#because fuck thanksgiving honestly

[neondiamond]

.

[fratboykate]

How's the strike going? I'm poor and can't do anything, but I do wish you the best.

Lol I'm poor too. And if you ask me, actors are 100% striking next week so...we're in this for a whiiiiiiile longer 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 We knew this was going to go into at least August but it's like....actually dire now. It's also existential tho so...we can't stray. Short term pain for long term gain.

[beloved-child-of-the-house]

I grew up in LA but haven’t met thaaaat many famous ppl like I can count them on one hand. But my favorite celebrity proximity story for myself is that I met Phoebe Bridgers before she was famous because she used to busk at the farmer’s market in the town where we both lived. I tried to buy a CD from her and she said she didn’t have a CD and I should look her up on MySpace and I was like ugh as if

[factionsparadox]

im australian and ive always found the idea of thanksgiving so fucked up

[stonesandswords]

…

[mywritersmind]

SAVIOR - LN4

summary : When y/n’s absent neighbor shows up, causing her great annoyance with smoke and repetitive beeping, she marches over to tell the man off but is met with a handsome face and strong hands that are in distress.

listen up : no warnings!! lando’s hands>>

word count : 631

⋆｡‧˚⋆

The sound won’t fucking stop.

I hadn't been worried before, just sitting back with my ice cream and gossip girl, until I smelt the smoke.

I groan, yeah sure there may be a fire but nothing is more important than the thanksgiving episode! I pull in a baggy off the shoulder shirt to cover my bra and walk out into the hall.

I slam my knuckle against the door. Who the fuck bakes at this time of night? I knock again and within seconds I hear feet pattering against the floor before the door clicks open.

I don’t mean to look surprised.

But when a hot man opens the door when I was expecting an old rich guy with a mistress, I raise a brow, “I’m so sorry!” He says quickly. There are oven mitts on his hands and I almost laugh because he looks like a cartoon character in distress.

“Are you okay?”

He is not, indeed, okay. As his body turns, I realize his kitchen is filling with smoke and something is still beeping. “I am so sorry!” He repeats again as I walk in.

I open the windows first, idiot. Then while coughing, I fiddle with the oven to make it shut up. I hear him audibly sigh behind me.

“You’re saving me here.” his smooth accent cuts through the burning smell.

I stand, “From a fire, yeah. Don’t really want my apartment building to burn down.” I shrug and take the mits right off his hands, placing them on my own and opening the smoke filled compartment.

I swat the air and hurriedly take out the pan. When I place it down on the counter, I laugh.

“I’m not a good baker, I know!” He crosses his arms.

“Cupcakes?” I smile, the smoke slowly leaving through the windows, “You don’t seem like the type. Especially at half past one.”

He shrugs and I finally take him in, with dark curls and stunning eyes, he’s got a familiar face. He's in pajamas of sorts, with bright orange slippers.

“Couldn’t pick a dinner option honestly…” He glances at the burnt baked goods, “I really appreciate it… I’d offer you something but- I don’t want to poison you.”

I smile and he looks proud that he made me do anything that’s not coughing, “Not a problem.”

A second passes before he speaks up, “I haven’t seen you around.” He says as I take the mits from my hands.

“Probably because you’re never around…?” It’s true. I love living on this floor because my neighbor is barely ever in. It is a bit strange now that I think about it.

He laughs, “Right. My work, and all…” okay mafia boss energy. Though his kind face and wall decor tells me differently.

I nod awkwardly, “Well… if you don’t need any more saving, I'm gonna go.”

“Of course! Thanks again. And if you ever need anything I'm here- I mean… I do owe you now.” I hand him the mits and as he grabs it my eyes stray to his hands.

Christ he’s fit. How have I never seen him before?

I look away from the veins and smile politely, “See you around…” I don’t know his name.

“Lando.” He smiles and the way his eyes meet mine makes my knees go soft.

“Y/n.” He shakes my hand, quite sternly might I add.

“Well Y/n… pleasure having you in my apartment and saving us from an evacuation.” He opens the door for me.

“Stay safe, Lando.” he winks.

NOTE : don’t forget that my requests are open!!

[virq-qgo]

logan catching us staring when his shirt is off around the apartment

Hey so, I accidentally almost turned this into the smut lol.. enjoy bae!!

Warnings: almost smut, dirty talking, my writing, not proof read because I don’t want to remind myself of what i write. Female bodied

Requests are still open!

Yeah it was a hot day, yeah any man would walk around shirtless with a pair of pants on, hell maybe their underwear.

But nothing could’ve prepared you when Logan walks in from the front door. Your eyes quite literally popped out of your skull. There he was, torn blue jean pants. His shirt missing, thankfully.. sweat dripping down his ripped chest.

God, the way his face looked when he came in too. More like his hair, how it was typically styled into a neat cat ear look. But right now, it was so messy looking. And as the girl you are, you found it so hot.

“Take a picture it’ll last longer.”

His voice breaks you from your trance, realizing that your ass just got caught gawking. “What are you talking about..” you say hoping that maybe you could try to play it off.

“Your staring is very obvious.” Logan crosses his beefy arms and looks at you like you’re some stupid horny mutt.

“Me? Staring?” You roll your eyes and scoff “as if, there’s nothing to stare at besides your greasy tits. Large greasy tits.”

“Fuck.” You thought, your ass definitely just got busted. You were just a girl, right? No better than a man when it comes to big tits. You couldn’t help yourself but to stare, Logan’s body was just the best to stare at. Honestly, if you were into freaky shit. You’d definitely be riding his abs.

Logan was the same way though, every time you showed abit of breast and some ass. You’d catch him practically drooling at the sight of you. His hands would always find their way on your body, squeezing whatever he pleased.

You suddenly felt so small when you see his dark eyes on you. You felt like you were some type of thanksgiving meal. “You’re such a horny fuck.” He growls.

“Can you really blame me? I mean look at you, any woman would want to see a strong beefy man oiled up. With his fucking blue jeans torn and dirty like that? What were you doing? You hum “getting your ass fucked?”

Logan rolls his eyes while slowly walking up to you. For some reason, it was like straight from a movie. He was walking towards you, his rough callused hands squeezing your plush hips as he guides you to the couch gently but there was a hint of aggression.

‘You need to hush those lips before I put them to use.”

You didn’t even get a word in because you were to busy watching him take off his belt, closely watching his fingers and seeing just how well they can work. (Spoiler alert: they do, way too good.) Watching him pull down his zipper then letting his pants drop to his ankles. Revealing just how turned on he had been.

“Now bubs, I’ll give you an option. I can either flip you over right now and stuff my cock into that tight little pussy of yours right now, or..” before he could say anything else he flipped you over, pressing your chest to the couch while pulling your hips up. The t-shirt you were wearing slid showing your bare pretty pussy.

You felt yourself clench around nothing as you hear Logan moan as he made his discovery.

“Let’s see if you can count how many times I can make you cum tonight.”

[wannabehockeygf]

greedy - quinn hughes

“He said ‘I’m just curious, is this for real or just an act?’

Can’t tell if you love or hate me,

Never met someone like that.��

summary: when you’re a bartender in a popular local club, the captain of the canucks who’s also one of your regulars takes a liking to you

pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader

word count: 9.3k. i’m so sorry.

warnings: 18+ NSFW! fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, slight degradation.

notes:

- this is soooo different for me! have never written about a hughes brother before even though they’re super popular here.

- missing vancouver hockey. sorry leafs nation.

- also this is probably some of the nastiest smut i’ve ever written!

