a mystery.

“Hey, uh. Honey. Come sit back down. No need in playing into your uncle’s fashionably late, drunken stupor.” He quips towards you while grilling Leon about being late, nursing his own drink with that ugly grin. You roll your eyes. Leon removes his hands from you- putting them up in defense of himself and leaving your back with an empty feeling.

“Hey, hey. Just hugging my beautiful niece.” He turned to address you again. “Been years since I’ve seen you, sweetheart. Look even better than your momma.” You feel a blush creep up at Leon’s words, but your dad clears his throat and your mom pays him no mind. Just an eye roll and sip of a wine cooler. To be honest, even she probably fucked your uncle. You couldn’t blame her if she did.

You huff and sit back down, crossing your arms. Your dad always had to ruin everything. If you fuck your uncle or kiss him or whatever and don’t like it, you can just go to therapy. Leon snickered behind you, patting your shoulder before leaning in next to your ear.

“Come join me out on the deck in a bit. I’m sure you’re tired of being smothered in here with the fun police.”

You feel muggy from his words. Like a Louisiana swamp type muggy. Is your hair sticking to you? Are there zika-virus bearing mosquitos pricking you or is that just undiagnosed anxiety?

You bounce your leg under the table while you hear the sliding door open and close in the distance. Minutes pass of you twiddling your thumbs- and you excuse yourself to sneak off- exiting out the same heavy sliding door that Leon used.

When you sealed it behind you- the smell of whiskey filled your nostrils- sizzling off any hairs that your nose so proudly grew for much needed germ-protection. A hand slapped itself gracelessly onto the glass above you in the dark, trapping you in place. Predictable uncle.

“Shit, sorry sweetheart. Lost my footing. Y’know how it is. I’m always taking spills here and there.” You felt giddy and blistered all over, speaking back to him.

“S’okay. Sorry about dad.” You excused, breathing in. Leon’s other hand patted you low on your hip as he chuckled into your ear- sending off more whiskey breath.

“It’s okay, sweet thing. Your dad can be that way. I’m not exactly safe to be around in his eyes. Besides, he’s just doing his job- looking out for his little girl.” He explains, not making any efforts to move. You predicted this- but it wasn’t unwelcome.

“Why’s that?” You dare to ask, sounding purposefully puzzled- but Leon knows better. And you know the answer.

“It’s ‘cause your Uncle likes ‘em young and pretty.” He mulls the information over you, the words sliding down you like a vibration that sets off a perfect sensation to your already throbbing clit. Because you’re always horny. The hand on your hip now kneads your ass under your skirt- somehow getting there without notice.

“O-oh.” You choke on the word like it’s quicksand in your throat- but only the quicksand is the prospect of having your uncle plow you until you develop early onset dementiaSo really, the quicksand isn’t bad in this instance. You jump into it face first for a good mouthful.

“Shouldn’t be wearing something so short when you know your dirty old uncle is coming over. Can’t keep my eyes where they’re supposed t’be.” He mutters low, leaning down to tickle the shell of your ear with his voice.

“Knew you were coming over. I wanted to look pretty for you.” Saying it makes your head spin, but like in the good way. The sound Leon makes is between a groan that says ‘good god, I’m going to bury my cock inside you right the fuck now’ and ‘I figured as much’. A simple cocktail of horniness and knowing.

“Mm, just want to kiss you everywhere, you know? Love it how sweet you are.” He murmurs into your scented hair, using the hand from the wall to push aside any strands that are in his way. He kisses the back of your neck and his breath scorches your skin. The affection is sloppy and leaves small bits of saliva behind, his barely-darting-out tongue making you ache even more.

“U-uncle.” You shuddered, a slight protest to your voice. Not ‘cause you don’t like it but because you’re worried someone will see. Or that you’ll never want off of his dick. He can be your personal IUD, all buried in your cervix.

Leon ignored the shared thought that someone could see because the way you referred to him made his dick jump in his jeans. Plus, the whole family knows he’s a sleeze. They’d see him balls deep in you and say ‘Ah, that’s Leon for you’ And look the other way until his next sexual prospect. One of the many reasons that Aunt Claire doesn't visit and Aunt Ada divorced his ass. Her loss. You’d happily share him if it were you. It’s only right to share a man that looks like a washed-up pornstar. His dick is great too. Not ‘cause you’re guessing- but because you saw it one time. Last time you saw him actually- the whole incident that left you wanting to see him again oh-so-badly. He had stumbled in the bathroom to piss- ignoring you at the sink. It’s whatever, he was totally wasted and probably didn’t see you. Nor did he probably see the fact you were gawking at his big dick. Or his nice ass, cause he had let his pants drop completely in his hazy state.

“Mm, what is it, babydoll? Hey- Think anyone’d notice if I fingered this sweet little pussy right now?” His voice cut through your memory and thick, long fingers teased the swell of your pussy lips through your underwear, making your hips contract with excitement. Your breath fans over the glass and smogs it.

“I don’t know- maybe.” You huff, trying to keep your composure. It sure is fucking hard when God’s gift to women is about to finger-fuck you at your parent’s house with 20 or so family members inside the property. You second guess yourself now. Maybe God's gift to women doesn’t go around playing with a pussy that belongs to their niece. Or maybe God was fed up with some girls missing out so he created sexually-attractive uncle’s to even any scores. You’ll be attending church this upcoming Sunday. Not because you’re going to follow through with blood-related fornication but because you want to thank the higher-ups properly for this fine piece of ass you’re about to receive from. Or maybe you shouldn’t step foot there, the whole ‘bursting into flames for egregious sinning’ type thing. Wait a minute- there’s literally daddy-daughter incest in the Book of Genesis, so you’ll happily sin away and tell god to fuck off while doing it. Okay maybe that’s a little uncalled for.

Leon tugged your panties to the side, breathing shakily.

“Fuck. I gotta see it, baby.” He mumbles, dropping to one knee with the other bent and still supporting the front of him. Underwear aside, he uses his hands to spread you out- taking in the sight of your damp folds. Damp is putting it lightly. His thumb collects some of your slick and he nearly cums right there.

“You save your first time for me?” He questions. In his mind, you’ve already had a dick or two. He can work with that. Those little guys your age don’t match up to him, but he’s blindsided when you whine about being a virgin, begging him to stick it in or something. Now, Leon’s not the greatest guy morally. At all. But if he’s going to pop your pussy like a soda cap for the first time, he’s going to do it in private cause he’s not stopping for anything. And privacy allows just that. Again- it’s not about it being special, just private. He’ll turn you out good and well.

“Sorry sweetheart. I wanna fuck this needy hole when it’s just us. Think you can wait?” He asks, before darting his tongue out to taste you and lapping up any of you that’s continuously dripping out from pent-up arousal. Your knees almost buckle and he puts his hands under the curve of your ass to hold you still. Your brain goes so mushy you almost forgot to respond.

