#and i had to smash that back button

[th-ramblr]

I've Read Your Rules ;;

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[theundeadmetalheadapolagia]

Argyle 🤝 Eddie

To the boys they're into: You Should Talk To Nancy Wheeler. Resolve Some Stuff. Get Back Together.

[pinazee]

SPOILERS FOR S2 E3

Fully on board wesley kirk now! I loved this episode so much! Classic time travel episode, classic Kirk gets-the-girl! Another iteration of Khan! This is the first ep i think ever rewatched immediately after.

P.S A+ marketing for having the going-in-the-past episode released two days early

[youre-a-miracle-of-the-universe]

"You have already left kudos here :)"

Dear ao3, i know and I don't care. now if u'll excuse me, im gonna click this button as many times as it takes to feel like the appropriate amount of love i have for this work has been put into it

JUST LET ME LEAVE MULTIPLE KUDOS YOU BASTARDS

[wantonlywindswept]

you can never escape your sins

in the midst of all the tumblr pr0n bot notifications i got an alert from FANFICTION.NET on my old email account and the emotions were thus:

holy shit is that fanfiction.net

holy shit why did someone favorite my profile it’s been 84 years

...oh THAT was my screename?

they favorited it with only one story present?

HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHAT IS THIS BIO OH MY GOD I CANT EVEN READ IT DIRECTLY THE REGRETS THE REGRETSSSSSSS

wait i def wrote more shit than that, what was the other name i thought it was..?

oh thank god this profile is much more sane what a difference *checks* a... year? makes??

angst, angst, angst, random fluff, angst...yeah that seems about right

tempted to re-read the fics in a ‘covering your face with your hands and peeking through your fingers’ kind of way but i don’t think i’m emotionally prepared for that kind of mortification

[chisungie]

.

[hysteria-things]

MATT'S STREAM

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: dom!chris x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and chris’ relationship isn’t out to the public just yet. when he’s on stream with matt, you tease him.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: SMUT, swearing, teasing, dry humping, cock warming, degradation if you squint, p in v, semi-public (?)

ASSUME YOU'RE ON THE PILL!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1,521

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: hiii i’m excited for this. let’s see how this goes :)

chris sits at his desk, spam clicking and smashing buttons on his keyboard. he talks to his brothers in his headset.

matt’s streaming on twitch right now, meaning that thousands of fans are watching the three of them play fortnite. you’ve been with chris for a few months, yet the fans have no idea. you both collectively agreed to keep your relationship out of the public eye.

hence why you are seated next to him out of frame, watching the stream go down. your eyes scan to his side profile. his brows furrow in concentration, his tongue sticking out as he focuses on the computer screen. you hear the boys scream in his headset, and he slams his hands onto his lap.

“damn.” he grunts out, glancing over at you for a moment and smiling.

“i’m gonna go to the bathroom.” he says into the mic before muting it and taking off his headset. he turns his face cam off and goes into the bathroom to do his business.

he comes out beats later, sitting back in the gaming chair, wiggling to get comfortable. you get up, which gains his attention. “you doing okay?” he asks.

“yeah. just need to stretch.”

before he could unmute his mic and turn the cam back on, you push the chair back slightly to have enough space to straddle his lap. he wraps his arms around your waist and welcomes you closer, kissing your collarbone. “they’re going to think i’m shitting.” he says jokingly.

your arms snake around his neck and you lean back to look at him. “say your camera broke.”

he smirks and puts back on his headset. “i’m back.” he starts. “for some reason, my camera is acting weird.”

“it’s all good. as long as we can still hear you.” matt’s voice replies.

the thin fabric you call panties rubs against his bulge through his red plaid pajama pants. you have a shirt on, one of chris’s FRESH LOVE t-shirts that covers you enough to look like a nightgown. a sensation tingles between your legs, and you start to move your hips slowly.

you hear chris groan, pressing a button on his keyboard. “what are you doing?” he asks sternly.

“i need to get comfortable.” you tease, rocking your hips harder. he opens his mouth to say something, but closes it and clicks unmute again.

you rest your head in the crook of his neck and continue to rock your hips, feeling him grow beneath you. he still talks to his brothers normally, but his performance on the game doesn’t look good.

“what the fuck is up with you, chris?” nick questions into the headphones.

“sorry,” he mumbles.

your hands find their way to the back of his neck and tug at his hair lightly. you breathe heavily to not make any noise since his mic is right next to your head. you don’t even notice your hips rutting and body tensing when you feel your release soak your underwear.

you exhale shakily, lifting your body and looking at the mess you made. there’s a wet stain on his pants on top of his hard-on. you don’t even have to look to know your underwear is ruined.

chris looks at you confused, before following your gaze. you go to get up but he grabs your hips and places you back to where you’re hovering over him. he unties his pants and pulls them down along with his boxers. he moves the mic away from his mouth, leaning toward your ear.

“don’t move or make a fucking sound,” he warns in a low tone you could barely hear.

he pushes your panties to the side and guides you down onto his cock, fighting off the hissing noise trying to escape your lips as he stretches you out tenderly and slowly. you and chris started having sex not long ago, but even after a few days without it, you had to readjust again.

this, however, is a first.

you guys never tried cock warming before. you felt so nervous. so excited. so full.

after multiple rounds of fortnite that felt like it lasted hours, your brain felt fuzzy despite not even doing anything. every time he talked, laughed, or celebrated a victory or loss, he’d thrust deep inside of you. and it drove you nuts.

you hear commotion on the other end of the headset. “fuck!” chris screams, jolting his hips further into you than at any other time. your eyes roll ever so slightly, mouth agape as your bottom lip grazes over his bare shoulder. it’s too late to take back the moan that came out of you.

chris’ hands make their way to your ass and squeeze hard, setting a reminder.

be quiet. right.

your patience becomes thinner and thinner, since it’s already been about thirty minutes. too desperate, you start to grind against him.

before he can do or say anything, you grab his mic and fist your hand over it so nobody can hear.

“please let me ride you. i promise i’ll be quiet.” you beg.

“so needy.” he sighs, taking your hand off of the mic and returning to the game.

rutting your hips forward, you start bouncing, your clit swollen from sitting still for so long without doing anything about it. you don’t know, but you could’ve sworn you heard chris groan.

too busy focusing to try to not make a sound by biting your lip, you hear sentences being scattered around from the boys.

“i don’t know, man.”

“this game sucks!”

“is your camera working yet?”

“no, sorry!”

little do they know, here you are, fucking yourself on your boyfriend’s dick like a bitch in heat.

you nuzzle your head in his neck and kiss a spot before biting down to stifle your pathetic sounds. chris hisses at the sudden contact and misses a kill, the other person killing him instead, costing them to lose.

“for fuck sake. chris, are you sure you’re okay?” matt asks in annoyance.

the tip of his cock brushes against your g-spot unexpectedly, forcing a whine out of you. “actually.” chris starts. “i don’t feel good, to be honest. i might log off for tonight.”

he quickly ends the discord call and shuts down his computer, stopping your movements. you look at him with glassy eyes, a frown portraying your face. he runs a finger up your spine before gripping onto your hair and yanking it, making you whimper. “first, you ruin my pants.”

he thrusts himself up into you, taking you by surprise with a gasp.

“then, you tease me.”

another thrust.

“now, you can’t follow simple fucking instructions.”

again.

a broken moan comes out of you, chris slapping your ass. “need me to fuck you so bad you can’t even wait two hours. instead, you get off by fucking yourself on my dick like your life depends on it. so pathetic.”

you whine of embarrassment, yet you don’t want this to stop.