- not proof read

- the eye colour thing again… sorry if they’re green.

***

Friday nights at The Roxy Cabaret were like trying to squeeze into your favorite pair of jeans after Thanksgiving dinner—uncomfortable, chaotic, and leaving you questioning your life choices. Honestly, it felt like the entire population of Vancouver had made a pact to invade this dingy club all at once. Not that you were complaining, though—well, maybe a little. It wasn’t like you had a choice; the rent wasn’t going to pay itself.

Sure, you worked there, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t hold a deep, burning, soul-crushing hatred for the place, right? Well, okay, maybe "hatred" was a bit strong. You did occasionally wander in on your nights off, blend into the crowd, and pretend you were just another twenty-three-year-old who didn’t have to worry about the bartender recognizing you. Because let’s face it, you needed a break from serving vodka sodas to tipsy twenty-somethings trying to relive their high school glory days.

What really got under your skin, though, was the crowd that showed up when you were on the clock. And by "crowd," you meant the entire Vancouver Canucks roster, who seemed to think The Roxy was their personal post-victory playground. It wasn’t that you disliked hockey—you were indifferent to it, like you were to a distant relative’s Facebook posts. If it was on, fine, you’d watch. But you weren’t exactly lining up to buy season tickets.

Most of the guys were fine—great even. Some of them were downright charming, the kind of guys you wouldn’t mind chatting with when things slowed down. Plus, they tipped like they were trying to make it rain dollar bills in a music video, which you appreciated. But then there was Quinn Hughes.

Oh, Quinn. Captain Smug himself. He had a way of getting under your skin like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

"Another round, please, Princess," Quinn drawls, tapping his fingers on the bar like he owns the place.

You grit your teeth, mentally counting to ten as you shake up a cocktail. "Can you get Brock to order it? He isn’t an egotistical asshole."

Quinn just laughs, that infuriating smirk of his widening even though he looks like he could use a nap. "Aw, come on, Princess, don’t be like that. You know you love me."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. Instead, you stick to your customer service script. "That’s not my name," you say, yanking out shot glasses like they owe you money.

"I know," Quinn says, brushing a strand of hair out of his face like he’s in some cheesy romance movie. "But you act like a princess, so it suits you."

Oh great, now your jaw’s tightening. Fabulous. You grab the tequila bottle with a little more force than necessary. "What do you want from me, Quinn?" you ask, trying not to let your annoyance seep too much into your voice.

He leans in closer, his smirk practically reaching his ears. "How about a smile, Princess? Is that too much to ask?"

You force the kind of smile you reserve for customer service nightmares, tight-lipped and entirely devoid of warmth. "Is that good? Can you go now?"

Quinn chuckles, taking the tray of drinks from you like he’s doing you a favor. "Always so feisty. But I like it. Keeps things interesting."

"Fuck off, Quinn," you mutter, wiping down the counter with the enthusiasm of someone scrubbing a crime scene. "I’m not here to entertain your ego."

He leans in even closer—so close you can practically count the flecks of mischief in his eyes. "But you do entertain me. Every time you brush me off, it just makes me want you more."

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. "You’ve got a funny way of showing it. Just because you’re some big-shot athlete doesn’t mean you can treat women however you want."

Quinn’s gaze slowly trails up from your lips, where it’s been lingering far too long, to meet your eyes. "Ah, come on, you know I always take good care of you."

And damn it, he’s right. Quinn is probably your biggest tipper out of the entire team. And while you like the money, you hate seeing his stupid messy brown hair and annoyingly pretty blue eyes at your bar every time they win.

"Sure you do," you say, swiping someone else’s card through the machine, mentally willing him to disappear into the sea of other customers.

You watch Quinn walk away, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd like he’s parting the Red Sea. It’s infuriating, really, how someone so damn annoying can also be so… well, hot. There, you admitted it. The guy is hot. Like, "should come with a warning label" hot. But that doesn’t mean you’re about to give him the satisfaction of knowing you think that. No way. Not in this lifetime, or the next, or even if you were reincarnated as a particularly enthusiastic poodle.

Quinn Hughes is the human equivalent of a pop-up ad—persistent, unwanted, and impossible to get rid of without a lot of cursing. Every time you brush him off, he just comes back stronger, like he’s powered by your irritation. And maybe that’s what’s so maddening about him. He knows exactly how to push your buttons, and he enjoys every second of it.

The problem is, you’re starting to wonder if you enjoy it too.

Nope. Not going there. You are not going to be one of those girls who gets all flustered over a guy just because he’s got a good smile and a credit card that could probably buy out half the bar. You’re stronger than that. You’re resilient. You’re… currently mixing a drink with far more focus than necessary because all you can think about is what it would be like to grab him by the collar of that too-tight shirt and kiss that stupid smirk right off his face.

You’re shaking your head at the absurdity of it all as you pour the next round of shots, hands moving on autopilot. It’s bad enough that Quinn Hughes has invaded your workspace like some kind of hockey-playing parasite, but now he’s wormed his way into your thoughts too.

“Get a grip,” you mutter under your breath, lining up the glasses like they’re little soldiers marching to their doom. Because really, that’s what this is—a battle of wills. A tug-of-war where the prize is your sanity, and you’re losing.

A couple of your regulars wave you over, and you force your focus back to them, slapping on that customer service smile that’s become second nature by now. They’re nice guys, the kind who tip decently and don’t try to flirt with you in that obnoxious, entitled way that some customers do. They’re also blissfully ignorant of the 5’10, 180 pound storm cloud currently hovering over your head, which is exactly how you like it.

But just as you’re starting to enjoy a break from the chaos, you catch sight of him again. He’s leaning against the bar a few feet away, talking to Brock, who seems completely unfazed by the fact that Quinn has probably just sent your blood pressure through the roof.

You steal a glance at Quinn, hoping he won’t notice, but of course he does. He always does. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you forget how to breathe. It’s ridiculous, really. The guy’s just standing there, doing absolutely nothing, and yet he has this stupid effect on you. Like he’s some kind of gravitational force, pulling you in against your will.

You force yourself to look away, focusing on the drink in front of you like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. But it’s too late. The damage is done. Your brain has already gone down that treacherous path, imagining what it would be like if you gave in just once.

But that’s a dangerous game, and you know it. Because if you give him an inch, he’ll take a mile. Hell, he’ll probably take the whole damn kilometer. And then where would you be?

Nope. Not happening. Not tonight, not ever.

You’re not sure when exactly it started—the whole Quinn Hughes thing, that is. Maybe it was the first time he sauntered up to the bar, eyes twinkling like he knew something you didn’t. Or maybe it was the time he tipped you a hundred bucks just for bringing him a water, like he was trying to buy your affection. Which, spoiler alert, didn’t work. Or so you’ve been telling yourself.

But you can’t deny it any longer: Quinn Hughes is a problem. A major, five-alarm, get-the-fire-extinguisher kind of problem. Because somewhere along the line, your irritation with him has twisted into something… different. Something dangerous. Something that makes you wonder what it would be like to grab him by that annoyingly perfect jawline and just—

“Hey, Princess, you gonna make me another drink or just stand there daydreaming?”

And there it is. That voice, like smooth whiskey poured over gravel, cutting through your thoughts like a knife. You don’t even have to look up to know it’s him. Of course it’s him. Because Quinn Hughes has a sixth sense for when you’re starting to get a grip on your sanity, and he’s hell-bent on ruining it.

You set down the bottle of vodka you’ve been holding, turning to face him with what you hope is a look of mild disinterest. “Back so soon? Didn’t think you could tear yourself away from your adoring fans.”

