#and I cannot remember where the fuck I packed them

[ectogeranium]

"I can't find my elf ears, and I'm only slightly frustrated" (on the verge of a panic attack)

[hysteria-things]

COULD U POSSIBLY MAKE A MATT FIC BASED OFF OF THIS TIKTOK OR SONG (YOU CAN DECIDE IF U WANT IT TO BE SMUT OR NOT IF U DO MAKE ONE) https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8wp5H2t/

🔗

MY OH MY

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!matt x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you get into a pickle when you get poured on, but don’t worry… somebody comes to save you.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUTTY, swearing, making out, p in v, ass grabbing, faux sympathy, cum eating (🙈)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,400

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: meant to post earlier but tumblr decided to close the draft without saving as i was proofreading/editing🤣

hope you enjoy @sluttyformatt :)

rain trickles down your hair to your shoes; workout clothes soaked.

you wanted to go on a late-night walk, then suddenly it started pouring out of nowhere. currently, you’re standing under a roof edge, arms crossed while you wait for your ride.

your brother isn’t around to pick you up, so your last resort was his best friend. he’s your brother’s age, who’s two years older than you. he’s known him ever since high school, yet your mother always said matt was a bad influence.

although, you do see where she’s coming from. matt was the type to always get in trouble in school, and overall he’s just a big grump. he’s only been nice to you, your brother, and of course his siblings.

headlights glow down the street, getting closer until the minivan stops in front of you. you quickly head over to it, open the door, and get in on the passenger’s side. “hi matty!” you beam. “thank you so much for picking me up. i didn’t know it was going to rain.”

he looks at you, wearing the leather jacket he’s had for as long as you can remember.

he truly doesn’t understand how you can be so happy no matter what, even if you are drenched in water. “you should’ve checked the weather before you left.” he mumbles, putting the car in drive.

“well, it was sunny all day. i didn’t expect rain. it’s okay, though. it’s like a surprise shower.” you smile, fastening the seatbelt.

“uh oh,” you say, looking through your fanny pack that you have strapped to your stomach.

he sighs, still focusing on the road. “what is it now?”

“i may or may not have left my keys home and locked myself out. nobody’s home.” you lick your teeth. “can i come to your place until my brother picks me up? pretty please, matty?”

“fine.” he inhales sharply. “and stop calling me matty.”

it’s silent as you two sit on the couch. your brother texted you saying he’ll let you know when he’s on his way, but god knows how long that’ll be. (despite it being almost midnight)

matt notices a shiver, taking his eyes off of his phone to look. your hands rub up and down your arms trying to warm up, but the chattering of your teeth indicates that it isn’t helping. “go to my room and grab one of my hoodies and pajama pants. they should be in my dresser.” he says coolly.

you smile. “it’s okay, i can wait. i’m fine.”

“put them on.” he demands. “you’re soaking wet and freezing.”

staring at him, he keeps staring back because of your silence. “go.”

you sigh like a child, getting up from the couch and walking down the hallway into his bedroom.

matt’s clothes are far too big on you, but you do feel warmer and more comfortable. his pants hang low just past your waistline. the hoodie on the other hand is long, causing the sleeves to give you sweater paws.

you sit on the chair he has in the corner, scrolling on your phone. matt can’t help but stand at the doorway, watching you.

not in a creepy way, but the fact you’re wearing his clothes has his dick reacting from the view. the way it’s too big for your body turns him to fuck on.

he cannot feel this way toward you. your his best friend’s sister, for god’s sake. but he can’t help it.

“feel better?”

you get startled by his voice. “yes, thank you.”

“told you so,” he grumbles.

rolling your eyes playfully, you stand up. “i didn’t mean to linger in here. i got distracted.”

as you start to walk by him, he grabs onto your shoulders to stop you. your breath hitches at the feeling of his rings; the way they drag down your arm makes you subconsciously clench your thighs together.

his cologne floods your nostrils, and the way he’s looking at you is different now.

he’s always been a grumpy kid and had a resting bitch face, but now he’s looking at you seductively and with need.

the hand that was on your arm now cups the front of your neck. there’s no pressure, but the fingers with no rings go over your bottom lip.

he sighs sympathetically. “it sucks that you’re off limits. i would so fuck you right now.”

your eyebrows raise high from the sudden courage he had to just blurt that out. however, you smirk.

“if you kiss me.” you shrug. “i might let it happen.”

he groans, leaning down to smash his lips on yours.

still intact, you grab his jacket and pull him in closer, your bodies moving at the same rhythm.

he starts to push you back to where the chair is, turning you 180° so he’s the one sitting in it while you straddle his lap.

your hips grind, rubbing just the right spot on not only you but him also. you smile into the kiss when you feel him hardening beneath you.

tugging at the pants you're wearing, he pulls away. “take these off.”

you shimmy them down your legs as he unbuckles his belt and pulls his bottoms down below his thighs. he grabs your hips to hover you over him, but stops and teases the tip.

you wiggle to get some friction as he smirks. “manners.”

“please.” you whine. “please let me ride your cock. i’m so fucking wet for you.”

matt sinks you slowly onto him, your walls immediately stretching to his size. “i didn’t know you had such a dirty mouth.”

you mumble something into his chest, bouncing uncontrollably on his dick. your sweater paws ball up on his biceps. your ass slaps repeatedly on his skin, the sound echoing off the walls.

he tuts, grabbing your ass and giving it a firm squeeze. “why so quiet?”

“stop.” you mewl, nuzzling your face even deeper into his body. your face is hot from embarrassment.

“is somebody embarrassed to be fucking her brother’s best friend? it looks like ms. goody-two-shoes is a little naughty.” he says lowly into your ear, causing you to start whimpering and going even faster.

it doesn’t take long for his tip to brush against the right spot “oh, fuck.” you moan, legs shaking at his sides.

“better not get this chair dirty, otherwise i’ll make you clean it,” he warns, knowing that you can’t control your orgasm.

pouting, you clench hard. of course, your release runs down his thighs and onto the seat. your eyes are glassed over while you look at him, who’s shaking his head. “you’re making a mess.”

somehow so quickly, he lifts you off of him and onto the floor. now, he’s behind you, and your cheek leans against the chair.

he again nudges at your entrance, this time you buck your hips back but he grips them tight. “clean up your mess first.”

he doesn’t ask. he orders while pushing your head down further into the cushion.

obeying, you flick your tongue onto your arousal. normally, you’d find this gross, but you’re so wet and turned on that you’ll listen to whatever he says. his presence feels like you are under a spell.

a sweet and salty taste fall on your tongue, following his instructions to a t.

a hum of approval is heard behind you. he spreads your legs wider, slamming into you with no warning.

you moan loudly, arching as much as you can in this position. “m-matt! shit, matt!” you yelp.

he grunts, taking in how well your pussy feels engulfing him.

tears threaten to spill from your eyes once they roll back, moaning loud and clear when your g-spot gets abused already.

strings of curses leave your lips, the way he’s balls deep inside of you right now have you quiver a lot. “you feel—” you pause, licking your lips and shutting your eyes tight. “so good. like… holy fucking god.”

he chuckles, placing his hand on your shoulder to drill into you harder. before you even know that it’s happening, you cum for the second time, shaking uncontrollably from the pleasure.

a deep breath later, matt makes sure to pull out and paint your back white.

“you can keep the clothes.” he says, jiggling your ass to play with it. “so you can wear them the next time i fuck you.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @mayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx @sttzee @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @matthewsspecial @sturnolio-luvs @sturniolho @suga-daddy-69 @tworosesblackthorn @luckistar-posts @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree @hertvgirl @whoreforchrissturniolo @sturniolotriplettoplover @stars4matt @freshsturns @loverrsposts @sturnlcvr @elliesturniolo1 @tpvmz @user283926392 @lalalands86 @sukiipjs @sturniologirl813 @leahrab @chrissturniolosslut @h3arts4harry @sturnioloblogs @creamoncreamoncream2 @luv4kozume @ivyyyyyysposts @mirxcle1 @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @catalina-island @mbsbaby @mattsdollie @pinkfarts @slut4mattsturn @thesturniolos @vickeyzloserz @nononopenono1 @bitchydragonparadise @gdsvhtwa @hrt-attack @bellasfavbisexual @dwntwn-strnlo @venusbabysblog

[starkwlkr]

Hey cutie patootie!! 💗 can you please do SFW alphabet for Wolverine???🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

wolverine sfw alphabet

an: this is my first time doing the sfw alphabet so if it’s bad so sorry!!

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

PDA? Not so much but he’ll sneak in kisses every now and then but privately? This man worships the ground you walk on of course he’s gonna make you feel loved

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?

He cares about you and quite protective (unless you’re Scott)

Very caring and always remembers little details about you

I’m imagining the friendship would start when Scott said something about Logan (damn Scott 🤨) and you defended him <3

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Hugh jackman says he’s a big cuddler so it’s canon to me that Logan is too I SAID WHAT I SAID

Obviously he would never admit it to anyone but he LOVES to cuddle

He loves when you lay your head on his chest and he’s stroking your hair… I’m sobbing I need this man so bad

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Plot twist: Logan 2017 ended differently and it actually ended with you, logan and laura being a family and living in a cute little house away from everyone 😍 someone get marvel on the phone I HAVE AN IDEA

You and Logan have a deal, you cook and he cleans because this man cannot cook to save his life

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would the do it?)

oh!😄

he seems like the type to just pack up his things, leave a note and leave lol idk I’m trying to keep this happy

F = Fiance(e) (How would they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to marry?)

He would marry you in a second he loves you too much or you could be like one of those couple that stay together for so many years without getting married because they don’t care 🫶🏻

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

LOGAN IS SO GENTLE WITH YOU

I don’t write smut but I read this one fic years ago where he didn’t want to hurt the reader during sex and it had me blushing and kicking my feet 😭

emotionally, he respects your boundaries and listen to what you have to say.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Doesn’t hug anyone but you <3

Old man logan loves them!! (fuck i should’ve done this with old man logan lol maybe in the future)

Currently picturing old man logan coming home from work and you’re like doing the dishes or something and you don’t hear him come in and he hugs you from behind 😭

I = I Love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

again I don’t write smut BUT what if I said that the first time Logan said I love you was either when one of you had a near death experience or your first time having sex

THERE IS NO INBETWEEN

Doesn’t say it right away until y’all fuck or one of you almost dies lol ladies he is the ideal man

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

I’m going to take this opportunity to thank anyone who has ever written jealous logan fics, you are the reason for my happiness and I hope you get everything you e ever wanted <3

This man is protective of you, if he sees some guy in a bar bothering you bitch the claws are coming out

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Logan’s kisses give you much comfort like if you’re stressed because of some stupid shit scott did (🤨) (dw i love scott) he’ll give you kisses <3

He loves kissing your lips obviously but a simple forehead kiss is his go to

old man logan giving you hand kisses!!

And what if I said that logan loves to be kissed on his neck?🤨🤨

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

When Laura comes into your lives, he’s trying to be a good father obviously but before Laura, he ok

Like if we’re talking toddlers then he wouldn’t know how to act around them. Confused 100% when they give him a toy phone

M = Mornings (How are mornings spent with them?)

If he wakes up before you then he’ll definitely let you sleep in

He loves a good morning cuddle and kiss.

If neither of you have class to teach in the morning then yes you’ll sleep in but if you do then you’ll wake up earlier than him and do your morning routine

N = Nights (How are nights spent with them?)

movie nights if you aren’t too tired or you’ll just talk about random things in bed and eventually drift off to sleep

You’ve admitted to Logan that his voice helps you fall asleep <3

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait to reveal things?)

So in the beginning of your relationship, logan didn’t open up right away but as time went on he trusted you more and more so you helped him talk about his past

He doesn’t reveal everything all at once more like when you’re in bed or taking a bath together and you’re laying against him and he starts talking about his life

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

By Scott? So easy

it doesn’t take a lot to anger him, but he’s trying to be a calmer person especially if Laura is there

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He remembers everything. He has a good memory when it comes to you. He knows your likes and dislikes, even if you mentioned it like years ago, favorite foods, movies, songs.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

His favorite moment is when you met for the first time. It’s when he also met charles too. He walked into charles’s office and that’s when he saw you, standing next to charles. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, but you completely changed his mind.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would the like to be protected?)