“please.” you breathe out. “i’m sorry. please fuck me.”

with that, chris grabs your thigh with his free hand and starts plunging into you from below. his grip is still tight on your hair. you let out breathy moans left and right since each thrust takes the air out of your lungs. your eyes start prickling with tears from all of the built-up pleasure. “oh my— fucking— jesus— god.”

chris chuckles at your failed attempt to form a sentence. your moans transition into high-pitched squeals when he hits the angle that makes a knot form in your stomach. he releases his grip from your hair and moves it to your jaw, his hand that was on your thigh coming up to your mouth. he shoves in his middle and ring finger for you to suck on.

god, this felt good, and boy was it hot.

drool starts dribbling down your chin as you moan around his fingers and your eyes roll back. chris twitches inside you causing him to groan and take out his fingers, but your mouth still hangs open as unholy sounds come out of it. he releases your jaw and cups your ass with both hands.

“holy shit.” you whine. “i’m gonna cum.”

“let go, y/n. fuck you’re doing so good for me.”

because you certainly don’t have to be told twice, your whole body trembles and you fall forward. your hands cup the sides of his neck.

“i love you.” you moan into his neck as he continues thrusting to get to his release. “i love you so fucking much— jesus god.” you cry out when you feel chris filling you up.

he thrusts a few more times into your trembling body to get down from his high.

“look at me.” he says softly, bringing your head up to make eye contact. he smiles and kisses your lips. “i love you too, ma.”

when you come back to your senses you lift yourself off of him and stumble to his bed to sit down. chris pulls up his boxers and checks his phone that’s been blowing up on the desk in front of him.

[never-quite-buried]

I may have made the impulsive decision last night to drive 1.5 hours to another state to buy a gamecube for 120 bucks. Shit is in amazing condition tho so im finding it hard to be find any regrets.

[luveline]

gorgeous can we get bombshell reader and Spencer May be the first time he’s snappy with her bc he’s stressed and she’s just so taken aback and May be even tears up? And then just a fluffy ending with Spencer apologizing

thank you for requesting! fem, 2.2k

Spencer Reid is extra kissable when he's frowning. Button up and no suit jacket, sleeves pushed past his elbows and hair on the shorter side, he holds a certain confidence in his hands where they're tucked in his pockets. Sure of himself, and clearly agitated. 

You're always on his side; you don't think twice about easing into the conference room to see what's wrong. 

"Hey," you say with a slight lilt to your tone. You're always on his side, and always flirting. "What's wrong?" 

"Why does something have to be wrong?" he asks. 

Not mean. Not light. Somewhere in the solid middle, his gaze loyal to the laptop on the desk he stands behind. You step close enough to smell the subtle scent of his cologne, wondering if he can smell your perfume in turn, and if it's one he likes. You try to touch his hand and he takes the desk into his grip instead, leaning forward, out of reach. 

"That's not what I meant to convey," you say, still flirting. You're not stupid, you realise his mood, but you're hoping it's somebody else's fault. "But if you aren't happy to see me then I'd definitely suggest there was something wrong." 

"I'm just trying to figure something out." 

This close, to your own credit, Spencer usually trips up. He's been getting better as you've grown closer, your 'torturing' —as the team likes to call it— only prompting the occasional blush or stammer. You don't flirt with Spencer to torture him no matter what anyones says and you never have, you flirt with him because he deserves to be complimented. He's andsome, intelligent, and courageous. What others might miss you see in blaring neon lights: he's a catch. You intend on making your intentions known, and if that means playing the long game or the slow burn, that's okay. You like to dance. 

You put yourself between him and the laptop screen. He can still see it if he cranes his neck, and he does. "You look a little tired, handsome. Looking at a screen all day will hurt you in the end. Neck aches, shoulder cramps, eye strain. Though I can't help with the latter, the former…" His arm is solid under your hand, your fingertips running along the ridge of a stark vein. 

He doesn't quite flinch away, but he moves quickly enough to startle you, lamenting, "Could you give me some space, please?" 

That's all well and good, you rush to do as he's asked and step back because the very last thing you want is to make him uncomfortable and his voice is frankly acidic, but everything is moving too quickly, you're not as aware as you should be —you smash your hand backwards into a cold cup of coffee and knock it straight into the lap of Spencer's laptop. 

"No," you gasp, grabbing the cup before the entirety of it can empty. Coffee wells between the keys and you go to grab it to– well, to do something. 

"Stop it!" Spencer shouts, voice sharp as a knife. "You always do this," —quieter, venomous— "you can't help yourself." 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I would answer you if I had the time. I'll be busy rescuing my hard drive before an entire month of work is wasted thanks to your dire need for attention." 

He slips around you and stalks out the door, coffee dripping from the corner of his laptop in a sorry trail that shines in the fluorescent lights. 

Your first rush of tears are driven by indignation; it was an accident, you didn't mean to do that, why would you ever do that? But the second, more encompassing rush is a hot mixture of shame and guilt. What have you done? 

You take a hesitant step toward the door but don't bother following him. I'll make things worse, you think, bringing a hand to your face. Makeup marrs your hand as you wipe your cheeks. You stare down at the stains for a long, long time. 

I'll apologise, you think eventually, rubbing at the mascara like soot on your palm. Just as soon as I look okay again. 

You don't want Spencer or anyone to see you upset. You wear your makeup and your confidence for yourself, not to hide any insecurity but to embolden yourself, to be yourself. But to get to your desk you'd have to leave the conference room bared as you are, and you'd have to face Spencer, and the second option brings more tears. 

This is all so messy, and it's your fault. 

I'm such an idiot. I'm exactly what he thinks of me. 

You sit in the chair furthest from the door with a pack of tissues from the cubby and rub your hot cheeks dry, streaks of mascara in the shapes of your fingertips like soot left behind. It's sitting that gets you —the shock of tears at being shouted at by someone you care about amplifies into a distress you can't explain. It's stupid, it's stupid. You press your face into your hands and curl in on yourself at the table, ears ringing. I'm so, so stupid. 

—

The inside of Spencer's lip is bleeding, metallic on his tongue. He's white hot annoyance all the way to Penelope's office, choked as he tells her he needs her help. 

"Spencer?" she said. "What happened? Are you okay?" 

He realises what he's done. "Please, Garcia, can you do something? I really need to go." 

He doesn't hear her response beyond her surprised but emphatic Sure, spinning on his heel to walk back the way he came. He rubs at his temple, moving between a slow trudge and a speed walk as he assesses the damage of what he's said. What did he say? your dire need for attention. 

Your sniffing is something out of his fucking nightmares. Who does he think he is? You're sitting exactly where he left you next to that half empty coffee cup, a tissue scrunched in your trembling hands, visible in the small glass window of the door. You must be thinking of what he's said to have missed the sound of his footsteps, or perhaps he's left you too upset to want to look up. 

He sees the moment a sob works through you, watches you hold your breath in a painful effort to keep it down, raising the tissue to your eyes and catching your tears before they fall. You're doing a lacklustre job despite your efforts, the oily shine of mascara iridescent on your cheeks. Or maybe that's tear tracks. It's hard to tell. 

Spencer fights with himself. He doesn't know if deserves to come running back or if it would be more fair to send JJ or Derek in to comfort you. 

"You made your bed," his mom would say, not without affection. "You have to lie in it." 

Spencer squeezes his eyes closed to push away the memory, surveying the damage he's done carefully as he crosses the threshold back into the conference room. Your head lifts at the sound of the door, your stammer visible before you speak, "Spence– Spencer. Is your laptop okay? Did I break it? I'm so sorry." 