Quinn grins, leaning against the bar like he’s got all the time in the world. And maybe he does. After all, what’s a Friday night without irritating the bartender who’s secretly trying to figure out what color your eyes really are because the lighting in here sucks? Not that you’d ever admit to that. “I just couldn’t stay away from you, Princess. You know how it is.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s half-hearted at best. “Again, not my name.”

He taps his fingers on the bar, a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic. “I know. But I like it. It suits you.”

“What, because I won’t roll over and worship the ground you walk on?” you shoot back, crossing your arms. You know you’re playing with fire, but there’s something addictive about sparring with him. Like a game of chicken, except you’re both too stubborn to swerve.

Quinn’s grin widens, and you can’t help but notice how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Damn him. “Exactly. I like a girl with a backbone.”

You open your mouth to retort, but the words get stuck somewhere between your brain and your tongue. Because for some reason, all you can think about is the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only person in this crowded, chaotic club that matters.

So that’s why you decide to go for it.

“You ever had hate sex, Hughes?”

You can almost see the gears in Quinn’s head grind to a halt at your question. The usual smug smirk falters for a split second, and it’s the most satisfying thing you’ve seen all night. You’ve finally done it—left Quinn Hughes speechless. But the victory is short-lived because, as always, he recovers faster than you can blink.

“Hate sex?” he echoes, his voice dropping an octave, making you question all of your life choices up to this point. He leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear, and you suddenly realize you’re standing way too close. “Princess, if that’s your idea of a pick-up line, I’ve got to say, I’m intrigued.”

And there it is, that damn smirk back in full force. He’s trying to throw you off, but you refuse to back down. You’ve already started this ridiculous game, so there’s no turning back now.

“You didn’t answer the question,” you reply, your tone as steady as you can make it. “Ever had hate sex?”

He lets out a low chuckle that sends shivers down your spine—not that you’d ever admit it. “I don’t know. Guess we’d have to define ‘hate sex’ first.”

You narrow your eyes at him, your mind racing with all the ways this could go horribly wrong. But damn it, you’re committed now. “I’m pretty sure it’s when you can’t stand someone, but you still want to rip their clothes off.”

Quinn’s eyes darken just a fraction, and you can feel the tension between you both ratchet up to an unbearable level. It’s like the entire club fades away, leaving just the two of you locked in this absurd, heated standoff.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, his voice smooth and infuriatingly calm. “You want to rip my clothes off, Princess?”

You clench your jaw, determined not to let him see how flustered you are. This is Quinn Hughes, the guy who drives you up the wall every single time he walks into this bar. There’s no way in hell you’re about to let him get the upper hand.

So, you do the only thing that seems appropriate. You lean in, so close that your lips are almost brushing his ear, and whisper, “Maybe I just want to shut you up for five minutes.”

“You think you could handle it?” His voice is a low rumble now, and there’s something about the way he says it that’s got your stomach doing somersaults. “Because if we’re going there, I don’t do anything halfway.”

Oh, for the love of— You’re pretty sure your face is betraying you right now, showing just how much his words have affected you, but you can’t let him know that.

Quinn is still watching you, eyes glittering with amusement and something else you can’t quite place. There’s a challenge there, a dare hanging in the air between you, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is. Too close. Close enough that you can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his hair falls messily over his forehead, and those damn blue eyes that seem to see right through your carefully constructed defenses.

For a moment, you consider backing down, playing it off as a joke. But then Quinn would win, and that’s simply not an option. So, you double down, leaning in just a little bit closer, your breath brushing against his skin.

"Handle it? Quinn, I think you’re forgetting who you’re talking to." Your voice is steady, but inside, your heart is doing its best impression of a drum solo. This is insane. You’re flirting with Quinn Hughes. Quinn Hughes, the guy who spends his Friday nights at your bar making your life just a little bit more complicated than it needs to be. The guy who seems to take an unholy amount of pleasure in riling you up. The guy who—God help you—makes your pulse race every time he so much as glances in your direction.

Quinn’s lips curve into a slow smile, and you can’t help but notice how annoyingly perfect his teeth are. Of course they are. Everything about him is infuriatingly perfect, from his tousled hair to his broad shoulders that you really shouldn’t be noticing right now. "You’ve got a mouth on you, Princess," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine that you desperately try to suppress.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure as you stare into Quinn’s infuriatingly perfect face. Seriously, who gave him the right to look this good, especially when he’s being such a smug asshole? You remind yourself that you don’t like him. You don’t. Except maybe you do, a little bit. Okay, a lot. But that’s beside the point.

Quinn’s eyes are locked on yours, and you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire—one wrong move, and you’re going to get burned. But damn it, you’re not backing down. Not when he’s looking at you like that, like he’s just waiting for you to slip up so he can swoop in and… do what, exactly? You’re not even sure anymore. And that’s the most dangerous part.

“Someone’s gotta put you in your place, Hughes,” you manage to say, your voice coming out a little breathier than you intended. You’re aiming for sassy, but it’s hard to pull off when your heart is practically doing backflips in your chest.

His smile widens, and you want to slap it right off his face, but also—God help you—maybe kiss it off too. “Is that so?” he asks, voice dripping with amusement. “And you think you’re the one to do it?”

Oh, he’s good. He’s really good. And damn it, you walked right into his trap, didn’t you? Because now you’ve got to follow through, or else he’s going to lord this over you for the rest of eternity.

But before you can figure out a clever retort, Quinn’s gaze flicks past you, scanning the crowded bar. When he looks back at you, there’s something new in his eyes—something that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

“You know,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “this place is a little too crowded for what I have in mind.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Oh no. Oh no, no, no. He’s not suggesting what you think he’s suggesting, is he? Because if he is, you’re in way over your head. And yet… there’s a tiny, traitorous part of you that’s intrigued. More than intrigued. You want to know what he has in mind, even though every logical part of your brain is screaming at you to abort mission and run for the hills.

You tilt your head, trying to play it cool even as your heart races. “And what exactly do you have in mind, Hughes?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Quinn leans in closer, so close that you can feel his breath on your cheek. “Somewhere private,” he murmurs, “Where we can… talk.”

“Talk,” you repeat, your tone dripping with skepticism. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

He chuckles softly, and the sound sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

Oh, you do. You’ve got a lot of ideas, most of them involving doing things to Quinn Hughes that would definitely not fall under the category of “talking.” But you can’t just give in, can you? That would be too easy, and Quinn would never let you live it down.

But then again… maybe it’s time to stop overthinking things. Maybe it’s time to let go, just this once, and see where this crazy, ridiculous, probably-terrible idea takes you.

“Fine,” you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds. “Let’s go.”

Quinn’s eyes light up with something that looks a lot like victory, but you’re not about to let him have the upper hand. Not entirely, anyway.

“Lead the way, Princess,” he says, his voice a low purr that sends a thrill of anticipation coursing through you.

You roll your eyes—because of course you do—but there’s no denying the excitement buzzing just beneath the surface. You’ve got no idea what you’re getting yourself into, but one thing’s for sure: it’s going to be one hell of a ride.

With one last glance at the bar, you turn on your heel and start making your way through the crowd, Quinn hot on your heels. You can feel the tension between you both, crackling like static electricity, and it’s taking everything in you not to turn around and grab him by that stupidly perfect jawline right then and there.

You slip through a side door that leads to a narrow hallway, the noise from the bar muffled by the heavy walls. The air is cooler here, the dim lighting casting long shadows that dance along the worn carpet. You can feel Quinn’s presence behind you, close enough that you can practically feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Where are we going?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that makes your stomach flip.