Like I mentioned before, he’s protective of you. Hates seeing you get hurt during missions. He knows you can handle it, but still he doesn’t like it.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

I see him actually putting in effort like if he decides to one day have a picnic with you in the schools garden, he’ll ask storm to make sure it doesn’t rain and find the prettiest flowers to give you

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He pushes people away. He has a tendency to do that so he isolates himself. You give him so space then try to work things out

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

He isn’t too concerned until he starts looking like old man logan. That’s when he thinks you won’t like how wrinkled and grey he looks but you shower him with love and affection because that’s what he deserves <3

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

You and Laura are his whole world. (now I’m imagining rogue joining the fam and meeting Laura and it’s so cute omg)

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them)

He kisses you so much that if you change your chapstick flavor he will notice. Like I imagine you changed it from cherry to coconut and he’ll be talking to storm or charles and you pass by and give him a quick kiss and he’s like “hold up☝🏻🤨” and kisses you again just to make sure he wasn’t making it up and tells you “you changed the flavor? But Cherry was my favorite😔😒”

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Scott summers

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

Naps after missions are a must

His sleep schedule is totally messed up lol

[brucewaynehater101]

I remember this one shot where tim & bruce swaps bodies while bruce is as batman in some jla meeting. Tim just continues it perfectly.

This is the body swap au, btw

Anyways, would Tim do a good job as Batman?. I think if Tim sees the swap as something brief he would do his best. (But we all make them swap long enough to Tim having enough time for long term plans) so if Tim gaslights himself into believing they would swap back after some weeks, he would do better. He thinks he can do better as a way to show he can be Batman without being a evil one(he's fighting the gun Batman allegations).

Still, it would be funny that in his "I'm gonna fix Bruce's life while am here plan".

Tim acts less as a classic moody batman while in the atalaya. Gives more and kind advice. He talks with Superman about his situation with Kon. He helps Flash with his eating schedule. He helps Arthur with whatever is going on in Atlantis. He shuts off all of the surveillance on Bruce's coworkers, just to mess with Bruce.

He just avoids Martian tho.

Then, it's been a month since the swap. They don't seem to find any way back. Tim cannot lie to himself anymore and the Batman duties are becoming way too much.

Then Bruce dies in Tim's body.

Tim never wanted to be Batman, neither to be like Bruce. But he messed Tim up. Tim never wanted to be like Bruce Wayne. And now he is living his nightmare, every day since Bruce death, Tim has to wake up and avoid his reflection. Tim never wanted to be like Bruce Wayne and now everyone call him the wrong name. Bruce died and Tim does what he does best, he sacrifices. He ditchs his identity any hope of being Tim Drake, so Batman can rise once again.

.

.

(The last paragraph is a little darker end of the version of this au where Bruce dies in Tim's body. I happily would read some of your ideas where none of them dies tho. There's just so many aspects os this au we can develop more, also we need more bruce pov of this).

Here is the post being referenced!

[I'm sorry to say that 90% of Bruce POV's are just gonna be him suffering.... I can try, though. Put up a valiant effort]

Let's really pack in that angst, shall we?

For this AU, Tim has been compared to Bruce so many fucking times.

At first, despite his shaky relationship with the grieving man, he took it as a compliment. He was like his hero Batman!

It started with Alfred fondly tutting over Tim's capacity to neglect self care duties and his shared interests. The older man would sarcastically ask Tim if he was following Bruce's footsteps of being a loner who sits in his basement all day (just teasing and joking and slight reprimanding).

Then there were the heroes that remarked on Robin's uncanny ability to do the batglare or translate Bruce's grunts.

When Steph and Tim got into arguments (and Tim was being a grade A asshole), Steph would compare Tim's emotional incapability and distrust with Batman's.

Dick, in the heat of the moment, has yelled at Tim to stop acting like Bruce (they got ice cream afterwards as an apology).

Jason has tsked and grumbled and shouted about Tim being molded into Bruce's shape/image.

Even Babs has made a comment or two.

While they didn't mean to hurt Tim (unless they were fighting [for which they would both usually make up and apologize]), it caused a small dig and insecurity to Tim's own self-image.

He wanted Bruce to be proud of him.

Tim wanted to be nothing like Bruce.

Then you add on the 16th birthday, Bruce's shit with Steph, how Bruce treats his other kids, other canon events, gun Batman, and Tim losing the rose-colored glasses of childhood?

Yeah. Tim doesn't want to be Bruce.

It seems fitting, after stealing Robin, that he'd get stuck under the name of the man he grew to see as a warning.

It figures that his choice in saving Batman lead to Tim's loss of self.

[Hmm... I can do another post chatting about Bruce or no one dying if you would like.... Or someone else dying before the truth comes out :)]

[astroboots]

Don't they know it's the end of the world

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Summary: There are many things Joel would like to forget, you hope you're not one of them.

Rating: Explicit. I just want to fuck old man Joel.

Content: hurt/comfort, explicit sex-town, cowgirl position yee-ha, post-apocalyptic angst and jazz. Mentions of death, blood and gore, but the real warning all along was emotionally unavailable men.

Word Count: 3.5k

Astroboot’s Masterlist 

The thing that nobody warned you about living in a post-apocalyptic world (to use the dramatic phrase) is that when the world as you know it has ended. When an unprecedented catastrophe transforms the very fabric of your reality. In the midst of abandoned cities, dilapidated high-rise buildings overrun with moss and ivy, and rusted cars forsaken on the highway. This horrific new world of unending horrors, at some point, with enough days gone by, becomes common place.

After the first and second year, you're no longer bothered by the constant aches and how everything hurts, everywhere all the time. The new bruises that spring up overnight to replace old healing, because sleeping on concrete and dirt will do that to you, isn't as overwhelming. You barely mind the constant blunt ache in your lower back from unloading crates anymore. Or the way your feet are always blistering and covered in callouses that crack and split and bleed. It's all background noise.

After the third and the fourth, you're no longer dry-heaving at the burnt metallic smell of charred flesh and human hair that reminds you of melted and burnt plastic when they're tossed into fire. Your sense of smell dull to it.

After the fifth year you think that hollow feeling in your chest of missing home, is no longer a constant. At most it comes to you in glimpses. Because sure, there are a million and one things you still miss. The sweetness of cereal soaked in milk. The lingering smell of peonies from your shampoo after a steaming shower. The way your cat used you as a headrest while watching TV.

You miss cupcakes. You miss the cinema. You miss pumpkin lattes. You miss the forest ground covered in auburn leaves in the fall. You miss your mom. You miss--

You miss a lot of things. Small little things, and you remember each one of them despite the years that passes.

But the mind adapts. It doesn't consume you with a hollowness that makes you burst into tears at any given moment anymore. Humans are nifty like that. Our brains rewire to accept the new realities and life just goes on somehow.

You accept the military surveillance. Of men in vests and gear, wearing blank expressions, with rifles slung across their shoulders like it were backpacks, ready to use them at the slightest provocation if you so much as dared to cough in their presence.

You get used to cracking jokes about priests walking into bars, while burying your dead, not because you're unfeeling, or not understanding of the graveness of what you're doing, but because the human mind cannot be relentlessly scared and sad and depressed and unhappy without reprieve.

Instead like much else, that seems horrific and world-ending at first, it becomes background noise.

---

"Uno," you announce as you drop the last card in the pile of red, blue and green cards in front of him.

Joel scowls, that furrowed wrinkle between his brow carves deep with displeasure.

"You're cheating. I've never played this game where stacking is allowed. The correct rule is no stacking."

This again. You scoff. This topic of conversation comes up every now and then (everytime he loses in fact) because the two of you has solely been relyng on your memory to reconstruct the rules given that the manual to the pack of cards were lost long ago.

"I'm not having this argument with you again Joel, I've told you. The rules allow stacking, you're misremembering it."

You shake your head at him and smile. He doesn't smile back. He never really does. Instead he folds his arms across his wide chest, leaning back as he appraises you with skepticism.

"What if you've forgotten the rules?"

"I don't forget things, I'm not you" you say lightheartedly.

He's already passed out when you let yourself in through the front door tonight.

It's a sparse apartment, like all the other accommodations in the area. The mismatched dining chairs and fold up table is not much to look at, but there are still hints of the family who had made this place their home before they had to leave it. The feminine touch of flowery rose wallpapers. Scribbled markers of their children's height year by year. The claw-marks of a dog by the front door.

If Joel left tomorrow, you don't think it would tell much of a story of him or the life you lead together. The only thing that's his besides the radio and music catalog is the blue butterfly sticker that sparkles on the window.

And even with that, you don't quite know what story it is meant to tell or why he'd put it up. You only know it wasn't there when he moved it because it appeared out of nowhere after Tommy left. It clashes with the rest of the decor. Something that belongs to a young girl's bedroom and not a grumpy former veteran addicted to painkillers. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to put one plus one together and deduce it's something of sentimental value to him.

It's always confounded you, because that is so unlike the man you know.

Unlike you, Joel forgets. He makes it his mission to forget. Expired opioids from god knows how long, you're surprised they don't crumble into dust when they're exposed into open air.

There are horrors in his memories that Joel wants wiped clean, and he doesn't care if the good memories go with them, as long as he doesn't have to look at them in the broad daylight.

You never said anything about it, don't pry and you don't ask questions. You don't ask him for anything period. You just let him be and take him as he is. You suspect that that's why he's allowed himself to keep you around for so long.

The room is dimly illuminated from the night light has been left on for you, and you try to be quiet as you make your way to him on the bed. He's lying curled up on his side, back turned to you.

Broad shouldered as he is, with a build that reminds you of a bear at times, in this position, there's something vulnerable about him right now that's reserved for your eyes only. His face is no longer tense, against the amber hue that bathes the room. The specks of grey and white in his beard, soft to the touch.

He's half-dragged into consciousness as you dip your knee into the mattress, as he lifts the tattered, moth-eaten quilt and makes space for you.

Reaching behind you, you kill the light. Then you wrap your one arm over his waist, tucking one leg between his thick and firmer ones. He sighs into his pillow and leans into your touch.

There are things that you know Joel wants to forget, you would like to believe that this won't become one of them.

"Are you awake?" he murmurs against the nape of your neck. His voice is gravelly and worn with sleep.

You open your eyes and the world greets you with darkness. It's too early to be awake at this ungodly time.

His chest is pressed up against your back, warm and firm, and you hum in reply. "Barely."

You nuzzle into the scratchy linen of your pillow, inhaling deeply to relax back into sleep. But Joel isn't turning back around. He's still behind you, almost hovering above you as if he wants to tell you for something, but doesn't.

You raise yourself slightly, reaching over the nightstand to flicker on the small lamp there.

Turning back towards him, you observe him for a moment. The slight sheen of sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat. His eyes wide and alarmed, hands closed into a tight fist into the sheets. His whole body is wired for a fight, even though he's just woken up and it's dead quiet in the still of the night without a threat.

"Did you have a nightmare?" you finally ask.

His jaw tightens at your question, which is as good of an indicator as any that he doesn't want to answer. Also a good indicator that he did have one.

You sigh, reaching your hand back to trail the soft hairs at the back of his neck. Flattening the curly ends with your fingers, and trying to comb it down in a gesture to soothe him the way others used to do for you in a different life and another world. It's a mistake.

He flinches at the touch, and stiffens awkwardly in front of you. Like he's trying to decide what's the right next course of action. To apologize or to turn back around and pretend he didn't do what he just did.

You frown at him, but say nothing. You give him the time to find his words.

"Can we just--" he starts, but his words trail off, eyes barely meeting yours. Silently pleading for you to know what he's asking for so he doesn't have to put them into words.

Joel doesn't really do softness. Doesn't accept comfort. Doesn't trust it.

But there are things that he wants, because he's only human after all. A touch, a warm body to lose himself in, a human connection. It's what everyone of us wants.

But he can't ask for it. Can't say it.

The moment he puts words it, he would have to name it. What this thing is, between the two you that you have. Where at the end of the day you return to his apartment. Where you sleep in his bed. Where he worries if you don't.

If he asks you for this, then he can't pretend there's nothing there anymore.

So you don't say anything. You don't needle him into finishing his sentence. Don't ask him what he means. You don't ask him for anything. Instead you nod.

His face shifts, the stiff crease between his brows smooths in relief and he scoots forward, chest draped flush against your back. He's already hard, the familiar thick girth pressed to your tailbone, like it's trying to carve a permanent dent into you.

"Is it okay?" he asks again, rolling his hips and the newfound pressure against his denim-covered cock has him breaking off with a gasp.

"Yeah Joel. Yes it's okay."

His fingers come to the hemline of your jeans, as he roughly shoves at it in the dark. It catches at the dip of your hips, and you can hear the gruff impatience of the man from behind, as he yanks it down further. As if sheer brutal strength is going to be the solution in here, the way it is outside these walls.

You lift up your hips to help him, long enough for him to slide the jeans off your legs and you can kick them to the floor. Vaguely you try to estimate the distance to where they landed. Because that's where you'll have to pick them up in the early morning before he gets up. But that doesn't matter right now.