Gideon would tell Spencer to be nicer. Hotch would say Reid in that stern shade of voice that's half disapproval and half fondness. They'd both tell him to be better, but neither of them have ever had to see you as you look now, tearstained and sorry, eyes wide with worry but shoulders tense. He has his role models, and yet none of them could possibly give him a way to apologise that could ever make up for they way he's made you feel. 

Little dramatic, Morgan would say. Start with a hug, loverboy. Can't go wrong with a hug. 

He should ask but he doesn't, a second transgression against you. Spencer pushes past chair and the sodden circle of carpet to your chair, pausing in case you're going to tell him to shove it. You lick your lips. "Did I break it?" you ask, as though resigned for a yes  

He can't temper that amount of self-hatred on you. It doesn't suit you. He much prefers you the way you like to be, confident in everything, flirty and funny and soft, in both touch and touches. He takes your face into a careful hand, tilting it toward the light and weary of your shallow exhale. "I…" He begins and ends, stroking your tacky cheek with his index finger, as though brushing away an eyelash. If it were real he'd say make a wish, and you would wish for him or some similar sweetness, salacious smile to boot, or earnestness fit to fill a mountain. I wish you'd realise how pretty you are and stop denying me the pleasure of a beautiful boyfriend, you'd croon. 

His fingers collect at your jaw and slip behind your ear as he cleans your skin with the side of his thumb. You lean into the touch, slashing his hesitancy in two. 

"Sorry," he says, pulling your head toward his neck gently as he leans down to hold you. "I'm sorry. Don't be upset, please. Don't be upset " 

"I'm an idiot–" 

"No," he says, with the facts to back his denial. "I'm an idiot, I should never have upset you like this–"

"I broke your computer, it's just like you said–" 

"I shouldn't have–" 

"–I'm so needy I could've ruined all your hard work," you say, wriggling with guilt like you attempt to pull away. 

Spencer really doesn't want to let you go now he has you, not until he's sure you'll stay in one piece. "If it's ruined, it's my fault for failing to back it up." 

He should tell you that he's sorry for what he said. He knew it wasn't right he moment it escaped him, to speak to you like that, and accuse you of what he did. He basically called you selfish, uncaring. He implied it and worse, and for what? An accident? A mis-step that he practically forced you into? 

"I never should've said that to you," he says, breaking his hug to crouch in front front you, searching blindly for your hand as he holds eye contact, looking up. You deign to frown down. "And I walked away. And you're crying," —his voice fries with sympathy— "because of me." 

Your hand is limp in his. "I'm sorry," he says. 

"It's okay." You sniffle and nod, lips struggling into a smile. 

"It's not okay." 

"Well, I hit your coffee over, so we're even." 

"You accidentally spilled my drink, you didn't deserve to be mocked." 

"Spence…" Your eyes half-lidded, you wince down at the cradle of his hand where it holds yours. "Did I break it?" 

"I don't know. I got to Garcia's office and I knew I did the wrong thing, so I came back." 

You swallow audibly. "I just wanted to make you feel better." 

"I know." He stands again as your eyes well with tears to hug you, kissing the top of your head. "I'm sorry. That was all me, okay? I shouldn't have snapped at you." 

What follows is agony. Spencer patting your back through a panicked bubble of tears, wretched in knowing he caused it, and worse is the look you give him as he wipes your messed up make up away in want of a mirror, like you're grateful. 

"Does it look really bad?" 

"N–no. You look really pretty," he says. 

"Are my eyes puffy?"

A little. "No. You look great." He can't apologise anymore– it won't help you feel better now, it'll just assuage his own worry. What you need is a different reassurance. "It's hard not looking at you, sometimes, you look that nice. But you know that already." 

"I don't mean to do that. I didn't mean to." 

Spencer puts his hand above your heart. "I know you didn't. I really, really shouldn't have said it. I was being cranky and I struck out like a kid." 

"...You're not just saying I look nice to get back in the good books, are you?" you ask. 

Spencer leans in, nearly nose to nose with you. "Of course not." 

You tilt your head as though you might kiss him. He knows you won't and he's delighted anyways. It means you're feeling okay. He's nearly forgiven, or, at the very least, you're not actively upset. "I thought I liked seeing you pissed off, but now I'm not so sure." 

"It's not a good look on me," he murmurs. "But it looks great on you, if you want to get angry with me."

"Well now I can't. I know it's what you want." 

"Can I give you a hug?" he asks. 

You drop all your acts and slide your arms around his neck. He wraps you up slowly, one arm at a time, careful to put all the pressure exactly where you like it. 

"That feels nice," you mumble. 

He bends into you and rubs your back. "Yeah?" 

"Don't," you warn. 

He draws a shape into your back with his fingers, slow, tiny things that make you squirm. "Don't what?" 

"You're tickling me." You don't sound unhappy about it. 

"What?" he asks. "I can't hear you over the sound of me being a huge jackass. Sorry." 

Your giggle is honey into his shoulder, sticky and sluggish as his circles turn to stars.

[brainmuncher]

A mis-text-derstanding

After a long night of patrolling around Amity, Danny damn near collapsed onto his bed. His back ached from a stray ectoblast and his eyes felt heavier than a mountain. Technus had done something to the technology around the town. At random a piece of technology would suddenly go rogue with a virus the ghost implemented. The virus would make the item try to capture anyone in the vicinity using any means necessary. So Danny had been doing regular patrols around town to catch anyone who needed help.

That also means that his sleeping time had been radically reduced. Without even the energy to lift his head, Danny patted around for his phone. Once he finally found the device he hefted himself on his side with a groan. It was a new phone since he was the first casualty in Technus’ plan. Thankfully, Sam had given him another so his parents wouldn’t try to make him one. (Who knows what kind of ‘anti-ghost’ protection they would’ve put on it.)

Tucker had promised that he was working on fixing the virus going around. Hopefully, he had some kind of good news to share. As soon as Danny went to message him he realized he hadn’t downloaded their chat app to the new phone. With a sigh he knew that he would just have to use normal texting but with careful codewords.

Putting in Tucker's number with a yawn, Danny sent the first message.

‘It’s your undead bro. The night out tonight was killer. Any news on the techie progress?’

Danny smashed his face into his bed with a sigh after hitting send. Knowing Tucker he was probably face first in his laptop and won’t notice the message for a bit. He could probably just close his eyes and…

Before he could even consider taking a nap there was a generic jingle from the phone. He should really get to fixing that. Tuck deserves a much better ringtone than some bells.

‘Nothing noteworthy yet. It's harder to crack than normal but nothing I can't handle. Do you need me to take over for tomorrow?’

‘Also why aren't you using our chat?’

Danny squinted at the screen with a slight frown. It had been a while since Sam or Tucker tried to go out in his place. They learned pretty quickly that it made Danny way too anxious to have them out there without him. Something about not being there to protect them if they got over their heads made Danny’s chest ache. 

And of course, Tucker noticed that he wasn’t using the app he made. It was a bit glitchy at times, but what tech wasn’t when it came to Danny? Not only was it secure, but it became an easier way for them to establish a timeline for filing. Jazz had been the one who realized that they didn’t have steady information on not just the rouges but the events of the fights. It became a staple to write out what happened and what went wrong after hearing her lecture about it.

‘Don’t have it on this phone yet. And you know how I feel about you being out there.’

Danny watched the screen for a bit, waiting to see if Tucker would reply immediately again. His mom probably caught him on his computer all day and was forcing him to separate himself from it for a while. It wasn’t an uncommon thing for Ms. Foley to do.

‘Yeah yeah, Mr. Possessive. Do you need me to walk you through how to get it again?’