“Storage closet,” you say, not even sure where the idea came from, but it’s out now, and there’s no taking it back. You know the staff keeps some of the extra supplies in a small room down the hall, and it’s as good a place as any to… well, whatever this is.

Quinn’s chuckle is dark and throaty, sending another shiver down your spine. “Kinky,” he murmurs, but you can hear the approval in his tone.

You reach the door and push it open, revealing a small, dimly lit room lined with shelves full of bottles and boxes. It’s cramped, barely enough room for the two of you, but that’s probably a good thing. The last thing you need is space to think about what you’re doing, because if you stop to think, you might just lose your nerve.

Quinn steps in behind you, closing the door with a soft click. The sound echoes in the quiet space, amplifying the tension that’s been simmering between you both all night.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You just stand there, staring at each other, the air thick with unspoken challenges and barely restrained desire. And then, like a rubber band snapping, the tension breaks.

You’re not even sure who moves first—maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you—but suddenly you’re pressed up against the shelves, Quinn’s body crowding into yours, his hands bracing on either side of your head as his lips crash onto yours

It’s not gentle. It’s not soft. It’s every bit as intense and heated as the tension that’s been simmering between you from the moment you met. His lips crash against yours with a force that sends your head spinning, and for a moment, all you can do is cling to him, your hands fisting in his shirt as you kiss him back just as fiercely.

This is no sweet, romantic moment. This is raw, unfiltered desire, born from all the frustration and irritation that’s been building between you two for so long. It’s everything you never thought you’d want, and yet here you are, giving in to it completely.

Quinn’s hands are on you now, pulling you closer, as if he can’t get enough. And maybe he can’t. Maybe you can’t either. All you know is that this is happening, and there’s no stopping it.

“Damn it, Hughes,” you murmur against his mouth, trying to inject some venom into your words, but it comes out more like a plea. You can feel his smirk, the arrogant bastard. He knows he’s got you, and it only makes you want to kiss him harder.

Or punch him.

Maybe both.

“Problem?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement as he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. His lips are slightly swollen, his hair disheveled from your hands, and he looks annoyingly good like this. All messy and untamed, like you’ve undone him somehow, when you know it’s the other way around.

You want to tell him to shut up, to stop looking at you like that, like you’re some puzzle he’s close to solving. But you’re too breathless, too overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. So instead, you grab the front of his shirt and yank him back down to you, your lips crashing together again in a bruising kiss.

He groans into your mouth, his hands slipping under your shirt, fingers skimming the heated skin of your back. You shiver at the contact, hating how good it feels, hating that he knows it too. You can feel his smugness in every touch, every shift of his body against yours.

And yet, you don’t stop him.

Because you’re just as guilty.

You’ve been wanting this—wanting him—even though you’ve been denying it, pushing it away, convincing yourself that you despise him. But the truth is, that hatred has always been laced with something else. Something darker, more dangerous. Something you’re only now beginning to understand.

It’s infuriating.

It’s intoxicating.

“You’re such an asshole,” you mutter against his lips, your voice tinged with frustration as you nip at his lower lip. You want to hurt him, just a little, to remind yourself that you’re still in control, that this isn’t just him getting what he wants. But when he groans in response, his hands tightening their grip on your hips, you realize that maybe you’re not as in control as you thought.

“You say that like you don’t love it,” he replies, his voice husky as he trails kisses along your jawline, down to your neck. Your breath hitches when he finds that sensitive spot just below your ear, the one that makes your knees go weak. He’s too good at this. Too good at getting under your skin.

You don’t want to enjoy this. You really don’t. But your body isn’t exactly cooperating, and the traitorous warmth pooling in your stomach isn’t something you can ignore. It’s maddening how much you want this, even as every logical part of your brain screams that this is a terrible, horrible, no-good idea.

But logic be damned, because the way Quinn’s lips are moving against your skin is making it very hard to care about consequences.

“You’re such a smug bastard,” you mutter, trying to inject some bite into your words, but they come out breathy, almost like a sigh. Ugh. Could you be any more pathetic?

Quinn chuckles against your neck, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “I thought you liked that about me,” he murmurs, his voice thick. His hands slide up under your shirt, fingers skimming over your ribs, making you gasp. “Or at least, you like it enough to let me do this.”

He’s right, and that just pisses you off even more. You do like it—hate it, love it, whatever it is, you’re feeling it with every nerve in your body. You can feel his smirk against your skin, and it only fuels the fire inside you.

You yank at his hair, pulling his head back just enough so you can meet his eyes, which are dark and stormy with desire. “Don’t get cocky, Hughes,” you warn, even though you know it’s a losing battle. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

He raises an eyebrow, that damn smirk still plastered on his stupidly perfect face. “You keep telling yourself that,” he says, his voice low and rough. “But we both know you’re full of shit.”

“Full of shit?” you echo, narrowing your eyes at him, trying to keep your wits about you even as his hands roam over your body. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who’s all talk and no—”

Quinn’s lips are on yours again before you can finish the sentence, cutting off your words with a kiss that’s somehow even more intense than the last one. It’s like he’s determined to prove you wrong, to make you eat your words, and as much as you hate to admit it, he’s succeeding.

But you’re not about to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that. Not yet, anyway.

You push back against him, shoving at his chest just enough to create some distance, even though your body is screaming at you to do the opposite. His eyes flash with surprise, and you smirk up at him, a little breathless but still in the game.

“Easy there, Hughes,” you murmur, your voice laced with false bravado. “I didn’t say you could take control.”

Quinn arches an eyebrow, his lips quirking up into that infuriatingly smug smile that makes you want to both slap him and drag him closer. “Oh? I must have missed the memo where you were the one calling the shots.”

You grit your teeth, not entirely sure whether you want to punch him or kiss him again. Maybe both, but that would just be giving him the upper hand. Instead, you decide to hit him where it hurts—his ego.

“Please,” you scoff, leaning in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you speak. “You’ve been in my palm since the moment we met. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He lets out a low, amused chuckle, his breath warm against your neck. “Is that what you tell yourself when you’re fantasizing about me at night?”

Your stomach flips at his words, but you refuse to let him see the effect he’s having on you. Instead, you tilt your head, letting your lips ghost over the shell of his ear as you whisper, “In your dreams, Hughes.”

But as much as you’re trying to play it cool, you can’t deny the electric tension between you both. It’s like the air is crackling with it, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. All you can focus on is Quinn—his hands, his lips, his damn voice that keeps pulling you deeper into this mess.

His hand slides down your side, settling on your hip, and your breath catches when he pulls you closer, your bodies pressed together in the cramped space. You can feel every inch of him, the solid warmth of his body, the way he’s holding you like he doesn’t want to let go. And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe you don’t either.

Quinn’s lips are back on yours, but this time, it’s slower, more deliberate. Like he’s savoring the moment, taking his time, driving you absolutely crazy with how good it feels. You’re so wrapped up in it, in him, that you almost don’t notice the way his hands are working on rolling up your shirt until it’s halfway up.

You pull back, just enough to look up at him with narrowed eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He gives you a look that’s all innocence, but there’s nothing innocent about the way his hands keep moving, sliding under your shirt, his fingers grazing your skin. “Just making sure you’re comfortable,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough in a way that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Comfortable?” you repeat, your voice coming out a little higher than you intended as his hands roam over your bare skin. “You think this is making me comfortable?”

Quinn leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “No, but it’s making you hot, isn’t it?”