There's a scuffle behind you of rustling denim and the metallic clink of a buckle being undone. You reach back with your hand against the softness of his belly, down the sparse trail of fine coarse hairs until you can wrap your hand around his hardened cock.

He shudders in relief. A soft sigh into the back of your neck as he grinds against your back, demanding more. You indulge him, swiping your thumb in a circle over the head of him. There's a sharp intake of breath from him, similar to the sound he makes after taking a swig of shitty whiskey that burns his lungs too sharply.

The indication that it's too much, and therefore just right, because it's only then that it's a relief. An escape from the current reality.

You squeeze down again, fingers wrapped firm around the thickness of his girth not allowing him any reprieve, and he thanks you not in words, but with the way he bares his throat as his head throws back in ecstasy.

For Joel, the old world never ended. Never left. He's still trapped in it. His existence now is a purgatory. He treats it like he's just sitting in a waiting room, as the days and years go by. Everything and everyone in it are transitory. Nothing in the room matters.

His hand shoots out, sliding down the bare skin of your stomach and wedges underneath your panties. One broad thumbs presses down on your clit perfunctory, and still it feels so good. Sharp heat licks your spine at the touch, and your eyes flutter close as you lean back into him.

It's brusque, the way Joel's hand comes to your thighs and spread you open for him. Unrestrained the way his fingers parts your slick folds to collect the wetness he finds there, pressing into you and curls with a familiarity when he knows he's reached that perfect spot that makes your vision whiten. Rough in much the same way he is in every other part of his life.

"Fuck, get up here," he orders gruffly.

You roll over and he wastes no time to roughly grip onto your hipbones and dragging you up his body.

Bracing your arms on his firm chest to steady yourself, you settle yourself with your knees pressed into the sides of his ribs. They're dipped into the worn-out mattress and you think you can feel the springs of the bottom of the bed dig into your kneecaps.

It's a bit uncomfortable, but you don't mind. Because you get to straddle him this way. Get to see all of him, underneath you, on display. His bare skin made golden and soft by the dim light of the night lamp.

He doesn't look like the movie-stars of old. But Joel is handsome. There's no doubt about that.

Despite his rough masculine features, there are details that don't quite match up. His lips are plump and soft, inviting. A deep crease in the curve of his bottom lip that is just begging to be kissed.

Even with the significant grey in his thick hair, and the white in his beard, the weathered look suits him well. As does the fine lines on his forehead, and the ones around his eyes.

Smile lines, an old friend of yours had called them. Does that mean he used to smile? You imagine how he must've looked like in those days. Not constantly frowning or scowling. But smiling so hard that it would make his eyes crinkles. How beautiful and carefree he must've been.

In front of you, there's no trace of that man. His jaw is set, grinding his teeth, with gritted impatience as his hands grips onto your waist and pull you forward, towards and over his cock, positioning you right where he wants you.

His hand reaches behind you, and even though you can't see it from this angle, you've seen it plenty times before to know how good his cock looks fisted in his hand, as he uses your slick, still wet on his fingers to spread it over the length of him. Then you feel it, the fat tip of him nudging against your entrance as he slowly slips inside.

A heady anticipation fills you. It shakes the core of you until it makes your thighs tremor visibly as you straddle him.

Joel is rough. He is unrestrained and brusque, but he is not unkind. Or at least you'd like to think, not to you. He steadies you, one hand still on your hip, the other a flat palm against your lower belly, as he slowly lifts his hips as you sink down on him in unison.

The first thrust always knocks your breath away. Pleasure that warms you inside out in a way that standing in a fire fails to. It fills you anr nourishes.

You drop down the rest of the way until he's as deep as he goes, until he hisses sharply again, in that tell-tale sign that it's, too much and just right.

Your chest glows with pride, and you grind down against him to elicit another noise, this time a chocked grunt that's not nearly as satisfying. But the buzzing warmth that spikes your veins more than makes up for it.

You stay there for a moment, savoring the pleasure that simmers along your spine, until Joel opens his eyes, his fingers digging a bit deeper into the plump flesh of your thighs.

"Fuck," he grumbles, "please move."

You don't deny him, you never do. Not with this, not with anything. Rising on your knees, you feel his cock drag inside you and close your eyes at the sensation until only the tip of him rests inside you. It's a slow, dragged out pace. One that Joel doesn't seem to have any patience for.

His hand around your hip wraps firm and he pushes down at the same time as you can feel him thrust upwards, until he's buried as deep as he goes.

Fuck, you feel like you can't breathe. Didn't know you could fit so much of him.

Your eyes fly open, to the sight of him, thick brows knitted in pleasure. He looks gorgeous like this. Lost in pleasure, no longer buried in a grave of regrets he can never climb out of. Mouth parted as he gasps out at the feel of you wrapped around him. You stare at his spit swollen lips and all you can think of is how you want to kiss this man. Press your lips to his and feel the full weight of intimacy of this shared moment with his arms wrapped around you.

You anchor your arms on his chest, leaning down closer to his face, hovering above his lips and it's like he can sense you. His eyes flutters open as he meets your gaze.

You wonder what it is he sees in your eyes. If the want and depth of your feelings for him are so plain to see. Because he looks at you like he's terrified.

You don't kiss him.

You drop down your hips again, as far as he goes, and his eyes squeezes shut again, both of you choosing to forget what preceded it. An unrestrained moan rips out of him and to your ears, and though he's not saying any words, it's almost like he's thanking you for forgetting.

You ride him and it's rough and there is no rhythm. He meets you with every thrust, deep and fast, like he's racing for the end.

The hand on your belly, pushes down firmer, and the pressure does something to you. The simmer of pleasure turns to an inescapable heat. It climbs up your veins and invades your ribs with it.

You come around his cock and the pleasure is punishing, a slam to your ribs that squeezes down on your very lungs. It flattens your vision, until you're disorientated with it and you nearly fall off. But Joel doesn't stop. Continues to fuck up and into you. Harsh and reckless thrusts.

Pleasure is written over every line of his face, teeth gritted as he keeps his eyes closed to you. You feel him swell thicker in you, and you know he's almost there.

With a harsh hiss, his hand on your waist, lifts you up and off of him. His freed hand comes to his cock and wraps around it. Swollen and glistening with your wetness, as he fists himself with frantic strokes.

The chords of his neck strains, and then he comes. Line after line after line of his release, coating your stomach with the warmth of him.

You're both breathing hard and fast, made louder by the silence of the room at this hour.

Joel doesn't say anything and neither do you. Instead you reach over to the nightstand to kill the light, enveloping you both in the familiar darkness.

You lay back down against the mattress and roll to your side. There's rustling noise besides you and then Joel's hand comes to your stomach, cleaning up the mess he made of you with a corner of the sheets.

---

You wake up before dawn breaks. When it's no longer dark but the sun has not had time to rise above the skyline.

Dipping your foot onto the grimy wooden floor, you walk towards the very spot your jeans had been tossed aside last night, and put them on, as quietly as you can so as not to wake Joel.

You cast one last look at him where he's lying in the same position you found him when you'd let yourself in last night. On his side, curled up, vulnerable.

Then you gently pad across the length of the living room and let yourself out of the apartment, closing the door slowly until it gently clicks.

Someday, when this version of the world is over and one of you leaves. You hope that you get to miss him.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

Random hybrid! AU idea that I have floating around my head rn (featuring reader x poly!141 dynamics) 😎

So I’m picturing a world where hybrids are often treated like second class citizens. They can have jobs, but they don’t achieve high status in them, and more often than not will have humans manage or mind them. They’re very similar to humans, but often have smaller statures and of course have tails and ears of animals, sometimes even horns or feathers or claws. Generally hybrids will be sent to jobs they’re best suited to according to their ‘breed’.

One of those jobs can be serving in the military, in fact in this AU it’s encouraged for families to send their hybrids to jobs that they can ‘live away’ in just so that the government can curb trends in neglect and stop antisocial behaviour from runaway hybrids. Our MC is one of these hybrids that gets sent away, born to a family of two humans that couldn’t understand how they’d ended up with a kid with defective ‘dog’ genes.

Of course, reader grows up with a chip on their shoulder because of their crappy parents, so pretty much from the get go in their new job they’re a cheeky shit. They don’t take orders well, they’re constantly being disciplined, they mouth off, they’re sloppy and ultimately they don’t want to be there.

However after a brutal few months of punishment reader eventually caves. They do a good enough job that eventually the traits that make them difficult, become the ones that make them hard as nails. They’re the ones that make reader actually proud of something for once in their life, their capability to do what others cannot.

And for years reader serves and does their job well, though never having the black mark of their bad beginnings scrubbed from their record. Other hybrids have soldiers choose them, to be their permanent handlers and serve them on the field for as long as they live. Though reader never gets the pleasure, as much as they start to yearn for someone that might want them, that might wish to train them and take the time to smooth out their still jagged edges. No one ever wants to take the chance. No one wants the onus of shepherding the black sheep.

Then Ghost shows up.

He comes to the grounds and says his Captain, a man named Price, has ordered for a hybrid to join their team. They need one that can keep up in stressful environments, one that can move fast and take orders quickly. He stressed how deadly the jobs would be and immediately the handlers are balking, not wanting to waste their well trained hybrids on a task force with a near constant suicide mission. Until they remember that you’re still around. Little smart mouth sod that you are, wouldn’t be much of a waste if they were back again after disposing of you.

And so you’re pretty much sent off packing with a kick on your arse and a silent but ever inferred ‘don’t fucking come back’ order.

When you first get a proper look at the skull mask clad giant, you’re scared shitless. The handlers had done some damage to you in their time, but this man stood multiple feet above you and could take you out with one swipe. The fear he elicits is enough to keep you quiet for at least 5 minutes until you’re back to your usual self. Back to the wolf that growls and snarls and bites at the bars, the one that tries to keep the hurt at bay with a flash of their bloodied teeth.

Ghost sees through the act right away. He knows how bad hybrids have it, he has an inkling of what you’ve been through. So instead of treating you how they would, instead of grabbing your scruff and going to hit you and slam down that ‘insolent’ personality of yours he shows you the utmost amount of patience and kindness.

He gently undoes your too-tight collar and replaces it with one from his bag. He puts a couple fingers under the leather just to make sure it’s comfortable for you. Even after you grunt at him when he asks if it’s ok, he just huffs out a laugh at you and ruffles the hair between your ears, rubbing a flat palm around your fluffy head. He doesn’t even care when you growl at him for it, something you’d have been lashed for before. Instead he withdraws his hand and respects your space. He even leads you to a car and has you sit in the backseat with him, telling you after that it’s alright to lean against him and get some rest if you’d like!

Already you feel like your defences are shaking loose. You’re not quite sure of yourself. No matter how many snide remarks you make at the man he doesn’t try to correct you, he doesn’t even give you a cuff around the ears. He just shrugs you off and gives you watchful looks, sizing you up and making you feel even tinier than you are.

It unnerves you like nothing else and ultimately, as you start to dose off and slip ever closer to Ghost, you wonder what the rest of his team will be like. You wonder if maybe your new posting is just the change you’d been craving…

[sturniololoco]

Big Game pt 3

SLS x Nathan Doe

warnings: suggestive, bruising, language, etc.

Nate’s POV

I think I'm dreaming.

How was I lying in the backseat of my best friend's car, lying across their backseat, with my head in the lap of their sister?

It felt too good.

"Nick, would you mind sitting in the way back please?" SLS/N asked her older brother, batting her eyelashes.

He rolled his eyes and grumbled "Fine" before climbing in the back.

After Matt started driving, she pulled on my sleeve, pulling me towards her, till my head was in her lap.

She took my ice pack from my hands and placed it gently on my nose. My eyes fluttered shut as she began mindlessly playing with my hair using her other hand.

"Damn, Nates getting princess treatment," Chris said, reaching back from the front seat and playfully poking me in the ribs.

Before I could react, SLS/N slapped him and away, saying,

"Hush, Chris. He's tired."

Chris looked at her with a look of shock. He placed the back of his hand on his forehead dramatically.

"I'm a little tired too you know!" He said.

"Well, I don't think you're the one with a broken nose Christopher!" She said to her brother, raising her voice ever so slightly.

That shut him up.

-

The car ride consisted of me falling in and out of sleep, still lying across SLS/N's lap. At one point, I was so tired, I felt myself turn to my side to get more comfortable.

I ended up turning my face right into her lower stomach, sighing happily.

Her fingers hesitated and she sat up a little. At first, I thought I overstepped, and just as I was about to get up, she relaxed a little and continued playing with my hair till we got home.

-

Once we were about five minutes away from my house, SLS/N" woke me up.

"Is your mom back from her business trip or are you gonna be home alone?" She asks me.

She remembered. I told her this weeks ago.