Snorting at the pun, Danny easily replied. If Tucker was feeling sassy enough to joke about that, then he would push some buttons back. It was a simple banter that they sometimes fell into.

‘You know how I get with technology. I’m more likely to break something. Especially since this phone is so new. Whatever happened to flip phones?’

Danny snickered to himself at the message. Tucker had an ongoing war between new and old technology. While he loved his PDA he also admired some of the top-of-the-line devices. It was like the past and the future mixed in his friend's room. He would gush about the new devices but also gush about the older ones that still had functions that the newer ones lost. But flip phones? That was the only technology he knew that Tucker hated. It was the worst of both worlds for him. He’d been so excited when Danny’s flip phone was bricked by Technus’ virus.

‘I’m going to ignore that you said that.’

‘Also there’s going to be trouble in the park near you tomorrow. I’m already planning on going. Do you want in?’

Scooting up from his lounged position, Danny started to write back his reply.

‘Of course, I’ll be there. Don’t need you to go in alone and join the dead. Unusual for him to leave his plans there though. That’ll be fun to write in the report.’

The image of Jazz reading about that brought a smile to Danny’s face. She always found it interesting when one of the ghosts would change a long-time behavior. The fact that Technus was able to keep this rather on the down low would guarantee her interest. He was always one to blatantly announce his plans to the world to hear. Even though it’s a bit of a pain that he’s learning to keep things to himself it would peak Jazz’s curiosity, which made it bearable.

‘It is weird. And don’t remind me about the report. I still have the one from last week to write and I don’t want to do it.’

That made Danny laugh to himself a little. Last week the lunch lady tried to embrace the Ultra-Recyclo Vegetarian life. In the overflow of food, Tucker had gotten trapped in veggies. He was visibly green from having to eat some to escape. Sam had been excited about it at first before she saw how much food was being wasted. She ended up getting attacked for trying to explain the damage overconsumption and food waste could bring.

‘You looked like you wanted to vomit afterward. Well, at least we are prepared this time. We don’t always get that chance.’

Danny stretched out his stubborn limbs, feeling himself try to sink into the darkness. He’d have to end the conversation sooner rather than later. At this rate, he wouldn’t have a choice on whether he was taking a nap or not. At the familiar sound of bells, he looked back down at the conversation.

‘Unfortunately. Well, I’ll be finished by the time we meet at the park. I know you usually like to sleep after a long night.’

The reply made Danny’s core feel fuzzy with happiness. Tucker always knows him so well. He doesn’t know what he did to get such a fantastic best friend. It was at times like these that Danny knew he was so glad that they were in this together. With two of his best friends at his side, it made being a vigilante so much easier to bear. 

‘Thanks. Remember that not just the dead get to sleep. Don’t push yourself. Goodnight.’

With that, Danny felt comfortable with setting his phone down to get changed into pajamas. It ached on his back to take off his shirt, but Jazz would be disappointed in the morning if he didn’t. She always got that pinched look on her face when he didn’t take care of himself to her standards. Her standards weren’t exactly high up either so it made him feel extra upset when he missed the mark.

Being careful to not lie on his back, Danny got back into his bed. He curled himself into the blankets with a small smile. One last chime of bells rang out in the room, probably from Tucker saying goodnight back. Picking up his phone, he opened up the lock screen and looked at his messages.

Instead of a goodnight, his stomach dropped as he realized a different number messaged him. A very familiar number.

‘Hey dude! I know you had to get a new phone so this is me. Not only did I figure out how it’s spreading, I think I finally found a way to get rid of the virus.’

Practically throwing himself off the bed, Danny got to his feet. Both his back and his mind screamed at him as he looked over the message. He tapped back to the one he’d just been replying to, finding his heart stopping at the string of numbers. One of the area code numbers was a six instead of a nine. He’d been messaging a stranger this entire time.

Looking back at the messages he convinced himself that it was fine. He was vague enough to not be recognized. It wasn’t like this person was from Amity. They won’t recognize the correlation between him and Phantom. Surely the other person wouldn’t take his words at face value. 

Worst comes to worst he can have Tucker take over his phone for a bit and make sure the other person can’t find out who he is. He hadn’t bought the phone or had it under his name in any way, so they could only find out from the conversation alone.

Breathing out a breath of air he kissed his night of sleep goodbye.

‘I’ll be over in a sec Tuck. I think I just made a mistake.’

[evilminji]

O.O!!! :Dc wait a second.... Aquaman >.>

Good JOB Brain! That IS a good idea!

Don't know if YOU GUYS all know this? But Arthur? Son of a Lighthouse keeper and the Queen of Atlantis? THAT Arthur Curry aka. Orin? Has CONSIDERABLY enhanced durability. Like... *hit by a car* "ha. Cute." Enhanced.

It's because of the DEEP Sea water pressure he's built for.

I bring this up? Because the man is a legit BAMF. Absolutely TERRIFYING near any body of water. Dude has SUPER STRENGTH AND HYDROKINESIS. Not ONLY are YOU filled with water, but every street corner in the world has pipes! He is NEVER not armed.

That's not including the "yes I can ask a lobster to take your dick off" thing.

But most of all? He has the RAGE. The lifetime of injustice after injustice. His home under attack, his people suffering and regarded as LESS. The poison dumped into their air. Their lands taken, PRESUMED the property of land dwellers.

Treated as criminals and monsters should they DARE defend themselves.

Yet? He is a leader. A husband, father, mentor. The death of his child can not take from him that title. Nor years numb that pain. He strives to be good. Be wise. Live well.

Yet? There is once AGAIN fuckery in his ocean. Some "secret" lab. Poking at a swirling green portal. At the BOTTOM OF THE SEA. For God's sake, they DO REALIZE, you can't HIDE things from him down here, RIGHT?

It looks radioactive.

He refuses to have that so close to Atlantis.

Sends a notice up to the Watchtower, a call back to his Wife, and leads the gaurd team in. Painfully easy, really. Bog standard humans, caught off gaurd. Right until one of them does something... stupid.

He tries to blow the place. Destroy evidence. It would kill all of them. Which is not Arthur's main concern. No, what IS? Is that it would dump radioactive SOMETHING into the waters near Atlantis.

He dives forward. They struggle. A button is smashed and...

Their containment field drops.

They had been keeping it in a perfect vacuum.

Arthur is sucked in.

Watches, in free fall, as his men's faces turn to horror. As they desperately dive to follow him. Loyal. True. But ultimately too late. He curses himself as he loses sit of them. But forces himself to focus, twist, get his feet under him. His is in air, above LAND.

He hits HARD.

But not the ground like he had planned.

He's slamed, at an awkward, frantic, angle and knocked off course. His weight crashing down onto a scrawny slip of a boy, who weezes and struggles to get a proper grip. His arms not quite long enough to go all the way around his barrel of a chest.

He helps, by slinging an arm over his young savior.

Only then, does he notice, the tiny crown of ice and nebula, poking at a jaunty angle from the child's head.

Their landing would be rough, had Arthur not caught them, once he gets close enough to the ground. The young royal gasping for air, having clearly pushed his limits to get to Arthur in time. He hauls himself up. Not yet a man, but not as young as Arthur feared. His eyes glow.

"Hoooly SHIT. Are you okay?! I hit you really hard! I'm so, SO sorry! I panicked! And-"

Honestly? A little bruised. But nothings he's going to ADMIT too.

More concerning? The injuries.

There's a screech of tires turning sharp corners. Sirens getting closer. The young king whips around. Terror seeping onto his face. It gives Arthur an unobstructed view of pointed ears, softly glowing skin with star like freckles, and scars that creep up the child's neck. He does not like the picture being painted.