Your breath hitches, and damn him, he’s right. He’s so infuriatingly right. But you’re not about to admit that. Instead, you try to muster up some semblance of defiance, even though you can feel your resolve crumbling with every touch, every heated look he throws your way.

“You wish,” you manage to say, but the words lack the venom you were aiming for. Instead, they come out breathy, almost like a plea, and you hate how much that turns you on.

Quinn grins, and it’s a wicked, knowing grin that makes your stomach twist in the most deliciously infuriating way. “I don’t have to wish,” he says, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees weak. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Before you can respond—before you can even think of a comeback—he’s kissing you again, his lips moving against yours with a fervor that makes your head spin. You’re drowning in him, in the heat, the intensity of it all, and for a moment, you wonder if you’re going to lose yourself completely.

But then Quinn’s hands are on your hips, lifting you up onto the shelves, and you gasp at the sudden movement. You grab onto his shoulders, your fingers digging into his skin as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours in a way that makes it hard to remember why this is such a bad idea.

“Quinn,” you murmur, trying to sound like you’re in control, like you’re not about to fall apart at the seams. But your voice betrays you, coming out shaky, uncertain, and Quinn hears it. Of course he does.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers teasing the edge of your shorts, and you can’t help the way your breath hitches, the way your body arches toward him, desperate for more. Damn it, you shouldn’t want this—shouldn’t want him—but there’s no denying it now.

“You can stop this anytime you want,” Quinn whispers against your lips, his breath warm and tantalizing. “Just say the word.”

But you don’t say anything. Because you can’t. You don’t want to stop, not when his hands are on you, not when his lips are trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Not when every nerve in your body is screaming at you to let go, to give in to this insane, reckless desire.

Instead, you pull him closer, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kiss him with everything you’ve got, trying to show him that you’re not backing down, that you’re just as in this as he is. Maybe more.

Quinn groans against your lips, and you can feel the way his body tenses, the way his hands tighten their grip on your thighs. It’s intoxicating, the power you have over him, the way you can make him unravel with just a kiss, a touch.

But then his hands are slipping under your shorts, and your breath catches in your throat. It’s happening, it’s really happening, and suddenly, you’re not sure if you’re ready for this. If you can handle what comes next.

“Quinn,” you murmur, trying to sound like you’re in control, like you’re not about to lose it completely. But he’s not listening, or maybe he is, and he just doesn’t care, because his hands are still moving, still exploring, and you’re melting under his touch.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, and the look in his eyes is enough to make your stomach flip. It’s dark, intense, full of heat—and, damn it, he’s giving you that smug smile again, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice rough and breathless, a contrast to the arrogant tilt of his lips. “You good?”

Good? Is that a joke? You’re anything but good right now. Your heart is racing, your mind is spinning, and your body—well, your body is betraying you in every way possible, pressing closer to him, silently begging for more.

“I fucking hate you,” you manage to choke out, though the words feel flimsy, a pathetic attempt at maintaining some semblance of control. Quinn’s eyes narrow slightly, and you know he doesn’t believe you for a second. But instead of calling you out on it, he leans in, his lips brushing against your jawline as he murmurs, “Then why are you so fucking wet?” He punctuates the words by brushing his fingers against the damp fabric of your underwear.

Your brain short-circuits at his words. Like, did he really just—? You’re torn between the urge to slap that smug look off his face and the overwhelming desire to pull him closer, consequences be damned. The nerve of this guy, thinking he can just—

But then his fingers move, and every coherent thought you had goes flying out the window. A gasp escapes your lips, and you curse yourself for giving him the satisfaction, but, damn it, how are you supposed to keep your wits about you when his hands are doing that?

Quinn’s watching you, his eyes dark with amusement and something much more primal. “What’s the matter?” he teases, his voice a low rumble.

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to muster up some sort of retort, but all that comes out is a breathy, “Shut up,” which only makes his smirk widen. God, you want to wipe that grin off his face so badly, but every time you think you’re about to regain control, he does something that completely derails you.

Like now, for instance, when his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your underwear, and your hips jerk forward entirely of their own accord. Quinn’s chuckle is low and throaty, and you feel the vibrations of it against your neck as he nips at your skin, leaving a trail of barely-there bites that make your pulse race.

“Shutting up doesn’t seem like your style,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, making you shiver. “But I think I can find a way to keep you quiet.”

You don’t get a chance to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean because his hand finally dips lower, and suddenly, you’re not sure whether you want to moan or curse him out. Your body makes the decision for you, your head falling back against the shelf as a breathless moan escapes your lips, and you feel Quinn’s grin widen against your skin.

“God, you’re so fucking—” Your words get caught in your throat as he moves his fingers just right, and the sound that comes out of you is more of a whimper than anything else. It’s humiliating, really, how easily he’s reducing you to this—a writhing, desperate mess—and the bastard knows it.

“Sensitive, are we?” Quinn’s voice is laced with amusement, but there’s a huskiness to it now, a slight hitch in his breath that tells you he’s just as affected by this as you are, even if he’s better at hiding it. “That’s cute.”

“Cute?” you manage to gasp, trying to muster up some semblance of defiance, even as your body betrays you by arching into his touch. “I’ll show you—” Your words trail off into a moan as he circles his fingers just right, and suddenly, the only thing you want to show him is how quickly you can come undone if he keeps this up.

You're about to fire back with something scathing, something that’ll put Quinn in his place, but all that comes out is a breathy gasp as his fingers work a little faster, a little rougher, hitting that spot that has your entire body going slack against the shelves. God, if anyone walked in right now, they'd have one hell of a show.

"Something you wanted to say?" Quinn’s voice is thick with that damn arrogance, but there's a slight edge to it now, like he's barely holding it together himself. Good, you think. If you’re going down, you’re taking him with you.

"Y-you're…" You try to form a sentence, anything to wipe that smug grin off his face, but the words get tangled in your throat as Quinn’s other hand slides up your thigh, his touch hot and demanding. "You're such a…"

He smirks, his lips hovering just over yours, so close you can feel the heat of his breath. "Go on, sweetheart. I'm dying to know."

"Oh, fuck off," you mutter, but your voice lacks any real bite, especially when his fingers dip lower, making your hips jerk forward involuntarily. "Quinn…"

He pauses, his lips still pressed to your jaw, and for a moment, you think maybe—just maybe—he’s going to stop, give you a chance to catch your breath, to regain some semblance of control. But then he moves again, his fingers slipping past your last shred of dignity, and you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a curse.

"That’s what I thought," Quinn whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "I knew you couldn't keep that tough act up forever."

"Screw you," you hiss, but your words are cut off by another sharp gasp as Quinn’s thumb brushes over a particularly sensitive spot. "Oh, God…"

"Already there," he murmurs, his lips finding that spot just below your ear that makes your knees go weak. He presses a kiss there, soft and maddeningly slow, before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, and you can see the barely-contained hunger in them. It sends a thrill of both fear and excitement racing through you.

"Quinn, I swear, I’m gonna—" you gasp as his fingers continue their relentless assault, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. "Or maybe I'll just—"

"Just what?" he presses, his eyes locked on yours, daring you to finish the sentence. "Come all over my fingers? Because that’s what you’re about to do, isn’t it?"

There’s a part of you—the sensible, rational part—that’s still trying to cling to some semblance of control, some dignity. But that part is losing, rapidly being overpowered by the heat pooling in your stomach and the way Quinn’s looking at you like you’re the only thing he wants in the entire world.