"I-uh...no, it's just me," I say, groggily, before closing my eyes again.

"Nick, can I stay over and make sure he's okay? You guys have a car video to film anyway." I hear her ask her older brother.

Just as I am about to tell her that I'm fine and she doesn't need to baby me, her brother replies with a yes, and we pull into my driveway.

-

Once inside, I threw my gear and hockey stick onto the floor and collapsed on the couch, grabbing the remote and flicking the TV on.

I hear SLS/N rummaging around in the kitchen before coming into the living room with a fresh ice pack and a Tylenol.

"You know, you really didn't have to do this," I say, taking the medicine from her and swallowing it dry.

"I know. But I wanted to." She says, looking down at her sweater paws in her lap. I see her cheeks heat up and I smile to myself, looking at how cute she is.

Feeling brave, I pull her to me in a half-hug snuggle. She leans onto my chest, relaxing. She must be tired too, after having a long school day, watching two games in the cold, then taking care of me.

we stay like this, watching a random movie that came on.

But then things changed.

She started mindlessly tracing shapes on the inside of my upper thigh. I could feel the heat rising on my cheeks as I got a feeling in my lower abdomen.

as she moves her hand up, I quickly stand up. She looks at me surprised. I flick the TV off and toss the remote onto the table.

"It's getting late. Imma go shower and then probably hop in bed. You can borrow any clothes you'd like out of my drawer, you know where my room is." I say quickly.

And with that, I run up the stairs to my bathroom.

-

When I get to my bathroom and shut the door, I can feel my pants grow tighter in the front. I quickly take them off, revealing the large balge in my boxers.

"Fuck. I cannot believe this is happening." I mumble under my breath. I then hop in the shower, hoping it will sort out by itself.

I was wrong.

I get out of the shower, not surprised by the obvious tent in my pants, even with boxers and sweats on. I sigh, opening my bathroom door and going into my room.

what I saw when I got in there, did not help my current situation.

SLS/N was lying on my bed in one of my T-shirts and a pair of my boxers. She looks up at me, smiling. She then looks down and notices my current...situation.

"what have we got here?" She says, giving me a little smirk. I look down bashfully, my cheeks turning pink again.

"c'mere Nate." I hear her say. Just the way she says my name makes me painfully harder.

I walk over to her and stand between her legs. She looks me up and down before fiddling with the strings of my sweatpants.

"Do you want some help with that?" She asks me. without thinking, I nod my head frantically.

"Well you did play very well in your game today, I think you deserve it."

And with that comment, I'm no longer shy.

I give her a devilish smile, pushing her chest till she's lying back on the bed. I pin her arms above her head and climb on top of her.

-

hehe cliff hanger

@idkwhosnyla @babypat08 @eyelessdemon00 @christopherowensturniolo @sturnsxx @freshloveforthefit @matty443355 @sleepysturnss @emeraldgreenbeautiesstu @sunsetsturniolos @hoesturniolo @x4nd3rsukz @chr1sgirl4life @sstvrnioloo @sturns-posts @chrisstopherfilmed @kylasrealityx @zoeysturnioloooooo @comet235 @islaasblog @sturnioloblogs @defnotayonna @mattsleftnipple03 @thematthewlover

[nymph-ette111]

pls write Simon henriksson headcanons I’m gnawing at the walls of my enclosure 👩‍🦲

WARNINGS; SUBSTANCE ABUSE (SMOKING/DRUGS) MENTIONS OF MENTAL ILLNESS (DEPRESSION/ANXIETY) MENTIONS OF INTERNALIZED MISOGYNY, UNHEALTHY COPING MECHANISMS (SELF-HARM)

AUTHOR'S NOTE; FIRST CRY OF FEAR REQUEST LET'S FUCKING GOOOO !1!1!1!1!1!!1!! kind of short, still new to the fandom so my headcanons of the characters might change overtime.

-it was confirmed that Simon is a fan of heavy metal and DSBM :3 personally I am not an avid listener of this genre, I think it's pretty cool. I'd like to headcanon specific bands that I think are suiting for Simon but I barely know anything so I don't really have a say on this.

-probably has some sort of internalized misogyny. he grew up all alone, his mother being quite overprotective didn't help with that at all and seeing no mentions of his father in the game makes me think his parents were divorced quite early in Simon's life. being exposed to such settings at a young age might have messed with his perception of love and healthy romantic relationships. despite that, he doesn't care much about gender norms now that he's older. left that mindset long ago.

-picked up on his coping mechanisms in his early teens. he was a bit scared at first of trying something like self-harm, it took him him a lot of time and internal conflict but then decided to just fuck it, he had nothing to lose. felt guilty at first, dropped it for a bit and then picked up on it again. he knows it isn't a healthy way to deal and cope with his negative thoughts but he couldn't care less at that point.

-isn't unfamiliar with drugs but not that crazy about it. not as much as cigarettes, although he does it occasionally, he could still smoke like a pack in one sitting if the situation really called for it. usually just sticks to 2-3 cigs, thinks it's a good enough amount.

^ can you tell I have no idea what I'm talking about.

-you'll never get that crusty ass grey hoodie of his off of him. it's like a cartoon where the character's never change outfit throughout the entire show. besides the fact that it's a literal video game, even in his daily life he almost never switches things up. not necessarily dirty, just worn out and stained with stuff that doesn't want to come off no matter how many times he washes it.

-has a mini fridge full of energy drinks in his room. and by full I mean like two cans because the rest have been consumed and thrown somewhere onto the ground.

-cannot save money for the life of him. as soon as he gets his hands on some cash, it's immediately spent on either a pack of cigarettes or some useless shit. he doesn't even remember what he spends it on, it's just gone.

-hadn't picked up his camera in quite a while, he's slowly loosing grip on his interests. not necessarily because he is starting to dislike them, just doesn't have the motivation.

-but it's usually full of recordings of him on the train, lonely streets of Stockholm or some stray cat that has grown a liking to Simon for some odd reason.

-one time Sophie took his camera without telling him and recorded a small video of herself, just doing something simple like a peace sign or showing off a little doodle she drew in her notebook. despite trying his best to move on, he watches that video from time to time.

[seventeenpins]

take me higher

pairing: Lucien Flores x F!Reader

word count: 1.6k

summary: You run into an ex at a party. You never learn.

content/warnings: weed use, dubcon (if you want? read it however you prefer), Lucien's a selfish lover and a fuckboy, shotgunning, fellatio, getting too high, a complicated and undefined relationship

a/n: Turns out I am not immune to Lucien Flores. Wanted to make him hot, but a fuckboy asshole, and definitely a mistake. Whenever The Uninvited is released, I cannot wait to see how off or on the mark we've been for these characterisations lmao. This was written quickly, now i'm posting and bouncing for a few hrs. Hope there are no major errors 😅

If you're honest, you can't remember how you ended up here.

You remember the party. Some of the party? And you went--somewhere. You're not sure, but you think you were on his lap for a while, but your limbs went away. Maybe you slid down? Now you're on the floor. This is probably the floor.

Your head is foggy, and peeling open your eyelids takes more effort than it should, but when you hear the bubbling of a bong, you turn your head lazily to look at him.

Lucien.

Fucking Lucien.

"Open that pretty mouth," he runs his thumb over your lips and presses it just between your teeth, making a satisfied mmm. "Love lookin' at those gorgeous lips."

His hand traces along your jaw, holding you now by the back of your head. Your lips are guided to forward and you forget where you are for a moment. You expect to feel flesh. Instead, when your mouth presses against something, it's cool glass. The bong. You had heard bong noises. By muscle memory, you reach forward as if to light it. Then you realise, it's already been lit and filled, the chamber already swirling with thick white smoke.

It's a ridiculous bong. Bright and gaudy, just like his ridiculous silk shirt. The piece is probably hand-blown. Artisan crafted. Almost certainly cost a fortune.

You want it.

Maybe, depending on however long your relationship lasts this time, you can get him to buy you one. Or you can just steal his.

Without any more direction, you start the inhale, trying to keep the breath smooth.

"That's it, now. Take it slow. Just a little more-"

You clear it.

Just as you're about to exhale- "Good girl. Hold it there, baby. Don't you dare let it out yet."

He leans himself down and pulls you up. Parts his lips, your mouths so close they're almost touching.

"Let it go-" he commands, and you do, breathing the smoke out and into his mouth.

He holds the smoke for a moment himself. Then blows it back out, letting it waft up into the atmosphere.

Or, towards the ceiling?

You're actually not sure if you're inside or out.

"One more, baby, you can do one more for me," he coos as he prods the end of the lighter into the bowl, packs the greens again, re-ignites.

You don't know how many hits you've had. It feels like you've been smoking for hours. Your limbs are all gooey and loose, your head dense and unfocused. You can tell your heart's racing, but it's kind of a comfort. A consistent tattoo that you can ground yourself with.

You're dazed, happy, pliable.

"Open up," he orders, and you comply, pressing your lips against the mouthpiece again.

This hit is a little harsher, closer to the end of the bowl.

You try to do it right, try to breathe out slowly and gently, let the smoke pass right into his mouth. Instead, you erupt in a fit of coughs and you feel a hand on your back, rubbing up and down in gentle circles.

"Oh, you poor thing," he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "That hit too rough for you?"

You can feel tears in your eyes from the tickle that's still in your throat. Then, a thumb brushes them away.

"I remember you right, though, you always did like it a little rough, didn't you?"

You want to respond, want to say something to him, but instead you just nod.

"Poor girl, so stupid she can't even talk," he mocks, "That's okay baby, we don't wanna make that throat too sore, do we? Ain't been used enough to tap out already, huh?"

It takes effort, but you shake your head in agreement.

"Are you tired, sweetheart? You can rest your head, if you need. Just for a minute."

You're not sure if you move, or if he pulls you, but now you're closer to him, tilting forward, resting your head on-

What are you resting your head on?

Oh.

Oh.

Your head is in his lap, his cock hard in his pants.

Any dry mouth you'd been feeling a moment ago disappears. You start salivating.

Unthinking, you press your tongue hard against the inside of your cheek. Given the way he groans, he definitely felt that.

You do it again, tentative, testing.

"Shit, baby-," his breaths sound more like shudders and you love how pathetic he sounds. "Need your mouth on me right fuckin' now."

You rock back and give him space as his hands work furiously at his fly, unbuttoning the waistband and pulling the zipper down with a satisfying swish. Hitches up his hips. Pulls his pants off.

He isn't wearing any underwear. Then you remember it's Lucien; it would've been more surprising if he had been.

He's still got his silk shirt, but it's open now. His chest is exposed, delicate chains glinting against his freckled collarbone.

His cock is heavy, thick against your cheek.

"Open up, baby, put that mouth on me."

You pull yourself up, still foggy, and run a wide lick along his length, ending at his tip. He's salty, musky, delicious. You've missed how he tastes. It's like coming home.

He seems to feel the same way.

"Missed that sweet mouth on me, baby," he groans, and holds himself by the base, smacking his cock head against your lips.

Slick has striped across your mouth and you dart your tongue out to lick your lips clean. He growls, watching you. Takes you by the back of the head again, guiding your open mouth to stretch around his fat length.

"That's it," he praises, rocking his hips, forcing you to take him deeper, "Look at you all stuffed full of me."

You start to gag but he pulls back, just the littlest bit. "Know you can do better than that," he admonishes, "Better try again."

He adjusts his angle just a little and starts thrusting into your open mouth again. The angle is better.

"Good girl," he breathes, letting each word be punctuated with a thrust, "My good- fucking- girl-"

You're able to take him to the base, throat full, nose pressed against the coarse hair between his thighs.

Mmmm. His thighs.

You can feel yourself drifting, losing focus. You're encased in him.

His thighs.

Soft and hairy and buttery-smooth, you stroke your fingertips along the insides of his thighs and let him fuck up into your throat.

Does he have a skincare routine for his thighs? You wish your thighs felt like his. Fuck.

A sharp smack lands on your cheek.

"Stay with me now," he tells you, "Back to work."

You realise you'd been slacking, your mouth still filled with cock, but he's not in your throat anymore. You're not doing your best work. You can do better.

You grab onto his hips and, to his surprise, set a new pace.

It's punishing.

Tears start spilling from your eyes, running down your cheeks and landing on his thighs.

You blow him like it's the only thing you were made to do. You want your mouth to be the best hole. Better than your pussy. Better than your asshole.

A mind-blowing hole that he'll want to use again and again.

A hole he won't leave.

You feel his balls start to tighten as he gets closer, and you keep moving on him, bobbing up and down, fucking his length with your throat so fucking expertly you should get a dick-sucking medal.

"I'm nearly there, baby," he gasps out, "Wanna cum on those pretty lil tits."