“Y-yes, uncle Leon.” You whine like a pathetic puppy- begging for something that it didn’t need. But actually, you did need your uncle’s dick so badly. He laughs against your cunt, seemingly happy with that answer. Before you can properly nut like you want, you see your dad pass by in the distance of the sliding door. You tap the glass gently to alert Leon with a small series of clicks. He shoots his head up, yanking your panties back into place and using the sleeve of his leather jacket to wipe his mouth.

“Fuck- always such a blue-balling asshole for anyone, I swear. Sorry, pretty girl.” He smooths down your hair, making sure you look presentable. Well- besides your face that’s red enough to be used as a lit flare.

“Go inside. I’m sure he’s looking for you, babydoll.” He grabs you drunkenly by the upper arm, pulling you in to kiss you on the cheek.

“Come by mine sometime. I’ll be home, for once.” He mutters the last part, loosening his hold on you and starting down the steps of the deck.

“Okay. I’ll see you later, Uncle Leon.” You sound so disappointed and miserable. Pouty. Leon gets it.

“Later, babydoll.”

He heads down the path of the backyard and through the connecting gate that leads to the driveway, the sound of his motorcycle’s engine revving is the cue that he’s definitely headed off.

You let yourself back in, acting inconspicuous. But your dad is already waiting with crossed arms. Yuck.

“Did I not tell you several times about hanging around your uncle. He’s a weird guy. I don’t mind him coming over but, god.” He lays into you, mostly just insulting his brother. You roll your eyes as you normally do. You’ve never not had an attitude with your father. He was born to be shit on in your eyes- barely deserved your mom, as is. Besides, He had no backbone whatsoever.

“Just go upstairs.” He asked, cause he never told you to do anything. Just asked and hoped you’d listen. You were pleased enough to have gotten as much as your uncle tonguing your cunt, so you can comply a bit longer. You go upstairs to your room, shutting the door and lying down.

—

It’s a week later when you finally get to see your uncle. You managed to convince your dad to let you borrow his car, ‘cause you’re a broke college student and can’t afford that right now. Plus you’re spoiled but not enough for a car, apparently. Whoops. Probably because your dad knows as soon as he signs the papers, you’re going to drive to his brother’s house and impale yourself on his dick for life. He’d rather you go to college and get a train ran on you or something, at least.

You hoped you had remembered the right place at first, until Leon’s motorcycle was spotted in the lot. Good, he’s home. You still questioned your memory as you were walking up the flights of stairs in the apartment building, tugging down the back of your skirt when you felt it was airing out your ass too much (for any passerbys, not Leon). After reaching the 12th floor and navigating the scarily clean hallway (the few decorations in the area made it less horror-esque), you found the right (?) door. Your knock was soft because again, you weren’t entirely sure. Just going off of childhood memories.

After hearing a shuffle inside, it didn’t take long for it to swing open, Leon standing in the doorway shirtless with a pair of grey, thin sweatpants loose on his hipbones. His v-line was saying hello to you. Hello to you, too.

“Pretty girl! Hey! Thought you’d never come by. Sorry about the attire- been having a lazy day since I’m off work.” He moved aside for you to come in, the door shutting behind you when you accepted the unspoken invitation. His place was nice. A little cluttered with a half-packed suitcase; clothes messily thrown on top and some paperwork and a passport in a heap on the desk nearby, but still nice. Not to mention spacious. Thank god.

“It’s okay, really. You deserve some relaxation time, you know?” You try to be cool and collected- not getting to the main point of your visit. Even if you did have genuine interest in your uncle as a person.

“Isn’t that the truth? Want a drink?” He asked, already walking towards his kitchen. You don’t immediately reply because the sway of his ass is… something else, but you manage to snap yourself from the hypnotizing gaze of it. He’s got a whiskey glass and bottle already on the counter, waiting for a reply.

“Sure.” You tell him, knowing damn well you can’t handle your alcohol. You get all fucking lovey and touchy, and you’ve only drank like 3 times. And sure. You did come here to fuck him, but you were nervous. Okay, never mind. That gives a complete need for liquid courage.

He makes his way to the hallway- switching something on the AC control before sitting on the couch, adjacent from the chair you’re nestled in. You’re taking small sips of the whiskey, burning your throat, sinuses, and any nervousness down like a forest fire. Leon just sits, legs splayed apart like how men always sit. Except you can see his fat-ass dick print. God, kill me now. Or after I’ve sucked it, at least. You see, too, what looks like indents in the fabric- piercings maybe? Or the folds of the pants are sitting weird.

“Did you find the place okay?” He asks, coming off like he cares- which he does- but he’s mostly waiting to get you and himself sloppy for fucking so he’s just stalling now.

You nod, bottom lip tucked into your mouth- if you talk it’s going to be about his dick being huge or his dick being inside you. Leon allows you another deep sip, finishing off the liquid completely.

“I actually remembered how to get here just about perfectly.” You spoke, laughing a little. Yeah, you’d be gone completely in a few minutes. You already felt yourself slipping into a hazy, bubbly state. Leon could tell, too. Good for him. He loved when the girl was sloppier than the pussy attached to her.

“Smart girl. Always have been.” He took a long, heavy drink- finishing off his glass. You watched how his stomach twitched or moved even the slightest when he adjusted himself, the same with his arms. He was muscular yet lean- like he didn’t eat enough some days. Figures. Beauty isn’t easy and he looked good, and maybe that’s why he got plastered all the time so easily. No appetite=no tolerance. However, you were most certainly not afraid to look at the hard work. Even more so with alcohol brewing in your stomach acid and then liver.

Leon patted his leg, fingers drumming on the material of his sweatpants.

“Come sit. You can tell me more about it on your uncle’s lap.” Gross. Gross in the hot way. The gross-hot way you want him to fold and twist you like a pretzel. So no, you don’t abhor the idea of sitting in his lap.

You don’t even hesitate, standing and nearly falling over- realizing you forgot how wobbly your legs could get while inebriated. Leon reached forward to grab your hand and waist, letting you fall directly onto his lap, ass to crotch. Like a puzzle piece. An incestual puzzle piece- which ideally shouldn’t fit together but it just does.

You feel his cock twitch under you; he’s anticipated this, obviously. His hands slid up your thighs, and down again, then back up- like he’s appreciating them.

“Got the prettiest legs, baby. Want them on your uncle’s shoulders, don’t you?” He cooed, scooting you to the edge of his lap just enough to get his cock out of his bottoms. You turn to look behind you, twisting yourself a bit to get a look at it. Christ. One, he was big. The kind of dick that couldn’t stand ‘cause it was heavy and long. Two. It had a few piercings down the front of his shaft, gleaming in the light. So not only were you about to take your first dick, but a pierced one (like you had suspected). Okay…you didn’t remember seeing those the only other time you ever saw his dick by accident. New additions.