"We have to GO. Now. Please, I'll explain in a moment! But we have to go NOW!"

Really, REALLY does not like the picture. And he has WAYS of dealing with such things as this. But safety first. Prioritize the children. They go. He vows to get answers. And all around Amity? Certain individuals days are NUMBERED.

@babbling-babull @hdgnj @the-witchhunter @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation @lolottes @nerdpoe

[writersdrug]

My brain is open to your bartender Ghost thoughts

Give me them all 🙏

Lordy this au isn't even an hour old and I have so many thoughts

He doesn't really know what to expect when you come in the morning after the interview. At eight am sharp, he watches as you trudge inside, wearing ripped tights, shorts, knock off combat boots, and a baggy shirt that's messily tucked into your waistline. It looks like you had put on eye liner last night and gone to bed, black lines smudged in a perfect "bedhead" look.

"Really?" He asks, arms folded and muscles buddging. "Come t' the interview in a skirt 'n dress shirt, n' show up t' the first shift lookin' like a wannabe biker chick?"

You scoff, pulling your hair up into a bun. "Didn't realize I'd be walking into the asscrack of "The Devil Wears Prada"..."

He huffs and shakes his head. You hve tough skin - good.

He had Soap come in early that day - poor man usually worked between 4 pm 'til whenever Ghost decided to close. He's still rubbing his eyes and yawning when a pen and spiral notepad are shoved into your hands, Simon pushing you towards towards the cook's table with a hand on your back.

"Hey, welcome to the 141." You say, no attempt at politeness in your tone. Ghost huffs fondly, appreciating how you cut through the bullshit. "Any appetizers today?"

"None o' that keech," Soap says, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching his brow. "Canna have a rusty nail 'n th' smash grunded, wel doon 'n with the bun scud - cannae stand th' aoli. Chips oan the side."

You stare at him, eyes wide in disbelief, before turning to Ghost. "Do they all sound like that?"

He grunts. "If they're drunk."

"Are you drunk?" You ask Soap.

"Feck if I know, tryin' tae figure it oot myself." He groans.

Ghost helps you decipher the words Soap had vomited out. You successfully punch it into the POS, only needing a few pointers from the giant over your shoulder. For the rest of the morning amd afternoon, he taeaches you which button on the soda gun was which, the difference between tonic water and club soda, how to run the industrial sanitizer - with a "ye best make sure that shite is rinsed 'fore ye stick em in there" from Soap - where the new kegs go when Gaz brings them in, where to find napkins and condiments in the walkin, how to cut fruit for the bar, and lastly, how to split your tips.

"But why do I have to pay you?" You ask Ghost, sitting at a table with your calculator app on your phone and a basket of fries between the two of you. "You make loads of tips just pouring liquor."

He chuckles, watching you pop a fry into your mouth. "'N you get a cut of sales from the kitchen, since you're part of it."

You perk up at that. "I do?"

"Seven percent." He confirms. "A decent payout on weekends."

"And Soap doesn't get tips."

"Johnny boy gets paid by th' hour."

"I don't?"

"If ya do well enough, ya won't have to." He says, resting his meaty forearms on the table. "You'll be walkin' out with hundreds."

You chew your lip nervously; Simon's eyes linger on the movement, shifting his weight - the polyester seat creaks beneath him as he observes you fretting silently, the silence only broken by the sound of Soap prepping in the kitchen. "Don' worry too much 'bout it. You're young - jus' keep a smile on 'n you'll be fine. Soap 'n I got your back tonight, but I'm not pickin' up your slack after the week passes."

The fry you're steering towards your mouth falls to the table as Simon stands up. "Tonight?!" You exclaim, shimmying out of the booth.

"Yep. Sixteen hundred."

You glance at your phone. "That's in an hour!" There are kegs stacked by the front door, unpolished and enrolled silverware on the bar top, and half of the chairs are still stacked on the countertops.

"Best get to work then, hmm?" Ghost says, grabbing a container of lemons and moving behind the bar.

[forsworned]

⠀⠀⠀˗ˏˋbumblin fool ft. poly!tf141ˎˊ˗

꒰ঌa/n໒꒱ i'm just writing whatever comes to mind at this point, bc i think it's fun to write about how tf 141 would react to a female being on their squad, even if its a bit delusional lol more so on my part but oooohhh welll

꒰warning(s)suggested polyship, fluff꒱

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀˗ˏˋrequests are openˎˊ˗

"How many fingers am I holdin' up?"

Simon's gaze was locked onto her and her lips split into a grin, so clearly dazed and wanting to giggle at his awful attempt at trying to test if she had been concussed from the fall she had just taken moments ago. Fortunately, Simon was able to scoop her up after her head smashed against the pavement, lucky to not have split her skull open but not lucky enough to not have a small knot on her right temple.

"You serious?" She giggled, swaying a bit to the side but he held her still. He couldn't help the annoyed huff that slipped from his lips, but there was a glimmer of amusement behind his eyes. His eye black that had been smeared against his eyes hours ago was now faded from the rain that had drenched them. Even in her allegedly concussed state she read Simon like a book. Always wanting to know all his ticks so she could push the right buttons, usually working in her favor more than her detriment. However, she really couldn't speak for her other teammates.

"Yes, 'm bloody serious. Now answer the question." It was almost playful the way he responded to her. Not wanting to give too much away, but also not wanting to be too rough around the edges for her. God knows he didn't want another go around of the same tears and pouty lips until he had to muster up the pluck to apologize.

Kyle, Johnny and Price couldn't help but chuckle at the scene unfolding in front of them. Luckily the incident had happened on their way back from the bar and not in the middle of a mission. Her usual state of bumbling around, and tripping over thin air was a rather large contrast to how tactful and agile she was on the field. She tapped her chin for a moment with that giddy smile. "Hmm, four?"

Simon glanced between her cute and incompetent expression and his two fingers and then back to her. Kyle was the first to burst out into laughter.

"Bloody hell." Simon groaned as the others chuckled.

"Got ye a concussion, don't y'lassie?" Johnny brushed the hair out of her eyes and she smiled sweetly up at him.

"Bumblin' fool." Simon shook his head.

"Jus a clumsy duck off th'field, aren't ya?" Price grinned, as he softly pinched her cheek. She licked her lips as she wriggled into his touch, feeling the rough pads of his fingers tickle her soft skin. A girly mirth errupting from her and she cowered away playfully from him. A wry grin on Simon's face as he observed the interaction and held her steady once more.

"Well, she's definitely concussed." Kyle laughed again, playing with a strand of her hair. She hummed in content.

"Y'think that's somethin' to be happy about?" Simon's vexation bubbling to the surface at her lack of concern and at his teammate's lack of intiative. All of them at her side, cooing at her in her wobbly and whimisical state and more than ready to take care of her. He pinched the bridge of nose. No wonder she was so giddy.

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

a/n: 2.1k w.count- boothill needs a lil tune up [...y'all should've seen this one comin' honestly]

you're not sure why you bother setting an alarm every time you go to sleep. you don't even know when you'll be sleeping for one; it could be in the afternoon, it could be in the morning, it could be for ten minutes at your workbench, and on the rare occasion, you can even go to bed at night like everyone else. although, that last option when blessed upon you, never lasted the whole night.

as for the original dilemma of alarm clocks? who needs 'em! the critters getting into your shop and wrecking your tools around were a surefire way to get your blood pumping with a wild chase around the shop with a hefty, swinging wrench. kids stopping by to see the newest hunk-of-junk thing you've been tinkering with or maybe even bringing you some toy to fix with whimpering chins are always sure to keep you awake- you couldn't send them away with smashed hopes. perhaps it was a good natured older lady or gentlemen just stretching their legs one fine morning after you had pulled an all nighter, but now you have to entertain their gossip well into the morning past the ass-crack of dawn because you can't be a bad host!

this instance, however, just so happens to be the familiar sound of heavy, metal boots clanking their way through the shop's public entrance. the sound of the stomping reverberates around your small little rest room at the back of your shop through the camera feed you keep running at all hours (mostly for those critters previously mentioned). having just fallen asleep on top of being hyperaware of sounds from the feed, your eyes fly open. with a well-overdramatic, one-person show worthy groan evolved to frustrated yell, you were throwing your shabby blanket off your legs.