For a moment, you consider making some sort of last-ditch effort to regain control, to pull away and regain your breath. But then Quinn’s thumb brushes over that spot again, and all thoughts of self-control go out the window. Instead, a moan slips past your lips—loud and unrestrained, filling the tiny storage closet with a sound that’s undeniably needy.

Quinn’s smirk widens, his eyes darkening with satisfaction, and damn it, he’s enjoying this way too much. “That’s right,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. “You’re gonna come for me, yeah? Or do you want my cock instead?”

Your brain is short-circuiting, struggling to keep up with the intensity of the moment. The idea of him inside you, combined with the way he’s touching you, is almost too much to bear. You’re on the verge of losing it, and every part of you is screaming for release.

Finally, you manage a breathless, “Fuck it,” and let your hands wander lower, fumbling with his belt, your body arching against his in a desperate plea for more. You don’t care about the consequences, the logical part of your brain completely overridden by the burning need coursing through you.

“I swear, if we ever make it out of this closet,” you gasp, your fingers struggling with the stubborn belt buckle, “I’m going to have a hard time looking you in the eye.”

Quinn chuckles, his breath hot against your ear. “I’ll take that as a compliment. But right now, I think your focus should be on something else.”

You manage to loosen his belt, your hands shaking with anticipation. The urgency of the moment makes every touch and every breath more intense. “And what would that be?” you retort, trying to keep some semblance of your usual sarcasm. It’s hard, though, when his fingers are still doing deliciously wicked things to you.

Quinn’s fingers trace teasing circles, making your breath hitch and your body squirm against him. “Oh, I don’t know,” he murmurs, his voice a velvet caress against your ear. “Maybe on getting me out of these pants before I lose my patience.”

“Geez, Hughes, such a gentleman,” you manage, your voice breathless as you finally get his pants undone. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe. It’s a heady feeling, and it’s only adding to the feverish heat between you.

You push his pants down just enough, and as you finally free his hard length, you’re met with the unmistakable evidence of his own need. The sight makes you gasp, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Quinn groans into your mouth when you reach inside his jeans, his hips jerking forward as if seeking more contact, more friction. You’re both teetering on the edge now, the line between control and complete surrender blurred beyond recognition. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, and you’re not sure if you want to keep pushing him or if you just want to let go and fall into the abyss together.

“God, you drive me fucking crazy,” Quinn breathes against your lips, his voice rough with need, and there’s a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—where you think you see something more in his eyes. Something deeper than just desire, something that sends a jolt of fear straight to your heart. But then his hands are on you again, pulling you closer, and whatever that look was, it’s gone, replaced by the raw, primal hunger that’s been simmering between you from the start.

You shudder as he grips your hips, his fingers digging into your skin with just enough force to make you gasp. You can feel him, hot and hard against your palm, and it’s taking everything in you not to just give in, to let him take what you both so clearly want. But there’s still that stubborn part of you, the part that refuses to let him have the upper hand, that wants to make him beg, make him come undone for you.

“Say please,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath, your lips brushing against his as you speak.

Quinn freezes, his eyes narrowing as they lock onto yours, and for a moment, you think you’ve pushed him too far, that he’s going to pull back and leave you hanging on the edge of oblivion. But then a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, and his grip on your hips tightens.

“Please?” he echoes, his tone dripping with arrogance, as if the very idea of him begging is laughable. “Sweetheart, I don’t beg.”

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips as you stroke him slowly, deliberately teasing, watching with satisfaction as his breath hitches, his bravado faltering ever so slightly. “No?” you murmur, leaning in to nip at his bottom lip, your voice low and taunting. “You sure about that?”

Quinn’s eyes darken, and for a split second, you think you’ve got him—that you’ve managed to gain the upper hand. But then he’s moving, faster than you can react, pinning your wrists behind your back with one hand while the other yanks your shorts down in one swift motion, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in a way that sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

“You want to play games?” he growls, his voice low and dangerous, the sound of it sending a shiver down your spine. “Fine. But I don’t play fair.”

Before you can respond, before you can even think to respond, he’s pressing into you, his body solid and unyielding, and all coherent thought flies out of your head as he finally, finally gives you what you’ve both been craving.

The world tilts on its axis as he thrusts into you, hard and deep, and you’re not sure if the sound that escapes your lips is a moan or a sob or something in between. All you know is that you’re completely, utterly lost in him—in the way he’s filling you, stretching you, driving you to the brink of madness with every rough, relentless movement.

Quinn’s breath is ragged against your ear, and you can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, threatening to snap at any moment. You’re so close, so fucking close, and it’s taking everything in you not to just let go, to give in to the blinding pleasure that’s consuming you from the inside out.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Quinn groans, his voice strained, and there’s something raw, almost vulnerable in the way he says it, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest. “I’ve been imagining this from the first moment I walked in here.”

Your hands are still pinned behind your back, your body arched against the shelves, completely at Quinn’s mercy. And damn it, he knows it. He knows exactly how to push you to the brink, how to make you lose every ounce of control you thought you had. His movements are powerful, purposeful, each thrust driving you closer to the edge, until you’re teetering on the brink of oblivion.

“Quinn—” You gasp out his name, your voice shaking with the intensity of it all, and he groans in response, the sound vibrating through you like a living thing. His grip on your wrists tightens, the roughness of his touch sending a jolt of pleasure-pain straight through you.

“You’re mine,” he growls against your ear, his breath hot and ragged, and there’s something possessive, almost desperate, in his voice that makes your heart race even faster. “You’re fucking mine.”

And you’re so damn close, so close to falling apart entirely. But there’s still that stubborn part of you, the part that refuses to give in, to let him have all the control. So, you tighten around him, just enough to pull a sharp, choked-off groan from his throat, and you feel a surge of satisfaction as his rhythm falters, just for a moment.

“Fuck, you’re—” Quinn’s voice is hoarse, strained, as if he’s holding onto the last shreds of his control by a thread, and it sends a thrill through you to know that you’re the one doing this to him. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“Yeah?” you manage to breathe out, trying to sound cocky despite the tremble in your voice. “Maybe you should—”

But you don’t get to finish the thought, because Quinn shifts his angle just slightly, and suddenly, he’s hitting a spot that has you seeing stars, that has your back arching off the shelves and a cry escaping your lips before you can stop it.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the triumph. He’s found your weakness, and he’s going to exploit it for all it’s worth. “Right there, yeah?”

All you can do is nod, biting down on your lip to keep from crying out again as he starts to focus all his attention on that one spot, his movements growing more precise, more deliberate. He’s relentless, driving you closer and closer to the brink, and you can feel yourself starting to unravel, to lose the tenuous grip you have on your composure.

“Quinn, I—” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, don’t even know if you can say anything at all with the way your breath is coming in short, desperate gasps.

Quinn’s chuckle against your ear is low and dark, the sound a tantalizing contrast to the rough, punishing way he’s moving inside you. “What was that? Didn’t quite catch it over the sound of you moaning my name.”

The arrogance in his voice is infuriating, but it’s also the last thing on your mind right now. Every thrust he gives you is like a jolt to your system, making it harder to stay focused, harder to cling to whatever shreds of control you have left. Your head is spinning, and you’re almost grateful for the way his body is pressed against yours, anchoring you in a whirlwind of pleasure.

You let out a breathless laugh, even as your body betrays you by arching into him. “You’re insufferable,” you manage to gasp out, trying to hold onto some semblance of your usual bravado. “And you’re really bad at this whole ‘being a gentleman’ thing.”

“Is that so?” Quinn’s voice is a low purr, his breath hot against your ear. “Keep telling me how much you hate me. It makes this so much better.”