He pulls you off of him and yanks down your top. It's a blouse, one of your favourites, actually.

It's about to get stained.

You don't stop him.

He strokes himself once, twice- then lets go. He shakes, moans. Cum splatters across your tits, along your neck, a few spatters landing along your jaw and chin.

Lucien steps back to admire his work. The almost-pearlescent sheen of his spend glistening across you.

"Even better than I remembered," he smiles, and kisses you, not bothered to avoid the cum on your face.

The high has started to fade, just a little.

He pulls his pants back on. Buttons his shirt. Cards a hand through his hair.

"Better get cleaned up before you head back in," he grins, "Don't want everyone to know what we got up to, huh?"

You're still foggy, but you shake your head.

Lucien disappears. You wait for a minute, hoping he might come back with a washcloth for you.

He doesn't emerge.

You find a place to clean yourself.

You're in the garage, you realise. Must have been this whole time. But facing the open door, towards the trees and the night.

There's a sink and a towel near the door to the house. Hoping desperately that no one will try to come through the door, you wipe his cum off of your chest.

The blouse is stained, but there's a jacket on the chair you were near. You shrug it on.

The party, you discover, is still in full swing.

The head fog, the daze, the confusion, it's hard to cut through, but when you find everyone else, you see Lucien, drink in hand, flirting with a pretty young thing over in the corner.

He turns ever so slightly, catches your eye, and winks.

You realise how fucking wet you are, head swimming, panties drenched, and you hate how easy this is for him. That he can just walk away. Doesn't feel any need to satisfy you the way you always want to satisfy him.

He's a mistake you know you'll make again.

Time to leave, you decide. You call a lyft. Find a mirror to make yourself somewhat presentable.

You exit through the garage. His bong still there.

You take it with you on your way out.

[toms-cherry-trees]

First of all congrats on your 1500 followers! 🥳

I love your work so I’d like to send in a gif request for your milestone celebration. The type of blurb I’m thinking about is angst but on the other side I don’t really mind so do what feels best for you!

Thank you for your request! Honestly I feel like this gif makes the perfect scenario for some good ol angst so thank you for sending it! I did drift from the gif into an scenario of my own but you can sort of see where the gif could fit in this

'Mars 1.5K Celebration'

Portrait || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: Death, mentions of infertility, Tommy cheating and then regretting it

Swirls of dust danced in the stale air. They piled in every corner, every surface, hung from the drapes in masses of dirt, and elevated into puffs every time something disturbed them with their step. But it had been a long time since someone disturbed the stillness.

Amidst all sat a man. The blue of his eyes had lost their spark, the overgrown and unkempt beard had obscured his sharp features. Streaks of grey crossed his one lustrous hair. A cigarette hung from his fingers, a cigarette he failed to bring to his mouth, letting it turn to ash and crumble down, repeating the process over and over again until the cigar case was empty. In his other hand hung a bottle of fine Scotch, but he would not have noticed the difference between it and the cheapest stout; everything in his mouth turned to dust. He himself was turning to dust.

Tommy sat before a painting of a woman. Her smile reminded anyone who looked at her of the famous Gioconda; the sweetness, the cheekiness. Her piercing eyes follow you across the room, watching you through thick eyelashes casting shadow in her cheekbones. Tommy had once been fortunate enough to have the real thing in his arms. And then he had been foolish enough to waste it.

Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her. Her hair blowing in the sea air, while they were en route to their honeymoon in New York. Smiling at him over her shoulder in a gala, wearing that red dress that brought Tommy to his knees. Tangled in his sheets, her legs intertwined with his own and cradling his hand in her bosom, the gentle whisper of her breathing lulled Tommy into dreamless sleep. 

He also remembered her tears. How they tracked down her cheeks every time she got her period, yet another failure to have a child of their own. The way they glossed over her eyes while they waited together in the doctor’s office, hands laced together and her leg bouncing nervously. The way they dampened the pillow for days after, while Tommy attempted futilely to soothe her woes and assure her that he would love her, baby or no baby

Oh, but nothing matched her fury. When red clouded her judgement, the ground trembled and the windows rattled with the power of her ferocity. Tommy had only once found himself in the receiving end of her tempestuousness, and not once in his life had he felt so diminished by a woman so sweet. The vase she had flung in his direction had never been meant to harm him, but had surely served the purpose to give him a taste of terror.

Yet nothing matched the calm, serene apathy in her features when she awaited for Tommy, sitting at the foot of the bed, her two suitcases neatly packed at her side. When Tommy jokingly asked her if she was planning a trip, she threw a bunch of papers in his face. When his eyes fell on the letter, all colour drained from his face. Saliva turned to cement in his mouth, keeping him from spilling any of the hundreds of excuses that had formed in his brain. But whatever train of thought he had was cut short by her dry words.

“I cannot tell what is worse, Thomas. That you got another woman pregnant and tried to get her to rid of the child, or the fact that you wrote the letter from your own fucking hand”

No amount of explaining, of begging, or excusing himself had been able to undo the damage. It had been a moment of weakness, just one, an impuissance of the flesh, it had meant nothing, it was just business, a transaction, a desperate moment of need. The excuses tied in his tongue and made him trip over his words, but they all came down to the same thing. He had failed her, he had failed the one person who had managed to love him past all his walls. This only added insult to injury at their fruitless attempts to start a family of their own. The fact he said it was ‘one time’ made it worse; one time it took for her to fall pregnant. One time unlike his wife

Tommy had actually fallen to his knees, albeit accidentally, in his haste to make her stay, promising everything that was his to promise and more in exchange for one more chance. But it was all in vain, and he was forced to watch her leave into the night, leaning into the threshold for support, for he did not trust his knees to hold his weight. A cold, heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach, a sense of impending doom tightening his heart as her car became smaller and smaller into the road.

It did not take long for him to see her again. The very next day, in fact, when he received a call from the police to identify a body in the mortuary. A car had veered off the road and fallen into the water, probably trying to evade an animal. He did not need them to pull back the sheet; all he needed to see was the ring in her hand, the same ring he put in her finger five autumns prior. He had felt the cold of the jewel against his skin in bed, and his lips had touched the black stone when he kissed his wife’s hand. He asked them not to remove the sheet. He didn’t want to see her face. The same reason he demanded the casket be kept closed during the burial

If he did not see her face, he could pretend she was away, somewhere, anywhere in the world that could bring her happiness. He could pretend she had not spent her last hours heartbroken, betrayed by the one person who should have guarded her back. He could pretend she would one day come back, with her smiles and her tears and her groundbreaking fury, with the ring in her hand and his name on her lips. 

The moment he returned home, his gaze landed in the portrait. She had sat for that painting only for his pleasure, wasting hours and days in the library, her back stiff and her eyes watering from the effort not to blink as the canvas and the artist did their best to capture her beauty, dolled up in her wedding dress and her hands laced in her lap. The veil hanging from her hair and pooling around her in a sea of white gauze

Swiftly, Tommy had her portrait moved from the gallery and hung in his room. Spending his nights and days under her gaze, tracing with his finger the curve of her smile, the line of her chin. It became his obsession, his only reason to wake in the morning. To look into those eyes, to dream of her hands on his chest, to reminisce in the warmth of her lips. Long after her smell had faded from her pillows and her clothes, he still found comfort in the painting. He could not bear to be away from it, not for one second. Clinging onto the very last memory of what he had and had lost. Even as years passed and his life withered away, he sat there, in front of that image of his wife, the door always unlocked for the day she would return. 

And until then, he would wait.

[avatarrecom]

What they give you for Valentine's day

Pairing: Poly!recoms x Recom!reader

Word count: 1.1k

A/N: Omg I completely forgot to post this! Thank you all for the happy birthday wishes! Ignore my rambling through the headcanons lol.

Any thoughts?

🌍 Recom Miles Quaritch

He knows that it’s valentine's day, but it never occurred to him to get you a gift. Not until Walker and Z-dog give him an earful telling him to get you a gift asap. So Miles ditches his duties and frantically searches the entire base for a gift (because 1: Walker and Z-dog are hella protective of you and want their baby to be happy (and they're both scary as fuck when they want to, not that he will ever admit that) and 2: he doesn’t know if you’re expecting something and he doesn’t want to disappoint you). Eventually all he can find is a box of chocolates. Walker and Z-dog make him swear to go all out for your birthday to make up for the ‘pathetic’ gift. Even though you absolutely love it, I mean, chocolate is everyone's guilty pleasure right? (I will (try and fail to) fight you if you say no)

😈 Recom Lyle Wainfleet

Himself. That’s it, that’s the gift. You walk into your room to find him blue butt naked on your bed. Maybe the others have managed to convince him that just glorious nakedness isn’t enough, so maybe, he’ll tie a pretty bow around his cock, maybe not. I mean it’s Lyle, who knows what’s going through that bald head of his (probably not much but who am I to judge).

🍬 Recom Z-dog & 🥽 Recom Walker

THEY GO ALL OUT!!!! Like h-o-l-y shit. They force Miles to give the three of you the day off from work and you have a girls day (they may be though marines, but they still love them some self care). This girls day may or may not include certain spicy gifts and many, many, like I cannot empathize enough that there were many orgasms.

😎 Recom Mansk My boy may not be overly present, but he is there, he is always watching, always listening. He is always waiting… waiting for the perfect moment to… give you everything you could ever want. If you mentioned wanting to read a specific book, he’s buying it the  second he can. He buys literally everything you ever mentioned you wanted. He’s the type of guy to do that thing (I saw it on tiktok) where he goes to your amazon account (or whatever webshop you use) and buys everything you have in your cart and/or wishing list. There are four moments in a year when he goes all out spoiling you. The first is your birthday (obviously), second is your anniversary, third is Christmas and last is Valentine’s day.

(My grandpa used to do this for everyone in the family to the point it became annoying. There was this movie (or series? Idk)(in the Netherlands) about a knight named Floris and I remember watching it when I was with my grandparents and that at some point there were these people with plague masks and I was completely and utterly terrified. I literally couldn’t sleep that night and in the morning (I slept at their place) my grandpa gave me a copy of the movie and when I was packing my stuff I accidentally, on purpose ‘forgot’ it. I had nightmares for weeks lol. I never had the heart to tell him, and he never brought it up, bless his soul.)

🧯 Recom Prager I see him as the type to give you one of those jars with hundreds of sweet messages. He probably goes all out and gives you multiple jars with notes depending on how you feel. Do you feel sad? Just take a note out of the sad jar and it says how much he loves and appreciates you. Do you feel insecure? There are a hundred notes telling you how beautiful you are. And the way he describes it?! Like omg, he’ll write a note (because yes, of course they’re all hand written) that says “You are beautiful like the morning dew in the fields” or “You are the most beautiful star in the entire galaxy”.

(Omg I need a Prager to write me sweet notes 😩. I mean I’m extremely lonely. It’s a recent development by the way, my bf broke up with me through text (on my birthday, I swear, it is the most interesting birthday gift I've ever gotten, and also the only one I've gotten on my b-day👍🏻) and then I found out through a mutual friend that he’s been cheating on me with my bff for 6 months… Who wants help to egg his house? So my self esteem is extremely low right now. Not that it’s normally particularly high, matter of fact, it's shit and has been shit since got bullied first year of high school, but anywayy)

⚕️ Recom Ja He gives you a promise ring. I don’t think that the RDA would allow the Recoms to marry, especially within the squad, so a promise ring is the next best option. Getting the ring wasn’t much of an issue, but getting it in Recom size was. There were a lot of favors called in and when that didn’t work he resorted to threats or blackmail. If he wasn’t allowed to marry you, they could at least allow him this.

🧢 Recom Brown He gives you one of those cringy hoodies. Yours says “His Queen” and his says “Her King”. If he walks in the room and sees you wear your hoodie, he drops everything and changes into his own. The other Recoms make fun of you two for wearing them (mostly him, they would never make fun of you), but they’re secretly really jealous. Also, I’m like 99,99% sure that Z-dog, Walker and Prager had to persuade him to not give you something similar but with a sex joke on it.

📿 Recom Lopez You know that meme: A: “Love is a weakness and an evolutionary mistake.” B: “You are literally making a Valentine’s day card for them right now.” A: *pointing their hot glue gun threateningly* You’re on thin fucking ice.”

Lopez is person A. That’s it. (He’s definitely scrubbing glitter from his hair for days after, it’s definitely not because Lyle dumps Lopez’ entire glitter supply on his head, Lopez does the same to Lyle, but with obviously little effect)

⛓️ Recom Fike Baby boy’s love cannot be measured in gifts. He just showers you in hugs and kisses all day long. If people are giving him (and you) strange/disgusting looks, don’t worry, Brown is right behind Fike glaring at everyone who dares looking at you two. Fike ends up giving you something you’ve been wanting later on, cuz he’s unsure if you’re disappointed, you’re not and you end up making that very clear to him.