"wakey, wakey!" the synthetic voice of an overly familiar man projects into your room.

you stomp across the room in two short strides. slamming your palm down on a button attached to a small table with all sorts of other switches and knobs, the small indicator that audio is feeding from your microphone kicks on as red as your temper.

"the hell do you want?" you growl, voice muffled at the end of your exhausted question by your free hand running down your face. you hear his voice chuckle on the other end. peering through your fingers into the video screen, he had moved to stand away from your shop door. his arms are crossed across his metallic chest, chin tilted up so his one eye can gaze into the camera that follows his movements.

"now, now, sugar," he chuckles, "just open the door, would ya'? i could use some fixin' up." as if trying to coax you into letting him in, he waves one of his arms around by the elbow.

you're not sure if he heard you click your tongue before you lifted your hand off the audio feed button, but he chuckles nonetheless as the soft click of disconnection echoes on his end. he knew you'd come racing to the door... well, at the very least you wouldn't leave him out to dry.

the cowboy dips his chin and chuckles under his breath as the brim of his hat shadows his face. he could hear you stomping your way towards him and just imagining your irritated face with a possibly twitching brow was highly amusing to him.

the door in front of his toes swings open inwards and the rush of air as it did so flutters his long bangs that always covered the right side of his face. his chin rises a fraction, and he was right. your face was assuming.

standing in a wrinkled shirt that you no doubt had been trying to sleep in, arms crossed and a crease so deep in your brows he was tempted to push his thumb between them.

"well," he starts, swaying his hunk of metal bodyweight to one of his equally metal legs, "ain't you a sight for sore eyes."

"what. do you want." you hiss. before he gives you a verbal answer, his arm swings down and swipes something from his pocket before presenting it in front of your face. your eyes nearly go crossed to examine it. then you're looking back up at him, not any more amused than before. "is this supposed to be a bribe?"

the cowboy shrugs playfully, twisting the covered candied sucker between his fingers.

"do ya' want it to be?"

you roll your eyes, bringing your arm up to snatch the small boost of sugar from him. "just get in here, boothill." you sigh, free hand coming to rub your forehead. turning your body to retreat back into your home, the clanking of him following behind echoes at your back.

boothill whistles at the state of the familiar shop he'll find himself in from time to time for quick fix-ups. a workbench loaded with heaps of scrap metal, tools, random bobbles, and screws all littered on top of pages and printed blueprints of projects or repairs. it's even more of a chaotic mess than last time. he sits on the stool he normally snags as his when he's here and, without speaking, you're hooking up a small machine attached to the wall next to the bench and offering him the end of a circular cord.

"need a charge?" you ask with a small lisp from the candy you had already unwrapped and placed in your mouth against your cheek.

"well, why not," he entertains. taking the thick, extendable cord from your hand and plugging it into the port on his lower back.

you flit around a few other places before your snagging a stoll for yourself and placing it in front of his knees. you push some estranged tools around with your forearm and, while moving your sucker from one cheek to the other, you begin to maneuver your hair out of your face.

boothill enjoys watching you in this way. it felt familiar- just seeing someone move around in rather mundane ways. this small sense of domesticity was familiar and comfortable. it calmed him; reminding him of home.

"what's the problem?" you finally ask, looking a tad bit more awake and more or less ready to work on whatever issue he had to present.

his right arm moves to cross his lap and his palm bangs twice on his opposing forearm where his internal revolver barrel is.

"i got myself in quite a fuss with this dang thing. forkin' bullet got jammed in the goose-dud thing and i can't even pop the barrel open to reload it."

you stare at him like he just said the dumbest thing you've ever heard. "you came all the way here. because your arm got jammed by a bullet." the way you spoke sounded exactly how you looked at him.

"this ain't no one-handed fix, sugar." you stay quiet, not willing to admit he had a point. using both hands to not only try and pop open the jam, but also tinker around with what was essentially his whole arm's motion control- that did require a bit more finesse than just slamming his arm on a wall until it gave way... which is precisely what you could imagine him doing.

"fine," you yield. "take off that sorry excuse of a 'jacket' unless you want that sleeve covered in oil."

you twist away from him, half-standing at a strange angle to reach across your workbench for something as the satisfying sound of the bottom of his small zipper unlatches. shrugging it off, he tosses it onto your bench, covering a few loose tools and scribblings of paper.

you fully get out of your stool and trot over to the other side of the shop to roll over a smaller table with a metal tub. you wheel it to his left and, without instruction, boothill lays his arm over it.

as you begin to tinker around with his arm, picks, pliers, oil and all working on trying to dislodge the stray bullet that had caused such an issue, boothill has taken to lounging comfortably as he watches.

his right arm, free of any issues or problem fixing, was propped up on the corner of your workbench at his side with his forearm resting along the edge. his metal fingers had snagged a stray nail from the workspace and had been twirling it absent-mindedly between his knuckles like a bullet.

the only words spoken between you both as you worked was the occasional quick apology if something you did prods against a wire that sent a shock up his arm or made his fingers twitch.

"easy. last thing we need ya' doin' is settin' my gun off, sugar," he had told you. just because his arm machinery wasn't properly loaded- ain't nothing was stopping you from accidentally relodging the bullet and sending it through your wall. the sudden discharge coupled with his exposed wires could easily kick his arm back with enough recoil to knock you clean out with how close you were leaning in to see what you were doing.

"okay..!" you whisper to yourself before the sound of something sliding down in his arm is followed by a sensation; one he was almost familiar with. "give me a wrench. heavy," you instruct. on hand was spread across his forearm just at the start of the revolver barrel, the other outstretched towards your bench. grabbing the nearest one, he slaps it into your palm.

with a two, heavy whacks using your newly acquired wrench, you slam the barrel shut and boothill lets out a small breath.

"now, that feels a heck of a lot better," he chuckles. you reach around his forearm, release the tension latch and the barrel swings out successfully. with your pliers, you easily remove one problematic, greasy bullet. "knew i could count on you to get the job done."

"and thanks to you, my hands are gross," you chide. fingers greased in oil. boothill grabs a rag from your workbench drawer and tosses it over your sullied hands. you start working the cloth between your fingers the moment it hits your skin. "i recommend you stick around and charge up before heading out on whatever you got lined up next."

"shucks, you mean it?" you can't tell if he's genuinely thankful you'd allow him to stay or if he was just being facetious. once your hands were at least dry, you start using it to wipe down his arm next.

"course i do. i'll have to give you a quick check again before you go. i'll mess around and try and make it so it doesn't jam like that again. whatever tech-doc you worked with before really needed to focus on the finer details." boothill wondered if you knew that you had lifted his newly repaired limb and started rotating and twisting it like you were admiring your work. like you were admiring him.

"they don't matter no more," he tells you. "i got ya' now, don't i? who needs some random rear shirt-bag, when i got the best in the forkin' business right here?"

"careful now. flattery will get your everywhere."

"no shirt?"