You roll your eyes, even as a moan escapes your lips, the sound muffled by the way you bite down on your bottom lip. “You’re such a jerk,” you manage to say, though your voice is shaky and breathless, betraying just how much he’s affecting you.

“Yeah?” Quinn’s breath is hot against your neck, and you feel the brush of his lips against your skin, sending a fresh wave of heat pooling in your belly. “That’s not what your body’s telling me, sweetheart.”

You grit your teeth, determined not to let him have the satisfaction of knowing just how much he’s getting to you. But it’s a losing battle, and you both know it. Especially when he starts moving faster, his pace relentless as he drives into you with a force that has your entire body trembling.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your fingers digging into the shelves as you struggle to stay upright. “You’re—” Your words are cut off by a sharp cry as he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you again that has your vision going white around the edges.

You don’t have time to think, don’t have time to process the fact that you’re completely, utterly exposed in a storage closet with a man who has made a sport out of driving you insane. All you can do is feel—every touch, every thrust, every ragged breath against your ear is pushing you closer to the edge, closer to losing the last of your control.

“God, you’re so… fucking… cocky,” you manage to choke out between gasps, your voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and desire. “It’s disgusting.”

“Mm-mhm,” Quinn’s voice is a low growl, his words vibrating against your neck as his teeth graze the sensitive skin there. “And you’re just an annoying brat who brushes me off every time I say something nice. But I figured it out, you just wanted me to rail all that attitude out of you.”

You try to respond, to counter his taunts with some biting retort, but all that comes out is a breathless moan as he picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming more frantic, more urgent. “Fuck, Quinn,” you gasp, trying to hold onto the last remnants of your control. “You’re—”

He interrupts you with a sharp, possessive growl. “I’m what? Don’t hold back now. Tell me how good it feels.”

Your head is spinning, your thoughts a jumbled mess of desire and frustration. “You’re a complete—” Another moan escapes you as Quinn hits that spot inside you again, making it impossible to form coherent thoughts. “A complete… asshole,” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling.

“And you love it,” Quinn’s voice is a triumphant whisper against your ear. “You love every second of this. Don’t you?”

You can’t even respond, the pleasure overwhelming you to the point where you’re just barely able to hold onto the edge of sanity. All you can do is nod, your body arching into him, your hands still pinned behind your back, completely at his mercy.

“You’re so close,” Quinn murmurs, his voice low and rough. “So fucking close. I can feel it. And I’m going to make sure you get there. I promise.”

His words send a fresh wave of heat through you, and you feel yourself starting to unravel, your body trembling with the intensity of it all. Quinn’s movements are relentless, pushing you closer and closer to the brink, until you’re on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into oblivion.

“Quinn, I—” You try to speak, but the words are lost in a cry as he thrusts into you with a force that has your vision going white around the edges.

Quinn’s grip on your hips tightens, his voice a rough whisper against your ear. “Come for me,” he growls, his breath hot and urgent. “Let go. Give it to me.”

And with those words, you shatter, your body convulsing with a pleasure so intense that it’s almost painful. You cry out his name, your voice echoing through the storage closet as you come apart, your entire world dissolving into a blur of sensation and release.

Quinn follows close behind, his movements growing erratic as he drives into you with one final, powerful thrust. You can feel his release inside you, hot and thick, and it sends a shiver through your entire body. He groans against your ear, his breath ragged and heavy, and you can feel the tension in his body as he finally, finally finds his own release.

The two of you are left panting in the aftermath, your bodies pressed together in the confined space of the storage closet. Quinn’s breath is hot against your ear, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart against your back.

“God,” he murmurs, his voice a rough whisper. “That was… intense.”

You manage a shaky laugh, trying to catch your breath. “Yeah,” you agree, your voice still trembling. “That’s one way to put it. Now, get off of me. I have to get back to work.”

[clonewarsahsoka]

October is literally going to be such a fucking mess for me omg

[hitomisuzuya]

Thanksgiving special. Stepcest. DNI if it makes you uncomfortable, please. Scaramouche x fem!reader Smut. A few dirty texts. Fingering. Degradation.

I was unsure if I should even post this lol. Have a wonderful holiday, everyone.

Family dinners were rare, but Thanksgiving was one of those rare times. Scaramouche opted to not have any pie. He hated sweet things, and he'd already decided on a different desert tonight.

You'd looked so delicate and cute earlier, helping cook dinner and setting the table. You deserved to be fucked full of his cum while you writhed and whimpered underneath him.

He glanced at you from across the table as he hit send on a text message, watching you pick up your phone to read it.

Watching you lick whipped cream off your lips makes me think about how badly I wish they were wrapped around my cock underneath the table.

Your cheeks flushed after you read it. You fidgeted in your chair, your phone vibrating in your hand after he sent another text.

You are thinking about it, I can tell. You would lick my cum off your lips like a good girl, wouldn't you?

Scaramouche loved watching you squirm, wrestling with whether you should reply to the text. He purposely waited a few long minutes before sending another text.

Excuse yourself and I'll be upstairs in a few minutes.

Your room or mine? You text back.

A smirk tugged at his lips. Mine. You wouldn't be leaving his bedroom at all tonight.

You were told it was a good idea for you to go bed early after you'd excused yourself from the table because you cheeks looked flushed like you had a fever.

Naturally, Scaramouche left the table without saying anything. He couldn't wait to get upstairs and tease his fingers on your dripping cunt until you begged to cum on them.

It made him weak in the knees how eagerly you turned to look at him when he came into his room. Putting his hands on your hips, he back you up to the bed, pushing you down onto your back.

Spreading your legs, he pushed your skirt up, and cupped your cunt, "Remember, stay nice and quiet," He cooed, rubbing your clit outside of your panties, "you always moan like such a slut, we don't want to get caught."

"Ok-ah-ay," You let out a soft gasp as he pushed your panties aside to rub your bare, throbbing clit. He shot you a warning look, making you put a hand over your mouth to muffle your moan as he pushed two fingers up inside of you.

Scaramouche loved watching you struggle to quietly stiffle your moans as he fucked his fingers to the knuckle inside of you. Your legs started to shake, your hips bucking into his, eager to feel every hook of his fingers on your sweet spot.

Your walls clamped tight around his fingers, making him groan as your slick soaked onto his wrist. The tighter your orgasm built up, the harder it was for you to muffle your moans.

"You have two choices, whore," He bullied a third finger inside of you, "do you want to cum on my fingers or on my cock?" His degradation sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your clit. Honestly, you were pretty sure it was him that would get you caught sometime.

You took your hand off of your mouth. "Your cock. Your cock, please," You pleaded, leaning up to kiss him and lick at his mouth submissively.

Scaramouche pulled his fingers out of you, hastily discarding his clothes, helping you take yours off. You only got wetter as he rubbed his cock between your drooling folds. You gasped desperately, your hole practically clenching just from feeling the head of his leaking cock teasing at your entrance.

"Be quiet, slut," Scaramouche hissed, gritting his teeth as he pushed his cock inside of you. You felt so warm and tight. So perfect. His pace was slow at first with harsh snaps of his hips that had you whimpering into his hand.

His eyes suddenly widened when he heard the steps creaking and a knock on the door. He left his cock throbbing and buried in your sweet spot. It was his mom saying that your parents were going out for the night, and for him to stay quiet because she thought you had already gone to bed.

Never would be suspect you were being impaled on his cock as she spoke.

It was taking everything you had not make any noise. "Shh," He whispered, pushing his cock more into your sweet spot, "do you want them to hear you cumming on my cock?"