[thatmexisaurusrex]

🚙 - bucktommy, or buddietommy if you are up for it! love the idea of a road trip ficlet with either. 😊

You know what? Yeah. Yeah, let's do a buddietommy fic. I'm a little nervous to do one, but I hope everyone enjoys the fic 🥰

El Paso to LA

"Okay, bags - check. Chris' favorite road trip snacks organized by tastiness - check. Itineraries printed out - check," said Buck proudly, ticking off items on his list.

And.

And where had Buck found a clipboard?

Eddie didn't remember packing a clipboard. Eddie glanced over at Tommy and just got a little, Yeah, I'm not sure where he hid that either shrug.

"We have an itinerary?" asked Chris, maybe - maybe excitedly?

"Wait. Was that why you went to the business center of that hotel on the way here?" asked Tommy curiously, and Eddie did vaguely remember that.

Well.

Eddie was sort of in a state of post-orgasm high and wasn't really paying attention to anything at that point. But he vaguely remembered Buck suddenly gaining energy after all they had done and just - ran out in only pajama pants.

Huh.

Of course careful planning was what got Buck energized again.

Not that Eddie was complaining.

The round two was pretty great after that.

Or.

Was it round four at that point? It was hard to keep track of with two boyfriends.

Buck beamed as he took out an intricately detailed and kind of gorgeous itinerary on heavy stock that felt more like a wedding invitation than a trip schedule.

And.

Eddie.

Wasn't going to think wedding. God, what was wrong with Eddie? He had been seeing these two for, what? A month? Fell into bed with them after a karaoke trivia night and just - just never left. Never stopped falling into bed with them.

Not that either complained.

They seemed to take Eddie as a part of their relationship. As someone who was always supposed to be there.

Like he belonged.

And.

Eddie never had that before. He always felt like he was inextricably attached to people due to circumstances. Not that he didn't love those people any less for that, but - but this felt like the first time he was really choosing someone for himself.

Two someones.

To care about too.

Who cared about him.

Who checked on him. And, fuck, people didn't usually check on Eddie. They didn't ask if he was okay. They didn't curl up next to him and make him feel - feel safe. And wanted. And cared for.

And Eddie was going to have to explain this to Christopher soon.

Somehow, he was going to have to explain that this was more than Dad's two very good friends helping him pick Chris up from his grandparents after an understandably needed summer away.

Eddie would explain it.

But for now, he was just happy to see Buck and Chris excitedly talk about all the roadside attractions they were going to see.

Perks of a boyfriend who traveled all across the country, Eddie supposed.

Eddie felt an arm around his shoulder and - and he looked up. Annoyingly, he had to look slightly up at his boyfriends. Why did they both have to be two inches taller than him?

"Hey," said Tommy.

And.

And.

Okay, Eddie smiled at that. Which was ridiculous. The only thing the man said was hey. Yet it still made Eddie giddy.

"Hey yourself," said Eddie, a little frazzled by the fondness in Tommy's eyes.

"It's going to be okay. We're here for you, Edmundo," whispered Tommy and, fuck, the way Tommy could say a first name.

Nope.

Can't jump him now.

Your son is right there, you cannot traumatize him by climbing this tree of a man where god and everyone can see.

"I - I know. Just. I just need a minute. To take this in. To know that it's really happening," said Eddie.

To know that he was getting his son back.

It was almost too much. To have his whole heart there. To have Christopher want to come back home. To have him home with Buck and Tommy.

Everyone Eddie wanted right there.

Eddie leaned on Tommy, allowing himself to feel the immensity of that.

[showmethesneer]

Specifically @ the person who came up with the headcanon that Bender and Alison are twins. Fucking galaxy brain. I can't find the post right now but you are so right and you should say it and as an 80s movie aficionado, brat pack brat, and Breakfast Club fanatic in particular, i am so fucking obsessed with this headcanon. Sidenote: I have personally watched Andrew McCarthy's documentary Brats no fewer than 3 times in the past 10 days. I cannot recommend it enough.

So, since delving back into this world of 80s movies, I stumbled upon someone's very simple headcanon about Bender and Alison being twins and have now fully incorporated into my belief system. No one can fucking convince me otherwise at this point. It's so true, it's so real, that I see no other explanation. And when I told my sister, she tried to challenge this theory, but I have been shooting her down with a real like legitimate explanation every single time. These two share a single set of abusive parents, and the abuse manifests in two distinct ways. Bender is physically and verbally abused. Alison is ignored and neglected. These twins don't necessarily hang together in social settings, like in school, but you can't tell me that their chemistry and kinship is not totally off the charts. These two know each other and they are sincerely a part of one another.

Case in point: the part where, when Bender throws the soda can in the air and Alison catches it like without looking. These two are siblings. And then my sister goes but "you know there's a hole in your theory because he says to her 'I've seen you before' and you wouldn't say that if you were siblings." I said "no no no no no you are so wrong, you are overlooking the most important thing here, they are siblings and that is their inside joke. That is the way he teases her in public for her gothy, in the shadows persona. She tries so hard to not be seen and he's calling her out on it in a teasing way."

Furthermore, why is she hiding in the shadows and slinking around in the background? Because she has learned from her parents that if you are loud and obnoxious like her brother is, you will get your ass beat. Because that's what she has seen them do to him. So she adopted her stealthy in the shadows creeping around persona as a defense mechanism because of the physical abuse that her twin brother was suffering at the hands of their parents. I'm just saying it all clicks.

Everyone please watch Brats and revisit all the old brat pack movies. Class (1983) and St. Elmo's Fire fucking slap so much harder than I remembered the first time around.

[augustmonsooning]

The Bear in 5 Acts : We're really in the Act III weeds, pals

One of the first thing's they'll teach you about good story telling is about the 5 act structure - it's tried and tested, from Shakespeare to films like I don't know, Past Lives, they all follow the same beats.

I think's it's significant that the title card at the this season and maybe season 2 (I'm gonna have to go back to check) says "The Bear Part III"; these seasons are components of a cohesive whole, it's not being made up as they go along. This is part of the reason why the writing and filming is so quick: the bare bones of the story arc is already there, they are just embellishing and perfecting.

Season 3 thoughts under the cut!

Now, I know Season 3 has the crowd split. My initial reaction was that I loved the cinema of it: the first episode I think was one of the best, most innovative bits of TV I've seen in a minute. I really enjoyed how they played with memory and anxiety. The show had a lot of interesting things to say about grief and regret and shame this season, and the ways we cope with it all.

It also cemented for me that The Bear is following v classical 5 act storytelling.

Act 1/ Season 1: Almost pure exposition, and probably why it stands out as a very strong standalone season. You could get away with not watching any episodes after Braciole and still feel like you've watched a great show. The money in the tinned tomatoes, and Carmy's proposal (of a restaurant) to Sydney is the inciting event. You could also think of Sydney coming back as the inciting event - this is probably the first time in Carmy's life where someone outside of his family (maybe even including his family) has seen the worst of Carmy and decided to come back

Act 2/ Season 2: Rising tension. Will The Bear make it? Will Carmy escape his traumas? Will Sydney and Carmy actually find their way back to each other?

Act 3/ Season 3: This is where we are now. To mix metaphors. The traumas and bad copies strategies are coming home to roost. This is Carmy at his very worst, because somehow he thinks this is him at his best. This is how Backstage, a theatre newspaper describes Act III : "Oftentimes, the end of your third act leads into a “dark night of the soul,” where the main character is at their lowest moment as a result of the climax. They believe that they cannot achieve that new, overpowering goal established at the end of Act 1. " I think that pretty much sums up Carmy and Syd this season, on the surface their goals have been achieved: The Bear is a functioning kitchen, it's packed out every night. There's modern Danish design, there's two tops, a tasting menu at the bar, and a window on the side for the sandwiches (the family style has been scraped, but we'll get to that later). So why does it feel so off? Can it be that neither of them wanted any of that shit in the first place? Can it be that they were at their happiest eating gluey spaghetti with their friends they loved in a place that had regulars who knew them, a place they could innovate with the odds and ends they had lying around and still make wonderful food. Could it be that a place where bricklayers and teachers and postmen were eating was the goal all along?

Act 4/Season 4: Where next? I think both Syd and Carmy are gonna reckon with what is actually important to them. And we alreayd know what that is, it's that scene under the table last season: they love to take care of people, they love to cook (not be "chefs"), they love to be there for each other - be someone the other can rely on. Everything they absolutely were not doing in Season 3.

Act 5/ Season 5: The real coming back. I remember watching Braciole for the first time thinking fuck, is this just an extremely silly show? It feels so real, so earned all the way up until the cash falls out of those tomatoes and Syd comes back. Because nothing has actually been resolved or addressed. Carmy has learnt absolutely nothing. Syd is as impatient and green as ever, jumping into a new business with a guy who has absolutely shown himself to be volatile and unreliable. But we forgive them, because as the viewer we've come to love Carmy and understand that the angry, doughnut slamming Carmy is not the real him, and we understand Syd because sure, of course it feels intoxicating that when the person who made the best thing you've ever eaten, the person who can seemingly finish all your sentences, the pinnacle of your professional ambitions looks at you with his freakishly blue eyes, and ask you open a restaurant with him, you're gonna say yes. The series from Season 2 onwards feels to me like a redux of the last few episodes of Season 1 in slow-mo but this time with real learning, real consequences, and real, abiding love. Like a "find out what you love, and do it on purpose" type of thing. When they get back together the last episode it's going to feel even more magical than in Season 1.

Listen. I feel like that dude trying to get Tina et al to invest thousands of dollars to get a job in Napkins. It feels like a scam to tell you all to invest more time and hope. But, imma do it, because it's gonna pay off.

It also doesn't escape me that Strange Currencies, the song they use on the show to signpost Carmy's romantic life, has the lyrics "I need a chance, a second chance, a third chance, a fourth chance"

Carmy had a chance in season 1, he fucked it up by going absolutely bananas in 'Review', he had another one in season 2; and he ran away and then thought he could fix it with a fancy chef jacket and promises under a table, he's had another chance in season 3 and safe to say, he's fucked it again. He's gonna get another, but he better stick the landing.

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila VI

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila VI: Fevered Dreams

Arthur’s entanglements weigh heavily on him, while a fever strikes in camp.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

“I’ve… You’re… Oh, you’ll never change… I know that.”

He stares back at her, his eyes following when she dips into the train car following her brother until they find seats. 

Arthur doesn’t quite know what he wanted from this. The letter begging for his help - the fool that he is, he rode to her beck and call. His dark-eyed beloved, even now, after years gone by, she’s just as beautiful as the last time he saw her.

That last time, when she broke off their engagement. A letter some months later told him she was getting married, and it was like their love had never existed. 

And yet… the fool he is. The fool he is cannot say no to her, he will likely never be able to say no to her. That scarred heart of his - he reckons it will always belong to her. Wanting. Waiting. For something that will never be. She had even said herself - he’ll never change. He’ll never be what she wants, what she needs.

But damn well if he did not wish.

He makes eye contact with her once more through the window - god damnit, she’s just as beautiful as he remembers, age having sharpened her jaw, but those eyes, he can still get lost in them.

He still loves her.

The train jerks forward and slowly pulls away from the station. Mary Gillis leaves him and he’s alone once again, unable to change his ways. Unable to be what she needs. 

He is a damned fool.

Arthur stares down at the worn planks of the station’s platform, kicking at it slightly to stop himself from staring at the train receding into the distance. He grits his teeth, one hand going into his satchel and pulling out his half-empty pack of cigarettes. His jaw clicks as he clenches his teeth, annoyed that he’d have to go to the general store and get another pack. God only knows he can’t go without a smoke now, not now. Not when that heavy feeling in his chest, like he’s been shot, threatens to drown him.

His eyes close heavily after he lights the cigarette, breathing the tobacco in deeply. 

He still fucking loves her. And still, still, even widowed, she does not want to be with him.

Arthur rips the half-smoked cigarette from his mouth and tosses it to the ground, grinding it under his boot with much more force than necessary. Sighing, he grabs his hat from his satchel and places it back on his head, moving from the platform back toward the road where the Walker is hitched. 

Christ, maybe a drink could take the edge off his frustration. By the time he reaches his horse and pulls the reins from the post, he’s made his decision. A drink or two at that saloon in town. He swings himself up into the Walker’s saddle and guides the old horse down the mud-clogged street. By the time he reaches Smithfield’s, he’s edging on wanting to drink himself stupid - maybe then he could forget Mary’s damn eyes.

“Arthur!”