Leon stroked your hair with the hand that wasn’t holding his dick.

“Trust me, feels a lot better than it looks. I promise it doesn’t hurt. Even for virgins.” He adds, like he knows that for a fact. “Nothing you can’t handle for me.”

Okay, he’s right. You’d take his fist if it meant his approval, honestly. How bad could it be?

You move to spin yourself around on his lap, Leon’s amused at your eagerness. He holds his cock, spitting down onto it so he can stroke himself while he puts a hand onto your neck. You’re pulled by the hold into a slow, messy, spitty kiss. He’s definitely experienced, as you are not. His tongue makes its way against yours like he’s silently teaching you how to kiss him open mouthed. Not so hard, you think. He groans into your mouth as he handles himself, maneuvering his cock to brush against your underwear; prodding your clothed clit under your skirt.

You mewl against his lips which only spurs him to kiss you a little more rough now, assuming you’re ready for it. Which you definitely don’t mind. His hand squeezes the side of your neck affectionately, a thumb tracing the skin. You’re thankful you’re in his lap because your knees are weak and your head feels dizzy. It was an exchange of sighs and heavy breathing- no distance. Your hands tangled into his dark locks which is something that Leon loved; having his hair pulled (you could tell by his lusty growl and the shift of his hips). He truly was the epitome of a kinky, dirty old man. If pushing 40 was old. Well, to be fair, you did call the dead tree of a table at your parent’s house old, ‘cause it was 40.

He pulled off of you, your now un-joined mouths drippy with saliva.

“Get in between your Uncle’s legs. Wanna see that pretty mouth on this cock.” He urged, and you found yourself with your calves folded under you in between his parted thighs. He held his cock proudly, and to be honest, the piercings look daunting. How did you even expect yourself to suck on it like you’ve seen in porn? Maybe you should have spent more time watching guys with pierced dicks instead of the step category. You had a preference, clearly.

You snaked your hands up to him, holding his cock with a puzzled look clear on your face. Leon laughed, not like he was laughing at you but the way you laugh at someone when you think what they’re doing is cute.

“Don’t worry about them too much, gorgeous. Just do it how you think you would normally. But pay careful attention with your tongue. Won’t hurt me any, promise.” He reassures you thoroughly, chuckling through a sexually intense gaze. Okay, it seems…. easy enough. Didn’t know dirty old uncles could be so sweet about having their dick sucked.

You lean forward, Leon guiding the head to your mouth.

“Just go slow and focus on the tip. Don’t want my girl to be uncomfortable, now do I?” His girl? You liked the sound of that. Enjoyed it very much. You’d be his girl wherever and whenever. You took him past your lips- suckling on the tip softly and swirling your tongue around it.

“Just like that- fuck- you’re doing great, babydoll.”

The praise edged you on, and you managed enough confidence to glide your tongue down his shaft and over the piercings- flicking over them pornographically. You felt like it was just right. If fucking your uncle could be right in any way of the sense. Leon groaned and his head fell back onto the couch. A large hand found its way to your hair, holding it into a makeshift ponytail. You discovered that it wasn’t too daunting- it was possible to bob your head a little while keeping your tongue exploring the piercings in small swirls and flicks. Just makes your jaw a little tired faster. Besides, seems less scary than taking it inside you.

It’s an alternation of the previous movements and kitten licking up the front of him, and the adornments on his skin only seem to make everything feel much more stimulating. His breath deepens and he guides you now with your hair in hand- looking down at you through deep-brown bangs.

“Fuck- that’s it. Just look at you, dirty little niece I’ve got here, sucking her uncle’s cock like she was made for it. God- so damned pretty with your tongue on me.” His head falls back again for a moment, before he sits up- his labored panting evident.

“Christ. Okay- can’t take it anymore. C’mon, baby. Up.” He says, smacking your bottom when you stand in front of him. You’re feeling a bit ‘five seconds away from crashing into the coffee table and impaling yourself on the broken wood’ type of drunk now.

“Uncle Leon’s gonna pop that cherry, got it? Now sit down and let me lick that sweet pussy. Can still taste it after last time.” He’s speaking filthy things you should hear and run in the opposite direction from- but you don’t.

“My room. Remember where that is?” He mumbles, standing behind you now while he runs his hands down your sides- possessively grabbing at any fabric on you.

You shake your head no.

“Can’t remember. Need you to show me.” You whisper to him, putting your hands over his on your sides. He just muffles a laugh into the crook of your neck and shuffles you along in front of him, the two of you almost falling over multiple times on the way to his bedroom. You’re sure that something did get knocked off the wall at one point, but you literally do not care in any way.

Leon staggers you into the room and pushes you back onto the bed, shedding off his sweatpants. Naked, no boxers. Just full, thick cock and a trail of hair leading up to his belly-button that you haven’t let your eyes leave for however long you’ve been here. Oh, and muscled thighs. One of the greater parts of a man. His hands find their way to your thighs, tugging you to the edge of the bed before invading his thumbs into the waistband of your panties.

“Let’s get these off.” He grunts, pulling them down your legs and tossing them only for the undergarment to land in an unseen place. You go to tug off your skirt, until his hands pin yours to the bed.

“Want you to keep that on. Looks cute.” He says, retracting from you and sinking down at the edge of the bed. In no wasted time, his mouth is lazily lapping at your cunt- making your back bend in the reaction of immediate, overwhelming pleasure. You grabbed at the sheets until you remembered how his body responded when you pulled at his hair- so you found your hold there instead. Tugging his darkened strands with the pace he was eating you out at- stubble against your pussy and nose in your mound. His cheeks tickled your thighs, punching out a soft giggle and squirm from your body between the moaning. It makes him smile into you- reaching a hand up to knead your breast. Honestly, you hoped that the roof caved in right now and took you to your death because no moment would be better than this and that in itself made you suicidal.

You feel a finger slip past your hole, curling itself into that soft wall of fleshy, orgasmic sponge. The noise that left you was new, for sure and the muscle in his mouth jerked against your clit in tandem. It seemed Leon had the same deep feeling and worry you did about his dick even fitting, cause he added a second finger. Then tried to add a third but gave up because he actually wanted his dick to do that labor. He can be selfish, okay? It didn’t take long for you to cum either, duh. He was a skilled whore of a man and you’re a virgin. Or will be for only a few more minutes- probably less.

Your legs shake and tense, your heart thumps viciously, and your fingers threaten to tangle his hair into knots and make him start balding. Not happening no matter how hard you yank, though. His genes are too good for that. He was made for rough pulls to his mane. Made to take damage both mentally and physically. Made for splitting open cute, slutty nieces like you.