"watch your mouth," you tease before you stand. "i mean it though. stay put and charge."

"i ain't no stupid electronic," he clicks. his body moves and twists so both of his arms are now leaning on the workbench behind him. both elbows supporting him as his arms dangle off the ledge. "but I hear ya'." his eye shuts under the shadow of his hat.

his eye reopened no sooner than it shut when the shadow caused by the brim of his cowboy hat disappeared and the light of your shop flitered through his eyelids. with a clear, open eye, he lifts his chin to see you standing in front of him.

you had pinched the brim of his hat between your fingers, snatching it off his head and revealing the fullness of his long, dual-colored hair and cross-hair-infused eye. you take his hat and nonchalantly toss it behind his right shoulder to avoid getting any residual oil from his left arm on it.

"take your damn hat off inside my shop will you? you don't need it." you turn away from him as he continues to stare at your back, slack jawed. you mutter something about washing your hands and arms before you disappear behind a doorway and around the corner of the wall. he'd been in the entirety of your shop before, so he knows where you went but all he could think about was you flicking his hat off him.

the cowboy let his head fall backward, the hair on the backside of his skull tangling with screws and pencils as his right hand comes to rest over his face. he can hear the water running in the other room.

"ah, son of a nice lady...!"

boothill has really got to tell you not to mess with his hat.

a/n: one day i'll write a flirty hat rule fic. *sigh* one day.

[bbyhellfire]

curiosity gets the best of eddie when he finds your hitachi (18+ only)

perv!eddie munson x fem!reader, eddie has a bilbo baggins 'why shouldn't i?' moment, male masturbation, prostate stimulation, imaginary bj and p in v, unrequited love, he's gross and pathetic and lovesick (don't use your friend's sex toys w/o their permission), no beta this is not that serious

Eddie could qualify for the Olympics with the amount of hoops he’s jumping through.

He gets it. Laying naked in your friend’s bed as you debate whether or not to use their sex toy is not a good look. But it’s not like that, okay? 

Listen.

First of all, he did not break in. He’s staying at your apartment to watch your cat while you’re out of town. Him lounging in your bed isn’t weird, it's expected.

He wasn’t snooping, either. He was searching. After spending the day hunched over a Ford Taurus, his aching back was demanding he find that bottle of ibuprofen you kept on your nightstand. And when it wasn't in its usual spot, the only logical next step was for Eddie to check your nightstand's drawer. And he did find the ibuprofen, thank you very much. He just also found something else. 

It was hard not to notice. Not just because Hitachi wands are bulky, but because it was sitting right there in the open. No clothes or knick-knacks to hide it, just...there. And he knows what it is. He's seen enough porn to know when he's face to face with a Hitachi.

See? He's not some creep who can't control his crush. He wasn't looking for your sex toy, it found him.

And he tried to forget about it. Really. Slammed the drawer closed so so quickly he almost smashed his fingers. He even took a long, ice cold shower to keep himself from chubbing up. Thought about anything and everything except for his recent discovery– car transmissions, his next DnD campaign, Wrestlemania, Wayne's mug collection, anything to get his mind off of you. Which is easier said than done when he’s using your soap to scrub away the car grime and shame.

It's no wonder his cock remains semi-hard for the rest of the evening. He discovered his crush’s vibrator. Who moves on from that? Like, are you really pining over your friend if you aren't hyperfixating on their sex toy?

Besides, Eddie is a naturally curious person. He’s seen his fair share of porn and all the actors seem to have a grand ol’ time when there's a Hitachi between their legs. He wouldn’t mind trying one himself, but they’re expensive. Sure, he’s got a stable job at Thacher Tire, but he’s not in a tax bracket where he can drop $100 on casual curiosity. 

But now…

It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, he reasons, thumb ghosting over the power button in debate. That logic is how he ends up in his current position – naked in your bed with his cock resting against his tummy as he inspects your wand.

It’s heavier than he imagined, the noticeable weight only rivaled by the angel on his shoulder yelling at him to put it back. But it's your toy. He's had a crush on your longer than he'd like to admit. And no matter how many times Steve pushes him to ask you out, he's certain you don't feel the same. You're just friends, and this might be his only opportunity to know you on a more intimate level.

A fucked up, kinda gross and intrusive opportunity, but still. Beggars can't be choosers.

And right now, Eddie can't help thinking how it's oh so very interesting that you left your wand out in the first place. You knew he’d be staying at your place, sleeping in your bed. There was a chance he’d stumble across it. You could have made an effort to hide it, but you didn't. You left it there for anyone to see, for Eddie to see. 

Did you want him to find it? Did you want him to think of you using it?

Because if that was your plan, it's sure as hell working. His last functioning brain cell work to conjure up various images of you laid out in the very spot he is now in, pleasuring yourself until your whole body shakes and your thighs are drenched.

Wait, could you squirt?

The women in porn usually squirt. Even the men come so hard it hits the ceiling. He shifts in your bed, imaging the pretty green sheets beneath him soaked with your juices as he brings the wand closer to his face.

The buttons are a little faded and there are some tiny scratches, but no major signs of use. The wand is clean, and obviously cared for. Which now has Eddie thinking how long you've had it. How often do you use it? Enough to make the plastic smell like you? He wonders…

Smashing his nose against the plastic, he inhales until his lungs balloon out. The smell of plastic hit him first, following by a muted scent that tickles his nostrils. Natural musk and sweat.

Jesus H. Christ, he is smelling you. 

He can’t bite back the low rumble from escaping, groaning as if he's being tortured. His cock twitches against his tummy, a fat pearl of precum budding at the tip. There’s no turning back now. Not when he kitten licks the bulbous head picturing your cunt in its place. He thinks of how good you'd taste, how wet and shiny you'd be as he dips into your hole.

Fuck it. It’s a one time thing. You won’t be home for another two days. The only potential witness to his debauchery is your cat, and they’re too distracted with a catnip toy in your living room.

“No one will know, they won’t,” He tells himself, taking one final sniff before grabbing a hold of his cock. He might not be able to step foot into your bedroom ever again, and there's a chance he won't be able to look you in the eyes, but, hey, that’s a problem for future Eddie.

It takes him a second to find a comfortable position, eventually settling to hold the wand perpendicular to his cock as he leans back against the headboard.

Just once to know what it feels like, he thinks. There is about a centimeter of space between the wand and his cock, but it's still close enough to make his breath hitch when he pushes down on the power button.

“Fuck!”

His stomach seizes, muscles tightening so violently he all but sits up. Jerking the wand away from him, he tries to compose himself as the toy makes his entire arm shake. It’s embarrassingly loud even on the lowest setting, but holy shit is it powerful. It hadn’t even touched him, but Eddie still shook in shocked bliss. He and an ex occasionally messed around with a mini pocket vibrator, but this. This is otherworldly.

And perhaps now would be a good place to stop. He's tried it, knows it could raise the dead. Pack it in, Munson. Put it back where you found it. Right?

Right.

Except his lack of self-control has doubled in size and devoured the last crumb of common sense he possessed. He's already started, might as well finish. He's already corrupted your friendship, at least let him get an orgasm out of it.

This time he lets the wand kiss his cock to send brutal ripples across his throbbing erection. With motorized tremors traveling all the way down to his balls, he imagines you on your knees, working his pants and boxers down so you could take out his cock. You bring him towards your mouth, stopping mere centimeters away, much like he had done with the wand. Your hot breath is fanning out against the underside of his cock as you say, “You have such a pretty cock, Eddie. Can I kiss it?”

“Y–yeah. Go on, sweetheart.”