He looks up and finds Lenny Summers leading his horse urgently toward him. Arthur glances around before placing a hand on his hip, “The hell you doin’ way out here?”

Lenny’s face is ashen, sweat dotting his temples, “Strawberry - it was Micah -”

“Of course it was,” Arthur interjects, rolling his eyes as he slides down off the horse, taking the reins and knotting them on the hitching post before grabbing the reins of Lenny’s horse from him, knotting it as well.

“They almost lynched me!” The young exclaims, arms akimbo in agitation.

“Okay, alright, now calm down there kid.” Arthur places his hands on the young man’s shoulder, “Tell me what happened.”

Lenny recounts the sorry tale - that he had met Micah in Strawberry and the outlaw was three sheets to the wind already in a damn dry town - and ended up shooting some feller that he knew - and everything devolved into chaos. Micah was dragged to the jail, and now there was talk of hanging him.

Arthur cannot help but smirk as he guides Lenny up the porch of Smithfield’s, chuckling to himself at Micah’s predicament. He couldn’t wish it on a better man. 

Pushing Lenny toward the bar, Arthur digs his thumbs into the boy’s shoulder blades to attempt to relieve some tension. “C’mon now, kid. Let’s have a drink.”

“And Micah?” Lenny asks.

“He’ll be fine. Let ‘im dry out in a cell.” Arthur retorts with a grin as they reach the bar, “Alrigh- We’ll just have a couple, settle you down, then head back, okay?”

Lenny nods, and leans on the bar, rubbing at his face with frayed nerves, “Just one or two… right, Arthur?”

Arthur nods, motioning to the bartender, “Course, just a drink… no big drama. Can we get a couple of beers, please?”

-

The large tent on the hillside blazes with yellow-orange light, lanterns interspersed on tables and barrels in and around the canvas. 

Dutch Van der Linde is in a magnanimous mood. A gramophone, of all things, blares music into the night upon the shores of Owanjila, and various members of the gang sit and mull about the campfire.

Molly O’Shea sits upon his lap as if she sat on a throne, her emerald eyes surveying her kingdom and subjects as if the rest of the folk existed to serve. Her arms thrown loosely around his neck, one of his wrapped around her thigh, his rings glinting in the night.

She looks upon you with some kind of bored disdain from across the campfire. You pass the bottle of brandy that was foisted upon you back to Karen - you had acquiesced to her request and taken a healthy sip, frowning at the sweetness. 

Mary Beth laughs under her breath, rubbing your shoulder. “Ain’t my favorite neither.”

The men had returned from some sort of score, having ridden out the day before with Dutch all riled up - the kind of energy radiating from them like when they rode out to Blackwater those weeks ago. Horses stamping, voices hooting and hollerin’, but unlike the Blackwater fiasco, when they returned later in the night, it was in some sort of triumph.

For a moment, the glumness that had settled upon the camp was lifted - chores were set aside, and alcohol flowed freely. Even stern Grimshaw sat with a beer around the fire as the night fully settled.

“So, this train - obviously y’got something good, or you wouldn't be in such a mood.” Hosea tips his beer across the campfire at Dutch, who grins as his grip tightens on Molly’s thigh.

“Bearer bonds, courtesy of one Leviticus Cornwall.”

“Cornwall? The railroad magnate?” Hosea arches an eyebrow at Dutch, who seems completely unperturbed.

Across the fire, your stomach drops. You nearly drop the newly opened beer bottle in your hand, but by some divine providence, you don’t lose it. Ripping your stare away from Dutch, you look into the fire as the dread creeps into your chest, clawing at you like some kind of untethered beast, threatening to choke you and steal your breath.

You stare into the fire and see Limpany.

-

However you feel, you fear - about what the men just did, you kept it to yourself for the rest of the night. You excused yourself from the festivities and went to sleep without much further fanfare, but when you awoke in the morning, the stone of guilt and fear lay upon your chest much in the way it did when you had fled to Blackwater.

You busy yourself with morning work, getting the coffee pot ready while Pearson began the stew of unbeknown origins for the day. For all of the bragging that man did about his Navy days, he seemed to be a one-pony show. Maybe you could ask Hosea or Arthur to bring you to Strawberry so that you could eat something other than this stew.

Speaking of which, you noted Arthur’s absence last night - he hadn’t returned with the other men after the job - actually a few of the men hadn’t returned, now that you think about it.

Breaking open the tin of coffee, you dump grounds into the percolator before pouring water from the bucket, drawn fresh from the lake to set the coffee up. Placing it on the hook suspended above the fire, you lean over it for a few minutes as it brews.

The sound of footsteps behind you draws your attention from the percolator, and you turn your head from where you are stooped down to see who it is. Abigail slowly trudges toward you, rubbing at one eye with the back of her wrist. Grabbing one of the empty coffee mugs scattered about the ground, you wipe the inside with your skirt before pouring it full of coffee, standing up from where you had stooped down.

“Didn’t get much sleep?”

Abigail frowns before yawning, covering her mouth for a moment as you hold out the cup of coffee to her. 

“Jack was fussin’ all damn night. Kicked at me like a damn mule.” She mutters as she takes the cup, nodding in thanks as she immediately takes a long sip. You give a half-hearted frown as you look behind her, to the lean-to that the two of them sleep in, where Jack is still asleep under a blanket. It is strange for the boy to still be asleep, but if he was up most of the night…

Abigail blows at the hot coffee before taking another sip, “Been a while since he’s been like that. Hopefully was just one night.” 

You nod in agreement before she turns to walk back to her lean-to. Going back to the coffee, you start pouring another cup as more footsteps draw you to stand again.

“Good morning, dear.” Hosea smiles, placing a hand on your shoulder as you hand him the next cup of coffee.

“Morning, Hosea. You stay up much later last night?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head before bringing the cup to his lips, “I ain’t much for the late nights and bottles of whiskey like I used to be - hangovers are a bitch when you get as old as I am,” he chuckles.

You laugh and shake your head, leaning over to prepare your own cup as a horse whinnies in the distance, a rider arriving back into camp. Hosea squints toward the horse as it approaches, “Ah, it’s Lenny.”

Lenny guides his horse to where the others are tied off, and slides out of the saddle, nearly stumbling to the ground a step after landing.

“Oh, Lenny, you look like you’ve seen better mornings,” Hosea notes as Lenny staggers toward the two of you, looking absolutely miserable and the slightest shade of green. As he groans and walks closer, the overwhelming stench of alcohol wafts off of him and makes you scrunch your nose. You’re pretty sure there is vomit on his collar. You cover your nose to stop from gagging as Lenny wipes at his mouth, noticing your discomfort.

“Did’ya leave poor Arthur in another state?”

“He’s…somewhere. He was still in Valentine once they let us out of jail.” Lenny drolls, his eyes bloodshot as he bends over and places his hands on his knees, obviously trying to quell his roiling stomach.

“Jail?!” You exclaim as your eyebrows raise.

“Ah, one of those kinds of nights,” Hosea chuckles. Lenny groans and continues onward toward the shared lean-to where his bedroll is spread out, stooping down on one knee before giving up and flopping down onto the bedroll.

Your eyebrows still raised in concern, Hosea waves his hand in a cheery dismissal, “Don’t worry ‘bout him. He’ll slink back to camp and sleep it off. Boy can get a bit rowdy when he goes overboard.”

-

Christ, even his damn eyes hurt. His hat’s brim slung low over his face to keep the sun from his eyes - as if this damn headache could get any worse. The Walker sways beneath him, this ride from Valentine taking twice as long as the ride to town, and he hadn’t even gotten the new horse he meant to. 

Arthur thought it smart to leave town quickly after being let out of jail - evidently almost drowning a man in a pig trough is frowned upon in these parts. He’d like to blame the bender on trying to cheer Lenny up, but he knew, he knew that he had let things get out of hand partially on purpose. That drinking himself stupid would push the thought of Mary Gillis from his mind.

Instead, it gave him a massive hangover, a lighter wallet, and still at a loss about Mary. He quietly enters the camp with little fanfare, not wanting and very unwilling to make small talk with anyone.

Fortunately, he’s able to slink back to his cot without needing to talk to anyone, sitting down and pulling his hat off, tossing it further down on the cot as he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palms. 

Hanging his head, his forearms rest on his knees as he stifles a pained groan. A canteen appears in his field of vision. He looks up, ready to tell whoever off, but finds you standing in front of his cot, holding out that canteen full of water. In the back of his hangover-addled brain, instead of shooing you off, he wants to call you an angel - that the water you’re offering him must be holy in the wake of his bender last night. He can already taste its freshness before even taking the canteen.

You smile, “I heard you had an interestin’ night, Mister Morgan.”

The morning light glints off your hair like it was some kind of spun gold. He swallows, taking the canteen from your hand, and mumbles some kind of thanks as he brings it to his mouth, the cool water just godsend that he believed. 

“Well, at least you didn’t come back with vomit on your shirt,” You chuckle lightly, taking a step back as you place your hands behind your back, “See you later, Arthur.”

“Missus Shaw.”

He stares down at the canteen for a moment, then flits his gaze back up to your frame, walking down toward the lake. The tendrils of your unbound hair bounce with each step you take. The sway of your skirts….

Oh god damnit.

Arthur rubs at his eyes with one hand once again, gritting his teeth against the creeping feeling in his chest. He downs another large gulp of water from the canteen. Chucking it onto the table across from his cot, he grabs at his hat as he lays down on his cot, sighing as he places the hat over his face, praying that sleep will take him quickly and that this headache will subside.

It did - at least he had that going for him today. A few hours of undisturbed sleep was entirely what he needed - by the time he woke, the sun was setting behind the ridge. He pulls himself from his cot, rubbing at his jaw with one hand as he rifles through his satchel for his cigarettes.

He’s approached by Susan Grimshaw, who steps in front of him with her hands crossed over his chest. Arthur looks past her toward the main fire, not wanting to be lectured at the moment. Susan arches an eyebrow before turning her head to follow where Arthur is looking. He lights a cigarette from his pack as she looks back up at him.

She snorts under her breath, looking back at Arthur with a tinge of amusement.

“Missus Shaw.” Grimshaw shifts her eyes back and forth toward the direction of the main campfire, where all of the women are gathered, chirping like sparrows as they eat their dinner on beat-up metal plates.

“What about Missus Shaw?” Arthur retorts; the lit end of his cigarette throwing shadows on his face in the night.

“She’s a nice girl. Doesn’t talk back, works hard, easy on the eyes.”

He doesn’t respond.

“And she don’t have a mean ol’ drunk of a daddy whispering things in her ear.” Susan narrows her eyes in an almost threatening manner, “Don't think I don't know who that damn letter came from.”

-

The next night proves to Abigail that Jack’s sleeplessness wasn’t a fluke. He had been lethargic all day, overtired and fussy. By the time night fell, the boy’s head was hot to the touch as Abigail scooped him up into her arms, beginning to fret as the night went on and he seemed only to get warmer.

You’ve fallen in next to Abigail, urging her to get Jack out from their flimsy lean-to and into the sick tent, having recently been vacated by John, who had healed enough to get out of bed. 

“C’mon, let’s get him into bed,” You reach down to Abigail, sitting on the ground next to Jack, and guide her by her shoulders to stand enough for her to gather her son up. The two of you walk slowly toward the tent, as you reach it, you step inside and turn up the oil lantern as Abigail lays Jack down in the cot. You root around for a blanket for a moment, finding an old one stowed beneath the cot, and spread it out over Jack. Abigail rubs at her brow worryingly.

“Think - think he’s breathin’ okay?” She asks, and the both of you lean over the boy on either side of the cot, holding your ears close to his face.

Jack whines then coughs harshly, and both you and Abigail recoil backward, sitting up straight next to the cot. Abigail frowns, looking apologetic - “God, sorry, Ruth - he -”

You shake your head, “It’s fine. He’s gonna be fine.”

-

You’d like to think it was the lack of sleep for staying up all night with Abigail, but as Jack rolls into another full day of fever, as the next night falls in, you can hardly stave off the exhaustion setting in.

“Shit, Ruth -” Abigail curses from the other side of the cot as she sits back down having brought the oil lantern in from refilling it, “You’re flushed - you - shit, you got a fever?”

You wipe at your brow, damp in the night, “ M’fine,” brushing her off.

But as the hours creep on, it becomes increasingly clear that yes, you had whatever Jack had come down with. It's not much after you start to nod off in your seat that Abigail picks Jack up, gathering him into her lap, and orders you to lie in the cot - your resolve broken by that point.

The night stretches on as you start to shiver in the cot. Jack pitifully whines in his mother’s arms as she hunches over in exhaustion.

“Give - give him here, I’ll hold him. You’re gonna get sick yourself if you don’t get some rest.” You reach toward Jack, huddled in Abigail’s lap. The poor woman’s eyes are bloodshot, dark circles appearing beneath them at her lack of sleep. 