While you recovered, he licked his lips and fingers as clean as he could- missing the further parts of his stubbled cheeks. He stood up, hand on his lower back (‘cause duh, he’s old as dirt), and reached into the nightstand for a condom- which you gave him a look before he could open it. A look that told him ‘please, please, please don’t put it on! sure, fuck your blood-relative niece raw and possibly knock her up! Might not have to worry because you’re an alcoholic and your sperm quality is low, though.’ So fuck away.

He was a sucker for your big, glossy eyes and the slutty pout of your bottom lip. Not mentioning- he wouldn’t have worn a condom anyway. Would have just slipped it off before he stuck his dick in you. A virgin couldn’t tell the difference. What? You expected a man that fucks his own family to have morals for things lesser than that? No chance.

“Please, Uncle.” You begged softly, Leon knowing what you want without actually saying it. He’s great at reading people.

“Fucking hell. You’re something else. You want it that bad, huh?” He laughed, pleased by you beseeching him with so little words. You nodded, no objections about it. He tossed the unopened condom back in the drawer and shut it impatiently, making the lamp wobble.

“Changed my mind. Everything off. Gotta see that pretty set of tits.” The words were matter of fact and laced with a bit of erection-fueled urgency.

You reach your hands up to remove your shirt, then discard your bra and skirt. Left in the nude as naked as the day you were cut from your moms stomach. C-section baby and all that. Only this time there was no blood. Yet, anyways.

When you were stark naked, Leon pushed you firmly onto his bed again- folding you by the backs of your thighs, legs pressed to your chest and gifting your stomach with that cute roll thing it did. Leon liked that on a woman.

He grabbed his cock, positioning it against your slick that dribbled from your yet-to-be-abused hole. He was gonna change that. You could feel his one of the piercings resting against your skin down below- a tsunami of anxiety settling over your delicate village of a body.

“Might hurt a little, babydoll. Can’t promise I’m gonna be gentle with her.” He referred to your pussy, your hole fluttering when he talked. You gave a look of understanding and acknowledgement.

“God, want it so bad.” You whined under him, the position he had your legs in made you even crazier about having him in you, like, yesterday.

He didn’t savor the moment so that he could push into you, he just did it. The feeling of each piercing bumping your hole on the way in. It felt fucking good, but also his dick stretching you out was intense and stung like a papercut.

His hands held your thighs down into your stomach- giving you a novice contortionist experience, and you could see the veins in his forearm pop a little. Your mind raced with the following anxieties; ‘What if a piercing cuts my insides and I die from sepsis or something? What if a piercing ball comes off and is lost inside me forever? Maybe I should stretch more.’ The first two were irrational but maybe not so much so, or else you wouldn’t be thinking of them. You’re not the first woman to think any of it.

“Fuck- there we go. Shit. You feel incredible, baby.” He dropped the doll in favor of calling you baby this time, making you squeeze around him as he bottoms out, balls against your ass. Yep. A bruised cervix was in your future. Going to have to come up with an excuse for why you won’t be able to get out of bed for the next few days. You thought other girls were just exaggerating this whole time about feeling yourself be split open, what the hell was he trying to do? Dig out your uterus with his dick? Does he really have to be so deep? It’s, like, really hot and feels really fucking good, but also, slightly uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the position.

Either way, he’s feeding your ego.

You let your head relax onto the bed instead of continuing to hold it up, ‘cause doing that was much more painful.

“God.” You muttered, relieved to be full and get the virginity loss out of the way. You should be getting a cake and celebration for this, if it wasn’t your uncle. But still. Taking big, pierced dick deemed trophy worthy. Or maybe a plaque.

Leon gazed down at you through straight locks, shaking them out of his face a little. He pulled himself out, minus the tip, before pushing back in with a groan- his Adam’s Apple bobbing hypnotically. Your spine arched, lifting your back off the mattress and your hands dug into your own thighs, helping hold them in place.

“You like that, huh?” He asked, the difference between it being pure hormones and condescension was blurred. Could have been both. He doesn’t give that much of a timeframe to start dragging his cock in and out of you, slowly picking up speed and bottoming out each time- balls slapping against your bottom.

You babble nonsensically, the ribbed sensation of his piercings almost sending you into hysterics. Something about yes, yes. I love it. Need you to fuck me so hard that my dad disowns me because I’m wheelchair bound and he knows why.

“Feels good, baby. I know it. Bet it’s hitting places you didn’t even know you had.” If he wasn’t so fucking hot, you’d probably have the ick from how cocky he is. Or not, you’re fucked up.

He leaned forward over you more to tangle into your hair, guiding your head to more of an angle and exposing your neck. You were so overwhelmed from how hard and deep he’s fucking you, not to mention his dick feels like how you imagine a beginner level bad dragon dildo to feel. Or maybe a less monster-y version anyways. It just feels fucking good and that’s all you needed to care about. Soft, airy cries crawl their way from your throat and leave you between that and moaning. Uncle, please. Please, please, please, harder.

“Let it all out, that’s it. Uncle Leon’s gonna take good care of this pussy.”

You nod as much as you can with his hold on your hair, and he pants into your collarbone, sweaty and nasty on top of you. You feel like you’re almost being crushed under his weight but it’s only hotter, and gets even more when you feel his free hand slip between your damp bodies to thumb your aching and still-sensitive clit. You tighten around his cock in reaction- gasping.

“Take it, babydoll. Fuck. Show me how much you want your uncle to make you cum. Belong on my cock, you know it?”

Your brain is off somewhere in a hot air balloon, far from its preferred skull. Which is yours. He speaks in ways you didn’t imagine you’d ever get to be spoken to or even enjoy. But it’ll be the only thing that gets you off from now on, no doubt about it.

“Uh huh, belong on your dick forever. Never wanna take it out.” Yeah. You’re stupid for him.

“Fuck. That’s my girl. Keep talking like that and I’m not ever letting you go.”

You nod your head.

“Want that, want that so bad. ‘D let you fuck me whenever you want, uncle.”

His lips curl into a half-pressed grin before he’s panting again- a bead of sweat dripping onto him. You remember he did something with the AC. Yeah-to the heat in the apartment is frying you good and well. Guess he wanted the sex to be extra clammy and gross. You know, besides the incest.

“Christ. Fuck, yes.” He groans deep, throaty and carnal.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you. You’d be the prettiest little girlfriend. Sitting around waiting to get fucked all the time. I know how needy my baby is.” Christ. You’re going to the deepest abyss in hell. You’re sure whatever torment awaits is worth it though, so it’s not a big deal right now.

“Wanna be yours.” You choke, throat dry. Ah, you remember you’re intoxicated. That must be why you’re so loose at saying this stuff.