As Imaginary You kisses the tip, he pulls the wand back just enough to dull the pulsing. He pretends the sensation is your mouth, kissing all the way around his tip. Down and around until your lips shine with his precum.

His groans are barely audible above the loud buzzing. He keeps his cock still, letting the wand trace the path of a particularly thick vein as he pretends it's your tongue. He imagines stroking the back of your head, coaxing you to take him into your mouth.

“Doin’ so good, sweetheart. Look so pretty with your mouth full of my cock. D'you know that?” 

You move your head in a disjointed nod, tears puddling in the corners of your eyes as the warmth of your mouth envelopes him. His fist tightens around his cock at the thought of you moaning with your mouth stuffed of him.

“Go on, you can take a little more.” 

It's not the vibrator that is shooting sparks of arousal through his cock, it's you and your moans. He ruminates on his fantasy, imagines you kissing and sucking like he's your favorite flavor of ice cream. Slowly moving the wand up and down until he’s built up the courage to take the wand lower.

The closer he gets to his balls, the more his cock leaks until it looks like he dumped on a bottle of lube on his crotch. He thinks of you grinding against the floor, his cock thrusting in and out of your mouth, until the vibrating head is nestled in the space between his cock and his balls. In his mind, you match his desperation by grinding against his boot, shining it with your slick.

Eddie teeters on the edge of release, panting like he’s run a marathon, his cock now an angry shade of purple. He's not gonna last for long. A fucking toy has reduced him to a virgin whose just watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High for the first time.

Shit. Now he's thinking about tits.

Your tits. He's never seen them, but he does remember all those hot, summer days spent cooling off at Lover's Lake. He can work with that. If there is anything DnD and tonight have proven, it's that he’s got a damn good imagination.

His broken whimpers match the way his thoughts slowly break off into disconnected clips as he hurtles himself closer to release. Your boobs cushioning his face. Him sucking bruises into your skin. Him notching himself at your entrance. You squirming so much he has to hold your hips down.

“Come on, Eddie. Need it, need you. I’ve been good.”

He’s drooling at the thought of your pussy, pulsing and warm and so fucking inviting as he sinks into your heat. You’re moaning too, whining his name as if you crave him as much as he craves you.

“Ohmygod, I feel you. Feel so good.”

“There you go, taking me so good. Wanted this for so long you don’t even know.”

The loud buzzing eggs him on, making his hips buck with little grace. He's not doing it for the extra stimulation, but as a visceral response to the heightened passion of the moment. It's everything working in tandem – the wand, his fantasies, and the piece of him that wishes this could become a reality. He can’t sit still, not when pleasure is this good.

The waves of dizzying pleasure carry him closer to oblivion, just a bit more and he'll be there.

Eddie's next move is consequential. Letting go of his cock, he moves to cups his heavy balls, tugging them up just enough to push the wand head into the space below his balls. The noise he makes is wild, animalistic in the way his vocal cords constrict, as the fierce vibrations spread all the way to his asshole. The feeling sinks into his flesh, radiating through his taint to shale his prostate.

He recalls every instance when you called his name, the soundtrack to his fantasy. He feels the phantom pressure of your heels digging into his lower back. You keep him locked in place, as if he would have left you.

"Eddie, please! Come inside me. W–want your cum."

He does his best to imagine what it would be like to pump you full, to feel you pulse around him, to smell his cologne mix with your sweat, to see his release dripping out of you. He needs it, needs you. The hand holding the wand went numb ages ago, but he still manages to extend a finger to turn up the intensity.

From there, it's a combustion of stars. Groaning, body shaking with little remorse, Eddie spills his seed in thick ropes. He's levitating off the bed, he has to be with how intense this orgasm is. All he can do to soothe himself is call your name until he is reduced to the cum covering his abdomen.

He can't remember when or how he turned off the wand, but it’s now on the floor. Quietude falls over your tiny apartment, and somehow it's more deafening than the motorized buzzing. It hits him like a heavy gust of wind, blowing in a profound sense of shame for what he just did.

Fuck. Did he…? Did that actually happen?

“Oh God,” He groans. Yeah, he really did that. His embarrassment is hot like fire and as rough as brimstone. He knows he needs to clean up and hide the evidence of his perversion, but he lays paralyzed at the inevitable consequences of his actions. Eddie is a mess, both physically and mentally.

Messy Munson, that's his new name.

Or maybe it's not that bad, he thinks. Maybe it just seems like that. He dares himself to look down at his spent cock and–

Jesus H. Christ, he didn't know one person could produce that much cum.

His abdomen is flooded, there is cum pooled in his belly button, and the thatch of pubic hair is glued together from his seed. And of course, it couldn't just stay in it's place, it's had to drip down to soil your sheets.

Throwing his head back into your pillow, he shuts his eyes as if the sight pains him. He did this and he's got to fix it. There is absolutely no way that you can find out about this. As he stands on shaky, Bambi legs, he starts a mental checklist:

Take another shower

Wash your sheets

Resist the urge to do it again

Clean your wand and place it back exactly as it was

Forget about your Hitachi (like, actually forget this time)

Figure out how to act like nothing ever happened

Do NOT do it again

divider by @/strangergraphics

[luvsfics]

SNEAKING AROUND W/ DAVOS — davos “benjicot” blackwood x betrothed!reader

[ sex content, oral sex, handjob, pre-marital sexual relations, cum-eating ]

The woman’s back arched off of the warm sheets of her betroth’s bed as he devoured her cunt like he was a starved man.

She couldn’t take it, her hips acted as if they had a mind of their own, humping the face of her betrothed as his tongue licked at her entrance and his pretty button nose caught on her throbbing bud.

His big hands gripped onto her shaking thigh. His face was buried in between her perfect legs, he could die here and be happy.

His lips wrapped around her swollen bud, sucking and licking at the ball of nerves and bringing her terribly close to her much needed peak.

Her fingers gripped tightly onto his shaggy locks as her muscles began to tighten. The moans and whimpers just fell out of her, she couldn’t do anything to stop them, nor did she want to.

“Fuck- my love-!” She came to her release with a gasp.

Davos drank up her release, sending her into a whimpering mess of overstimulation. “no more..” she pushed his head away from her dripping core.

He sat up with a smirk painted on his face, licking his lips of her arousal.

“I need you…davos..” she said as she placed a hand on his throbbing cock. His breeches were the only thing on his body, her fingers pulled the strings and unlaced them slowly.

“I will not dishonor you in further ways than I already have.” He laid his forehead against her own. They only had mere weeks till their wedding, why wait?

“But I want you too-“

“No, I will not.” He said sternly.

She grabbed his hard cock from inside of his unlaced breeches, “then let me please you as well.” She pressed a soft kiss on his lips, collecting the arousal from the tip of his cock and using it to help her stroke his length.

His head fell onto her shoulder in pleasure. He watched as the woman he loved so much stroked him so well, her hand paying much attention to the tip.

“Feel good, my sweet?” She asked, his hips rutting up into her fist. He grunted out a yes. Only little moans and grunts came from the man, yet he was in immense pleasure.

His cock throbbed in her hand. “Fuck-“ he gasped. Her pace quickened, his peak was near.

She smashed her lips onto his, forcing her tongue into his mouth. It all began to be too much for him. The feeling of it all took over his body, he released all over her hand and her lower stomach, painting them a milky white.

She giggled into his mouth, playful biting his lip before breaking the kiss. “You are something else, woman.” He mumbled with a smile. They both sat up, he began to clean her up with a cloth.

She licked his spend from her fingers as she stared up at him with an innocent gaze, “you little minx-“ he pushed her back onto the bed, ready to ravish her once more.