Abigail is unable to hide the guarded look in her eye - her hesitance to let go of her greatest treasure. But after a moment, she acquiesced, exhausted.

She leans forward, Jack huddled to her breast like you’re sure she did when he was a baby. Handing him to you, you situate the child against your chest, pulling the blanket above you both. He does not awaken with the movement, but unconsciously, the boy curls himself into your embrace, his clammy cheek pressed against the exposed skin of your collarbone.

Your hand rubs his back slowly, softly, and when you close your eyes, you wonder if your boy would have curled himself into you the way Jack does. Clutch at you, searching for the comfort only a mother can give.

You choke back a sob, trying to keep quiet, but your attempt is in vain as Abigail notices, drawing closer to you again.

“Ruth - are y’ al-... I can take ‘im back-” Abigail stutters, placing her hand on Jack’s back again to brace him, about to pick him up from the cot.

“ ‘s alright,” You sniffle, unable to stop the tears tracking down your cheeks, “Jus - hic - my baby-”

Abigail’s face falls further, her hand moving from Jack’s back to grasp at yours, her fingers wrapping around yours, “Oh, Ruth, I’m sorry-”

“He… he was too early, b-but -” You shudder with another stifled sob, trying to not disturb the sleeping child in your cot, “ ‘e had his just a bit of his father’s dark hair-”

Abigail’s free hand reaches into the bowl of water, grabbing the rag and squeezing the excess water from it. She dabs it gently to your forehead, holding your hand tightly, comfortingly.

“And now… hic - I’ve got nothin, I’ve got no one, they’re g-gone-” You croak, tears falling down your cheeks freely. You draw the child at your chest in closer, as if Abigail’s son could temporarily fill the depthless void in your chest. 

You devolve into sobs, and Abigail holds your hand.

-

The ponderosa pines wave in the warm breeze, the sweet vanilla wafting through your nose as the clearing opens before you.

The cabin stands quiet across the way. Far quieter than when you left.

The door was left open.

Aethon isn’t hitched up, but the wagon is still next to the cabin.

The door was left open.

With unsteady steps, you slowly reach for the doorframe, looking down when your boots make a muted squelch on the wooden floorboards of the porch.

The door was left open.

Blood runs in wretched rivulets from the inside of the cabin, out the threshold, and into the world.

You step into the cabin, and upon the ground, his body is contorted into a death throe, his eyes wide open and blood running from the hole in his forehead.

As if you were caught in molasses, you move slowly toward the body, reaching out toward your dead husband who seems to be just out of reach. Finally, finally, when you reach him, you touch his cold form, hands on his shoulders, slowly coating your arms with his blood.

Your Frederick, dead on the floor. You weep into his shoulder, loudly wailing the mourning dirge.

A loud noise from outside draws your attention, and you turn to see a large shadowed figure in the door.  A lantern is thrown into the cabin by the figure, bursting into flames on the wooden floor.

Smoke quickly fills the room, and you begin to cough as you crawl toward the open door, taking your chances with the shadowed figure outside rather than with the flames. As you reach the threshold, you look back forlornly at your dead husband’s body before dragging yourself out the door. You stumble to your feet, coughing as you unsteadily step off the porch. You make it only a few steps before doubling over, coughing violently as one of your hands braces on your knee.

As your eyes water over, the shadowed figure appears again, walking slowly toward you. The figure becomes two. Two become three.

“Why, if it isn’t the lovely Missus Shaw. We’ve been looking for you.”

A gunshot pierces the night.

-

The canvas to the sick tent swings shut after Susan steps out, a basket of linen on one hip. He watches as she moves back toward the center of camp, calling for one of the girls to wash it.

He grimaces, the stitches in his skin pulling tightly as he works his jaw. Christ, his face itches something awful, but at least now he’s no longer bedridden, having thrown off the yoke of invalidity a few days ago.

John knows, of course, that Jack has taken sick. Christ, the way that Abigail tutted and fretted about, the whole damn world knows the kid has a fever. He’s kept a wide berth as the boy was relegated to the sick tent that he had so recently occupied.

He was just going to take a quick look in. He’s been listening to Abigail’s damn voice for the past two days through the canvas of the tent, and being stuck in camp and not well enough to ride yet, there was little else to do. She’s finally gone quiet. Hopefully, both her and the boy are asleep.

John barely notices that he’s almost crushed the unlit cigarette between his fingers as he approaches the tent, quietly leaning inside the canvas opening, blinking as his eyes adjust to the lantern light from the darkness outside.

Abigail sits on a stool, her head pillowed on her crossed arms on the small table. She’s dead to the world, exhausted as she’s sprawled out over that table. He looks over to the cot, the mess of blankets piled up over a still form. A mess of sandy brown hair tucked into a shoulder. 

You’re awake. He wasn’t expecting that, standing in the tent’s opening. Stuck, unable to escape, John can do nothing but take in the scene, the fevered blush staining your cheeks, the clammy pallor of your skin. The mess of your blonde hair pulled into some kind of bun that was falling apart. The matching, flushed look of the child pillowed on your chest, the boy’s labored breathing loud in the silence of the night.

Your hand moves to cradle the back of Jack’s head as he subconsciously curls further into you in his sleep.

John audibly swallows, knowing he’s been caught. Under your unfailing gaze, he turns and leaves the tent.

[writingcold]

Travel Blues

18+ only - minors move along

I debated posting this blurb up. I was inspired of packing for a get away with my husband, followed by @edgingthedarkness mirrored grief of going on a rather large holiday with her husband. For all of those who just love getting ready to go on a vacation, while their partner... well. You'll see.

Jake X Chris

Content warnings - this is an adult blurb - m/m interaction, oral, suggestions on other, more playful times.

I did try to edit this a bit - but it is rough, so pardon any errors or whatnots.

********

     “Babe!” 

     I cannot believe he’s calling me again to march my ass back upstairs when my bag is packed, has been packed, and waiting by the door since last night. The week has been a push pull of an argument of trying to get ready to go. We’d planned this little getaway months before and I thought, maybe foolishly that Jake could be the big boy that he is and have his shit together enough to not wait until four hours before we were to depart the house to get on a plane to go to where the beach was quiet, the water super blue and a suite that was drenched in privacy.

      “What is it this time?” I grumble up the stairs.

      “Passport - I can’t find my goddamn passp—”

      His words die as he takes in my very pissed off expression. “It’s been on the front of the fridge for two weeks. I’ve only been saying it daily for a week now.”

      God, I hate sounding like a bitch but honestly, the man was an infuriating bastard at times. I turn on my heel and try my hardest not to look at the tornado of clothes and toiletries and whatnots that have descended on our bedroom. I suppose I’d be the one to have to straighten it up after our return. I puff out my cheeks and start back down to double check that the guitar cases are in order and labeled correctly. I wasn’t even to the halfway mark before -

      “Babe!”

      “Are you fucking kidding me right now?!” I shout, turning to find him at the stop of the stairs.

      “Did I ever get that load out of the washer?”

      “Fuck if I know. Your laundry, not mine.”

      He throws me the cow eyes. The damn cow eyes that he knows I could never have the strength to say no to. Or at least that’s what he has made himself believe. I flip him off and continue down to my mission of checking airline tags once more - it would only be the fourth time in the last few hours. No - I am not obsessed. Really.

      He growls and thumps down the stairs like an angry teenager. I already know that his skivvies are in the dryer since I was the one that tossed them in there last night at about one in the morning after finding him on the phone talking on a group call with his parents and Josh. I knew he would forget. A happy sound of discovery comes from the laundry room. Moments later, he appears with a small bundle of boxer briefs and t-shirts in his arms. He skitters by me with a quick peck on the lips before heading back upstairs.

      “I don’t remember getting them into the dryer,” he’s saying as he disappears back up the stairs and into the bedroom.

      I notice that he also did not grab the passport from the fridge. My patients are hanging by a precarious thread. I drift in to get a glass of water and tuck the passport into my palm as his voice drifts down the stairs once more.

      “Do you think I should take the shorts or the speedo?” 

      I love this man. I do. 

      “Oh, did you get the fun… stuff?”

      My eyes squeeze shut against my will.

      “Hey - don’t mean to be a bother - but did you get the passports?”

      I don’t think I could drag enough breath into my lungs to keep myself from flying apart.

     “Hey, Babe? You didn’t happen to see that black hat, did you?”

     Could he be more vague - he only has like two dozen black hats.

     “Oh fuck - how can I be out of deodorant? Is there more in the cupboard?”

      Yup. Fuck my life. 

      “Where the hell is my black linen shirt?”

      I melt down into the chair. There are 145 minutes until the driver arrives to take us to the airport. This was not the first time traveling together, but I swear, the white knuckle race to get Jake ready to go anywhere is too much for my heart to take. I look at the front door once more - my bag, the guitar cases, my carryon that was mostly packed with his stuff. All of it ready. 

      Somehow, 45 minutes have passed. I must’ve drifted off into daydreams. I couldn’t hear anything going on upstairs. My hands come down on the arms of the chair and I am about to launch myself out of said chair to look for him, but a soft thump comes from the top of the stairs. I watch him wrestle his bag down the stairs as if he were a conquering hero. He hits the floor with another bump of the case and smiles that golden smile that makes me melt a little more each time. 

      How did he do that? He rolls the case to the door and looks at the tags with a satisfied nod like he was the one that had done all the work. I chew my tongue in hopes of not blowing the last gasket and landing us in a fight. This trip was just supposed to be about us. Not touring. Not mixing the album. Not the shows or fans. Not family or friends. Just us. He sheepishly makes his way to the kitchen, his eyes on the fridge.

      “Hey,” I say, holding up his passport.

      A grin of relief soothes over his moment of panic. He whispers something, but he’s too far away for me to hear. He brings his wrist up to make it obvious that he’s aware of the time and how much of it we have left. Those lips go from an innocent smile to something tinged a bit darker as he walks towards me.

      “Babe,” he says, the velvet of his rasp caught in my ears as his hands came down on mine.  “Can I show you that I’m sorry?”

       God, his voice hits me and my frame melts into the soft fabric of the chair that’s around me. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

       His fingers cradle my face as he bends down. “I know you have to put up with a lot when it comes to me.”

       His mouth hovers just over mine. I can already taste his tongue against mine as he looks at me, capturing all of my attention. He kisses me gently at first, but then demands that I open. He sucks on my tongue, grazing his teeth against it with a gentle moan.

      “Jake,” I whisper as lowers himself to his knees.

      He just smiles as he hooks his hands beneath my knees to pull me down a bit. Those strong fingers press into my thighs as the devil appears in his eyes. He undoes the belt and lowers my zipper, all the while, keeping his eyes on mine. Fucker. I can’t say no when that tongue peeks out to slide across his bottom lip. 

      “Let me just say thank you,” he says, his voice full of seduction. 

      I’m half hard as he pulls me from my briefs. “Jake.”

      “Chris.”

      My eyes roll closed as he pumps my cock a few times before drawing out my balls with his tongue. He is up on his knees over my prone body as he plunges my dick down his throat. My fingers thread through his thick hair, tugging it at the roots. My body floods with rapture as he twists his tongue and mouth around me just how I like and let out a loud groan. He moans while I’m buried deep and I feel the deep pulse within his mouth. He was working me hard and fast, seeking my cumshot to sear him. The sound of him working me is lush and sloppy as he squeezes my balls. I look at him just as he nibbles at the tip. Oh the things we would do on this vacation.

      He had asked if I had packed the ‘fun stuff’. What a question. I could hardly wait to have him bent with a plug in place and eating at his balls until he wept. Or to be buried, balls deep within that pillowy ass as I flicked at his lovely navy cockring. Oh my god - to have him eating my ass as I pumped myself hard? Making love to him every day for weeks… Yeah. This vacation was going to be for us. 

       Lost in my thoughts, I snap back as he sinks his teeth in at the base in a demand for my attention. Bastard. I grin as he hollows out his cheeks in a hard suck. My hips start to thrust at the sight of his swollen, cherry colored lips. It doesn’t take long, but it is loud as we work hard. I shoot my load hot and heavy down his throat and he coos against my skin with adoration.

      He kisses the tip of my rapidly softening cock. “Thank you, Chris.”

      “For what?” I ask, sleepily smoothing my fingers through his hair.

      “I know you put my clothes in the dryer, and had all of my shit right there where I could pack it,” he says as he tucked me back into my briefs. “I know everything that you do for me. So, thank you.”

       There is a knock on the door. Time was up. Time to head out. I kiss at his puffy mouth, grinning as I am already re-playing everything that was to come on this lovely, smutty vacation.