“Open up.” He huffs, almost face to face with you but still enough that his breath is hot on your features. You’re hasty to open your mouth like a whore, Leon dribbling his gathered spit down onto your tongue.

“Gotta keep you hydrated, baby. Can’t have that throat getting raw, can we?” You nod, there’s so many nasty things happening you can’t process it properly- unaware of everything as you cum a second time on his hand, squeezing his dick like a much softer and less dangerous guillotine.

His thrusts were a little more sloppy and erratic- alcohol fully set in for the both of you. Normally, he’d be able to hold off his orgasm a little longer- but combatting it wasn’t an option in this drunken state.

“Christ- so fucking pretty and tight when you cum on my dick. Gonna cum too, baby. Don’t think I can pull out right now.”

You shake your head no.

“Don’t pull out, please. Please uncle, ‘ll do whatever you want.”

He laughs brokenly, choked up from the moans that need to come out first.

“God, yes. Okay. Gonna fill this sweet pussy up, baby.”

He focuses a few more thrusts, hard enough to make it hurt a little and sloppy enough to still be just the right amount of perfect.

“Here it comes, baby. Need you to take i- shit.” He buried deep inside you as he came hard, rasped voice and all while he held his place firm. His hair is stuck to his face in some areas, his natural scent emanating off of the sweat droplets.

His dick spasms inside you, filling you with every bit of semen he’s got pent up in him. You could almost feel the way your cunt was full of his cum, having no room around his dick to go anywhere, really.

He relaxed a little, letting out a long, pleasurable groan. You yourself joined him in letting your body go limp as it could in this position. He grabbed your legs to straighten them out and let them wrap around his waist, making you realize they were folded too long and that they ache a bit.

He kissed your collarbone, picking up his head and kissing your cheek next.

“Mm. Did so great for me, babydoll. Not gonna be able to let you go now.” He teased, another peck to your mouth that you managed to reciprocate just in time.

“Then don’t.” You tell him, mumbling.

“I can manage that. Could easily be my girl. Would have to be our little secret, though.” He adds at the end, threading his fingers in your hair.

Yeah, you’re not turning down that offer.

[calolily]

A little Xmas gift for @ayvaines with a delightful little short written by @cweepa under the cut.

As the Fasten Seatbelt sign blinks off, Astarion rubs his temples and gets to his feet. Holidays. He hates working through them.

“Look alive,” someone tells him. One of his colleagues, he reckons, but he doesn’t recognise them. This is, after all, a route he doesn’t get rostered into often. He’s only here at a special request. And it’s not too bad. On one hand, it’s a pretty short flight. On the other, it’s long enough to warrant a meal service.

As children and adults alike begin rushing towards the washroom, Astarion side-steps them elegantly and makes his way towards the galley. There, another attendant is already preparing the meal trolley. They hand it off to him with an apologetic look. He’s the unfortunate sod that drew the short straw today. But truthfully, it’s not all that bad. He rolls the cart down the aisle, repeating the same thing over and over;

“Boar or trout?” Most people pick trout. Astarion can’t fathom why, but perhaps that’s because he doesn’t really care for fish. Then again, he doesn’t really care for this particular job. He’s only here because, well –

“Excuse me.” Astarion turns to an elf on the left. She smiles at him. “Is the trout option meat-free?” He closes his eyes. Opens them, a strained smile on his face.

“No, but if you require a vegetarian option, we do have Blackbark soup.” It’s a dietary request that he’s certain this passenger had not stated prior, but it’s fine. That’s why they have spares.

She nods. “I’ll take that.” And that should be end of it, except when he’s circling back, she snaps her fingers at him. As though he’s a bloody hound. He inhales deeply.

“Yes, ma’am?” “This tastes like meat.” “I assure you, there is no meat in there. It’s made with tree bark.” She’s insistent. “It tastes like a beef stew.” To his annoyance, she’s lifting up the tray and shoving it at him. Soup slops precariously over the edge. He ducks away on instinct.

“Ma’am, please put the tray table down.” She pushes it at him again.

“I don’t think so.” Astarion allows his eyes to dart to the ceiling as he mutters a silent prayer. Forcing a smile onto his face, he leans in close.

“If this is not your liking, I’m sure we can find something else for you to eat.” His gaze flickers down to the metal tray. The implication behind his words is clear.

She settles back in her seat, nose scrunched. But at least she goes back to eating her stew. Sighing, Astarion returns to the galley, where he spends a few peaceful moments cleaning the trolley. That is, until someone begins jabbing at the call button.

The sight that greets him has him contemplating jumping off the plane and into the ocean below. A dragonborn stares at him challengingly.

“Ma’am,” he says, eye twitching imperceptibly.“Please take your feet off the headrest.”

She sniffs at him. “I don’t think I will.” He’s losing his patience, alongside his brain function, because he’s half-holding his breath to stop himself from smelling anything he doesn’t wish to.

“Ma’am, this is not only unsanitary, but you’re disrupting the experience of your fellow passengers. That’s someone else’s headrest you’re using as a footstep.” All gets in return is an audible gasp.

“Are you questioning my personal hygiene?” Astarion stares at her blankly. He can’t help himself.

“It’s a foot.” That should be self-explanatory. Thankfully, he’s saved by the senior attendant in his ear. She tells him to begin collecting the trays. Oh, joy.

The hours tick by in a blur of tantrums – both from babies and adults alike. He catches countless passengers attempting to have a covert cigarette in the bathroom, right beneath the giant NO SMOKING sign.

Someone attempts to hit him with a tray. Ten more try to hit on him. A scandalised mother gets into an altercation with an enraged passenger when her child refuses to stop screaming.

All of Astarion’s limited sympathy flies out the window when he finds out that said child is a bloody teenager. An actual orcish child tries to toss a cup at him. Two seats down, a middle-aged tiefling catches said cup and tries to tuck it into their duffel. Astarion doesn’t care. If they want a souvenir from this blasted flight so badly, they can take it.

He’s barely made his way up the aisle when someone else grabs his sleeve. He’s about to snap at them for touching him, when the woman in question raises a finger to her lips and gestures for him to lean in close.

“I think that couple over there is …” Her voice trails off. Astarion follows her pointed finger and fights the urge to groan out loud. He makes his way across the aisle.

“Sir, ma’am,” he begins. They both look up with varying levels of guilt. “I do hope you know that joining the mile-high club really isn’t as impressive an achievement as the movies make it out to be.” He pauses and narrows his eyes. “Not that you’d be inaugurated there anytime soon. I’ve seen more enthusiasm in wildlife documentaries.” Ignoring their sputtered excuses, Astarion stomps away.

The relief he feels is immense.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Astarion ducks into the galley for a moment. It’s thankfully empty. He runs trembling hands along his hair, trying to smooth it back into place for disembarkation.

“Astarion.”

He looks up, a polite service-smile already straining the too-dry skin of his face. A moment of peace amidst this madhouse is immeasurably precious. He’s this close to cracking, his temples radiating with a growing pain that is becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

His shoulders slump visibly as a familiar face appears in his field of vision: solid arms outstretched, faint circles beneath his eyes, but his bearded jaw curved upwards in an unmistakable grin. The tension from the flight leaves him immediately.

And for the first time that day, Astarion smiles back.

Holidays.

He hates working through them, but really, it’s not all that bad when your husband is the one flying the plane

[squeakitties]

thinking about the mid-2000s string of freakshow television programs i watched as a kid/teenager and just. how cruel that shit was? i've met so many delightful strange people who'd readily wind up on that slop and it's reminding me that a lot of people just disregard, demean and mock others who lie outside of a specific bubble of quirks, appearances and interests

[lunarfuneral]

Kingdon + things you said when you were drunk :))

read on ao3 or below :)

Mel didn’t love Lawrenceville. 

Especially not on a Friday night. The streets swell with people and noise bubbles over from every bar and restaurant along Butler. From the river, the breeze sweeps through, at least helping to cool the late summer air.

But Trinity had asked, and asked, and then pleaded. “But it’s emo night,” she’d whined, paired with her best puppy dog eyes. “We need more people! Samira’s going, Huckleberry … we still have to celebrate when I held a heart in my hands on our first day, remember?” 

That was only two weeks ago, and she felt like Trinity had been playing a game even in the short amount of time that had passed—who could get Mel out to the bars? But she does want to make friends, so she’d agreed, much to Trinity’s delight.

“Yes! Mel’s coming to Belvedere’s! Oh my god, Melvedere's,” she’d cheered, laughter loud in the break room. 

Belvedere’s is packed. She’s only been there a few times before, a music night here and there, karaoke once with some girls from college. Trinity heads straight for the bar, taking everyone’s order and insisting the first round’s on her. Mel holds off on drinks until they’ve already found a good spot in the room with the pool tables and danced to a few songs. Samira lets Trinity twirl her around to Fall Out Boy while Mel heads to the bar and orders one of the only things she didn’t hate the taste of.

She's only the one green tea shot in when she spots him at a table near the end of the bar, head hung low.

He's wearing a white shirt and dark pants. She can't believe he's here. She'd looked for him again at the end of their first shift together to say goodbye, but he was nowhere to be found. Just like the next shift. Then the next. When she asked, all they'd tell her was that he'd be taking an extended leave of absence. Everyone around her was tight-lipped, no matter who—or how many times—she asked.

She guesses it's true what they say: Pittsburgh's a small city, even if it doesn't seem like it. You never know who you'll run into. 

"Oh! Dr. Langdon!" She makes her way through the throng, brushing against the people waiting in line for the bar. There's two empty chairs next to him at the table, each with a beer standing unattended. He's facing away from her, looking down into his half empty glass. 

"Dr. Langdon?" she tries to repeat gently, but he still can't hear her over the DJ and drunken crowd singing along. She gets closer, taps on his shoulder lightly, and can't help the way her stomach flips when she feels his warm skin under his shirt. 

Startled, he turns to her, before breaking into a smile. "Mel!" She goes red at just her name. She likes the way he says it, like he'd been waiting all night to see her. So bright. 

"What are you doing here?" he asks, looking around, like he’s shocked she's in a bar.

Mel tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She'd worn it down, and she's suddenly very glad she did. She watches him watch her, following her hand until it rests back at her side. The same one she tapped his shoulder with, still tingling. 

"Oh, uh." She doesn't want to tell him other people from work are here. She wants to keep talking to him, just them. "It's emo night." 

"You like emo night," he says disbelievingly and straightens up. The light catches him, and Mel can see his face clearly now. Under the purple lights, he looks pallid, red-eyed and disheveled. His movements are slow, sluggish—she realizes that can't be his first beer. Or second. 

“Are you feeling okay, Dr. Langdon?” Mel frowns. Something is different about him. He looks flushed, and while it is warm in the bar, his hand shakes slightly around his glass, indicating another cause. His fingers tap, tap, tap on the rim, a strange contrast to how steady they’d been, how competently he curled them, setting the Le Fort III fracture. Every few moments, his eyes flit somewhere else, unsteady.

“Yeah, yeah, just out with some—” he shrugs, sloppy, “uh, friends of mine. Some guys I know from undergrad.” He’s leaning heavily against the table.

“Okay,” she says, locking her hands together to squeeze her own fingers. Mel’s never been one to be able to hold something in, not something that’s been bothering her every day for the past two weeks, so she has to ask, especially when he seems so excited to see her now, “Why haven’t you been back to work?” Why didn’t you say goodbye? Why did you say you needed me if you weren’t going to come back? 

He groans and leans forward. The table sways, threatening to spill the beers.

“Mel, I fucked up. I—I hurt my back, right? And it’s not like I’m an addict, I just was trying to manage my pain, you know?” The music is so loud and people keep streaming through the door. She has to step forward, crossing over into Langdon’s space. He looks her up and down as she does with his bloodshot eyes. 

“It was just a few pills. Overprescribe some benzos, take a couple … just to manage my own symptoms. I swear, Mel, you have to believe me.”

Oh, she immediately understands, this is withdrawal. That’s what she sees under the inebriation—the panic setting in, nausea soon to come, tremors and palpitations and headache. He’s in an active medical emergency.

“We need to go to the hospital,” she says automatically. He needs help, now.

“No, no, Mel, I don’t want to detox there—I only stopped a day ago, it’s going to get so much worse, oh my god. I still haven’t told Abby, I haven’t told anyone. I thought getting hammered was a—” he laughs, and Mel doesn’t know why, “a good idea. I’m a fucking doctor and I don’t know what to do.” He’s practically leaning off the table into her by now. She can smell him, nicotine and sweat and beer, but also something she recognizes from her first day, and she wants to bend down and breathe him in deep. “Please,” he says, looking up at her. 

She hasn’t heard him beg before.

There’s never been a time in her life where she didn’t at least try to do the right thing. She shouldn’t listen to him. She should take him to the hospital to get the proper care. She should call his wife, maybe even Dr. Robby. She doesn’t want to imagine what would happen if she doesn’t help. He’s in crisis, spiraling, desperate and scared. 

She’ll take him home.

That’s still close enough to the right thing, she reasons. She’s a doctor, she can help. She’ll monitor his symptoms. Better her than his absent friends, than any of their coworkers or superiors. Better than his wife. 

His friends choose then to return, loudly talking as they come to the table. Mel flinches at all the noise, heat spreading out from her chest, feeling like everything is closing in. Before they leave, she needs a minute. She’s going to take Frank Langdon home and she suddenly feels that green tea shot in her stomach and the past few nights where she thought of him come rushing up and she needs a fucking minute. 

“Hey, Frank, who’s your friend?” one asks, smiling at Mel. 

She doesn’t let Langdon answer. 

“Can you watch him for a minute, please?” 

His friend frowns but acquiesces. Mel rounds the bar and heads to the bathroom. She doesn’t bother telling Trinity she’s leaving—she doesn’t want to explain it and she doesn’t want to lie, not right now. She figures she’ll text them later once she can come up with something to say other than I’m going to take Dr. Langdon home because he’s about to start benzodiazepine withdrawal. 

When Mel comes back from the bathroom, Langdon isn't with his friends, and the rest of his beer is gone.

"Where did Dr. Langdon go?" Mel asks, alarmed to find his seat empty. 

One of his friends—she can't remember his name—shrugs and looks around the room. "He probably went to get some air. Or a cigarette." 

Mel wasn't sure what kind of friends Langdon had, but she knows he needs better ones than these. She doesn't try to find their coworkers, just heads out the door into the crisp night air. There are a few people near the front door smoking, but Langdon isn't one of them.

Her nerves get the best of her and she jogs down the street towards the gas station. She doesn’t see his white shirt among the people walking, not in any direction on the corner. When she goes back the other way, she turns down the block and thankfully finds him there against the building, eyes closed, trying to take deep breaths with a hand to his chest and the other holding him up off the ground where he’d knelt.

He’s in bad shape. She can’t believe they were both at Belvedere’s, what were the odds? She also can’t believe she’s seeing him like this, and that he needs her again, begging her in his weakest moment.

She bends down and says his name in a low, quiet voice. He reaches for her out of nowhere, wrapping her wrist in his big hand.

"Mel, please," he gasps, holding onto her wrist hard. "Don't make me go home, please. I think I’m going to be sick. I came out here—I don’t—I don’t know where to go. I don't want to see her—" he stops himself and groans. "I don't want my kids to see this."

She doesn't want his kids to see him like this, either. She doesn't want anyone to see him like this. She wants to be the only one. He won't let his wife see, won't let his friends—but she's here with him, crouching in front of him on the corner of Butler and Fisk, and he's letting her see.

“Frank,” she assures, “it’s okay. I won’t make you go home.”

He opens his eyes and meets her gaze. He looks incredible, sweating through his shirt and swaying, all gaunt and afraid, on the verge of spilling over onto the sidewalk.

“We can go to my place. I can take care of you there.”

The look he gives her is full of gratitude and swollen blood vessels.  

She orders the Uber and waits with him on the ground while people pass by, zig zagging along the sidewalks drunkenly. He mostly just tries not to be sick on the concrete while she keeps watch, checking for the car. When it comes, she pulls him up bodily, relishing the way he feels against her, grabbing him greedily, delighting in the way his cool skin feels against her warm palm.

Mel sits with him in the backseat and lets him lean into her, head lolling against her chest, while he mumbles and clutches at her side. The however-many beers he had, and god knows what else, must be really hitting him. He’s all loose, curled into her. "I just ... I wanted to see you," he slurs, spitting along her jean jacket as he moves. "Couldn’t stop thinking about you. I wanted—" 

It's all he gets out before the Uber pulls up to her place. Mel wants so badly to ask what he means—she thought about him too, lots of times, especially at work, wondering where he was, or in her bedroom, late at night—and she goes warm imagining that he did too. 

Langdon can barely keep his eyes open and head up as they stumble to her door. She doesn’t have time to let it sink in that Langdon is in her house. Her living room, then kitchen, then bathroom. That’s three rooms already that she’s going to walk through, remembering that he’d been there, and there, and there. 

He scrambles out of her grasp when she opens the bathroom door. Moonlight streams in through the small window by her sink and illuminates him as he falls to the floor and reaches for the toilet bowl. The pale light catches off his ring when he grips the porcelain tight. Violently, he shakes and pitches forward. 

Mel should leave him be. She wouldn't want anyone seeing her in that state, let alone a coworker, let alone someone she barely knew. He wasn’t in the right state of mind. She should turn around and close the door and check on him once he quiets. 

But he's so frenzied, everything tense, fingers like claws, back arched and head bent, making sounds he can't help, fighting against something he can't control. Slowly, she steps up behind him to place a gentle, cool hand on his hot back, a touch he rises to meet. His back is damp with sweat as she rubs it, soothing circles while she coos, tells him it's okay, it's okay, mapping out his straining muscles as he falls sick over and over.

This is what he’d look like straining, panting, thrusting forward, chasing it, oh—  

"I'm sorry, Mel," he whimpers, "oh, god." It takes him again, and again, and again. She wants to slide down behind him and press herself to his back; he wouldn't be able to throw her off. He'd probably lean back into her, grateful for the comfort, and she'd let him rest there against her chest for as long as he needed. She could gather him up, keep him, right there on her bathroom floor.

Her face flushes and she straightens. Pulling her hand away, already missing the feel of him, she says, "I'll be back," and rushes for her hall closet. 

She grabs a washcloth for him, a cold compress would help, she thinks, but all she can hear is the sound of his retching interspersed with pained moans. The back of her neck is hot. Her jean jacket feels too tight, so she strips down to her t-shirt, light purple, like their first day. 

She stops short of going back into the bathroom, deciding rather to stand with her back up against the wall next to the door. She can hear him so well. She just wants to listen, just for a moment. 

Unable to help herself, she slides her hand down the front of her pants and grinds the heel of her palm against her clit, biting her lip to stay quiet. Hungry, starving—she listens to the way he breathes, so heavily in her silent house, quiet enough she can hear the clink of his wedding ring hitting the bowl. 

Devouring each long, drawn out gag, she grinds down again in a circle, imagining how it would sound if she were underneath him, if maybe he were inside—

She dips the tip of her fingers between her lips, feeling how wet it makes her just to listen to him. 

Shaking, she tries to go deeper, when she hears him say her name. 

“Mel?” he calls with a hoarse voice. He sounds like a child, lost somewhere unfamiliar. “Mel, please come back, I’m sorry, please—I need—” He whines so high it sounds like a cry. 

She wants him so badly. He needs her, he’s begging for her. She takes her hand from her pants, cunt still throbbing, and goes back into the room.

She gets down on the floor with him, letting him know she’s there. He’s leaning his head against his arm, resting. His back rises and falls with his rapid, fearful breaths, and she moves in close on her knees, nearly whining when his back finally meets her chest. Sweat soaks through immediately and she can feel the dampness on her breasts.

“I’m scared, Mel,” Langdon admits, voice muffled by his arm. She has no idea what he’s been doing since his last shift. Apparently, lying to his wife and going on benders, but otherwise she can’t begin to guess. Something tells her, though, that he doesn't have many people in his corner. She’s the one that caught him running scared, trying to hide from the hard part.

“I won’t let anything happen,” she soothes. She watches his pulse jump in his neck and tucks her face against it. She is still so wet and warm between her legs. His breathing picks up, each inhale shorter and shorter, while it builds in him. This is just the beginning. Five or so more days of this lay ahead of him. Mel’s not sure what’s going to happen, but she’d like to be there for it. Her heart races thinking about it, so covetous. “Frank, I’m here.”

When he tenses again, she’s right there. His neck stresses and bows. She follows him when he goes forward again, staying close, and she feels it come up his throat, feels the way his esophagus clenches and releases right against her cheeks, and he spasms and bucks like some wild animal, so Mel slides her hand around to his stomach, trying to ease him. He jumps and twitches at her touch, in a different way than before. He’s still pitched over the toilet, but he doesn’t shy away from her hand, rather moving his hips forward like he’s searching for her touch.

As a doctor, Mel’s seen countless people on the worst day of their lives. She wonders if this is Langdon’s. While he throws up with her writhing in tandem with him on the floor, following his movements, not shying away, showing him I’m here, I’m as close as I can be, I won’t look away, she wonders if his wife would. Had he tried to show her, and she looked away? 

The thought nearly makes her whimper. She might be the only one. 

Langdon calms again, sagging back against her. She still has the washcloth she grabbed from the closet. She doesn’t want to, but she gently peels herself from him, cool rushing in and prickling her chest. She moves him slowly, easing him back against the wall, sitting him up. Quickly, Mel wets the cloth in the sink, squeezing out the excess and folding it nicely.

She wipes his face softly, brushes the hairs sticking to his cheeks out of the way. He’s so out of it, puke on his lips and letting her move him like a rag doll. Mel takes him in, looking at him over her glasses, thinking—he’s the most beautiful he’s ever been, she knows. She wants to kiss him, she wants to devour him fucking whole. She puts the rag down and she picks at his soaked shirt, skitters her fingers down to his pants and doesn’t think as she undoes the button. Then the zipper, loud even under Langdon’s breathing. Mel’s heart pounds in her chest. She’s never done anything like this before, ever. She’s never wanted to. Frank Langdon makes her want to. 

He lets her slide his pants and underwear down to the middle of his thighs, trapping him there.

He’s sick. She’s a doctor. She’s going to take care of him. 

She leans down and takes him in hand and she’s surprised to find him already getting hard, growing in her palm. He’s slumped against the wall, eyes nearly closed, but he’s looking at her, a pinched look on his face while he tries not to get sick again, and he doesn’t stop her.

He’s big, but it’s not like Mel could compare it to anything. She’d thought it would be, though, and her mouth waters knowing she’d been right. It was the way his voice was deep and gentle in the break room, the way he spun around to talk to her, how he’d looked at her when she noticed he’d come back, all confidence, all ease, riding the ER like it was nothing. She’d known. 

In the pale light, she can see how red he is, so swollen. She lowers herself until her chin bumps the tip of him and she makes note of every detail, unwilling to let any of this go. She’s going to remember everything about him. There’s a thick trail of hair leading from under his shirt to surround his cock, dark and full. He has a mole on his left thigh, far up where the hair thins out over his delicate skin. 

She leans down and kisses it and his legs jump a little, just so. Sweat salty on her lips, she opens up and slips his cock into her mouth, closing around his head right away.

For something she’s never done before, she immediately knows she wants to do it again. He twitches then, still moving like molasses, but he thrusts up with a little groan, and Mel sinks down further, thrilled, wishing she could touch herself, too. He fills up her entire mouth, curving with her tongue down her throat, and she gags around him, spit slipping down the length of him. She grips him at the base, getting a better handle on him. 

“Mel,” he moans, alert enough now that he’s fully opened his eyes, still bloodshot, still blue. “What are you—that feels so good,” he pants. She lights up at his voice, curling her toes and flexing her hands. “Please, fuck.” 

He’s said please for her so many times tonight. Langdon may be starting his withdrawal, but Mel’s only starting her addiction, she thinks. She’s never going to stop chasing the way that word sounds in his voice, directed at her, needing her. 

With buzzing ears, cotton-filled, hazy, she starts a rhythm, up and down, slow but sure. She likes the flutter of her throat when she chokes, and so does he, pressing his back into the wall to push closer into her, arching up. His hand messily tangles in her hair, holding her head, wedding ring cool on her scalp, and moves his thumb back and forth sweetly. So grateful, all in the palm of her hand. 

“Baby,” he slurs, the word dripping out like honey.

Mel moans around him, so pleased, so happy to be the one with him, the one he’s calling baby, the one he’s surrendering himself to, limbs pliant and cock hard. He shakes when she does. She swallows around him, trying to put him all in her mouth, because he really seems to like it. 

She slides her legs out underneath her, laying on her stomach in front of him, the cold tile giving her goosebumps across her skin. It’s easier this way to go deeper, press down as far as she can go until she can’t breathe. She can’t take it all just yet, but she tries her best, and she thinks she’ll be able to work up to it. He doesn’t seem to mind at all, torn between his pleasure and being sick, stuck somewhere in between. 

He moves his hand down to cup her neck as she moves quicker, getting messier and messier, spit wetting her knuckles and leaking down her chin. 

“Baby,” he says again, more of a warning. She doesn’t move away. She doesn’t know what it’ll be like, but she doesn’t care, she just wants him. 

Everything pulses, and she feels him come in her mouth, so warm. She keeps her hand on him as she swallows, drinking him down, until he’s whimpering. 

When she looks up and wipes her chin, he’s smiling at her. She likes his smile. She likes everything about him, even if she doesn’t really know anything. Other than how kind he was to her, how he found her across the ER, how quickly he understood her.

“Mel,” he muses, mystified. The moonlight cuts across his face, glimmering like little stars over the sheen of sweat on his cheeks.

This isn’t over, not by a long shot. They’ve barely crossed the startling line. He’s going to be sick again, probably soon. It’s going to get so much worse before it gets better.  

“Can I stay with you? Mel, I can’t go home. I really can’t.”

His voice is so ragged and tired. She can’t get enough. It doesn’t matter why he can’t go home. Nothing matters except he’s here with her, sick all down his shirt, splayed out, all hers. She has never wanted something more in her entire life. She would never say no to him.

She doesn’t know how any of this is going to work. She doesn’t know what will happen in the morning when his wife starts to wonder where he is. Or what she’ll do about Becca for the weekend, or what she’ll tell Trinity. But none of that really matters. Not when Langdon asks her so sweetly, so weakly, on her floor, just looking for some mercy, for her gentle hand, her eager mouth. 

“Yes, as long as you need,” she says, heart breaking open, “I’m here.”

Especially when no one else is.

She’ll be there.