As soon as he head the front door close, Scaramouche took his hand off of your mouth. "You better scream for me, you cock drunk slut," He ordered, picking up a harsh, fast pace. His skin slapped against yours, his husky moans mingling with your cries of pleasure.

"Scara! Scara! Scara!" Your fingers nails racked up his back, a dizzy pleasure making your brain fuzzy as he pounded into you.

The glassy look of adoration in your eyes while you cried his name made his cock spurt and ribbon cum inside of you. "Fucking cum for me, slut," He groaned, reaching down to rub your clit.

His name tore from your throat in a scream as your orgasm washed over you. You shook, squirting on his cock. "You are thankful to have your stepbrother's cum filling you full," He taunted, fucking you through your orgasm.

You nodded, meeting Scaramouche halfway as he leaned down to you a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

[aclowntiny]

Skz as type of dads? 🥹

CRYING YES QUEEN/KING/MONARCH 👑🥹 kept this open for the kids to be biological or adopted or perhaps some of both for all family types 🥰 plus I’m a huge supporter of adoption personally hehe

Today is US Thanksgiving but fuck that ‘holiday’ here’s a post 🤙🏻

Stray Kids as Dads

Bang Chan

♡ Such a caring and protective dad, like his kids will never get hurt on his watch or his name isn’t Christopher Bang

♡ Being an eldest brother, he’s an absolute champ caring for them, like the moment they’re born he’s rolling up his sleeves and helping out, screw gender norms or the idea of the dad not helping. Being present with his children is a joy and honor.

♡ Would probably like the idea of a mid-sized family, probably a family of three like he had! Still manageable but no one’s lonely or received unfairly high expectations. Especially if they end up being closer in age, that’s ok because they’ll get along better instead of being teens enlisted to care for a baby or something of the like.

♡ Such a multi-talented man is a wonderful mentor to any interests the kids have, easily able to foster and participate in nearly any hobby- sports, singing, dance, acting, playing instruments, you name it!

♡ I can so see him loving to run around with the kids on his shoulders, grinning at the way they laugh and coming up with all sorts of vehicles and steeds to be, whether they want a spaceship ride, a horsie, a plane, or a dragon! Absolutely soft for their pleading to indulge their play.

♡ As a boy dad, Chris views it as super important to model what it truly means to be a man- no toxic masculinity here though! He treats you like royalty so his son(s) know how to treat and provide for their partner someday. He teaches them to fight for what they believe in and be brave. Many of the same things are true for girls, too, but he treats them like absolute princess(ess) too to make sure they don't settle for any less from a man! Indulges dress-up and teaching them martial arts alike because they're his princess(es) but also they must be protected and unafraid to fight back! No one gets the better of his babies!

Lee Know

♡ Acts like he’s got everything under control, but on the inside he’s freaking out a little 🤏🏻

♡ Proud dad OMG. Every milestone and first that gets experienced, he is sharing it and telling everyone even if it’s completely normal. Like crawling for the first time? Amazing. Absolutely stellar. That’s his kid, you know.

♡ Leans more toward a smaller family like he had, maybe one or two children…and the cats, of course! He adores the idea of being able to pour all the love and care into his little family and give extra attention to you and the kid(s).

♡ Loves kitchen time with your kid(s), doing anything remotely dangerous like cutting or frying on his own but otherwise giving them near free reign! It's messy, sure, but it's also a life skill and a way they can provide for others in the future, too. Minho's kid(s) will appreciate the effort and quality that can go into meals for sure.

♡ Can be firm when he needs to be, but it's mainly in situations where they show any form of disrespect or intolerance. Beyond being happy and loved, he wants his kids to be beacons of love to everyone they meet, and that starts with teaching them that being a bully is never ok, even if it's to an annoying sibling or cousin.

♡ Boy or girl, he’s making a dancing machine out of that kid(s)! I mean, he won’t force them or anything but absolutely indulges it and becomes their biggest coach if they have any interest in dance or choreography. With a girl he’d be so soft when he twirls her and lets her stand on his feet to slow dance, a smile across his face the whole time. His son would be busting idol moves at a very young age 😎

Changbin

♡ His affection toward you increases tenfold if that's even possible once you two are starting a family! And that carries over into the kids for sure.

♡ Honestly the sappiest and goofiest dad, like he won't go a single day without telling his kids he loves them, often in a cutesy voice. Plays with them and gets down to their level so well and gets so invested in any make believe they do.

♡ The idea of having a big family is cute to him, so numbers like four or five don't scare him! But he can be talked down if you like too- Changbin mostly just wants his kid to grow up with at least one sibling like he did.

♡ Playground days are a must for him- heck, he'll be right there going down the slide with little ones in his arms and spinning on the merry-go-round with eager squeals of his own. Becomes their own personal playground, having them hang off of his arms and spin. You have so many silly pictures of them like that.

♡ Plushie theatre! Changbin will act out the most elaborate scenes with teddy bears and stuffed dogs on leashes and anything else provided to him and he will take it as seriously as if he was reciting Shakespeare. May even play music to set the scene. The kiddos laugh so hard and just eat it up every time.

♡ Has the perfect balance to be a boy and girl dad. Lets his daughters put makeup and bows on him with the biggest sappy grin and asks if he looks pretty, then turns around and plays drill sergeant with the boys. Half-jokingly, half-seriously encourages them to mix play with each other and that’s how you find Changbin in camo with blush and the boys smudging lipstick on each other’s faces while the girls try to shoot their action figures away from their dolls.

Hyunjin

♡ Really invested and emotional about the whole process, especially in the beginning. His heart just fills and overflows whenever he looks and sees the life you two are raising.

♡ The dad who’s been practicing diaper changes on dolls or others’ kids if allowed so he knows he can do it right the first time for real 🥹

♡ In his mind, a small family sounds nice, maybe spaced apart so you can spend some time with each. But when he holds his little one for the first time suddenly he looks up like ‘I want ten’. Hyperbole, don’t worry. But suddenly bigger numbers like four or five or six don’t sound so terrible if you’re game 👀

♡ Unafraid to get messy with the fam in the name of art! Hyunjin's at the table when you come home, colors splattered all over his hands and the kids' as they finger paint. Don't worry, he's covered it all up with paper and made sure at least one of the paintings is a portrait of you 😉

♡ Dresses up the kids in the most stylish outfits, like you're about to have little models on your hands! Also has a soft spot for coordinating outfits with them, whether it's family photo day or just an afternoon out with the little ones.

♡ He values all his children so much, especially the awareness that they’ll bring different beauty to the world and be perceived differently. Because of this, he encourages fortitude in all the kids, boy or girl, to be themselves and stand firmly in their interests whatever they are.

Han

♡ This man is the sweetest dad for real! Adores his kids and is always happy to show them affection 🥰

♡ Also the type of dad who tries really hard (sometimes a little too hard but that’s why you all love him 🤭) to be hip on the trends and name their generation’s memes.

♡ I can see him once he gets into the swing of things as the type to want a bigger family, maybe even more than he thought! Nothing crazy, but in his head he thought he’d feel complete after one or two, now that he has them though? Three or four doesn’t sound bad, just look at how cute they are with a sibling to play with! Kind of reminds him of the feeling of having so many brothers.

♡ You have to stop him sometimes from buying every cute toy he sees. “Do we need another playset?” “But babe, then he can run his own sushi restaurant 🥺” “Shit, that is cute, ok.”

♡ Cries when his kids cry, laughs whenever they do or at any joke they ever tell him, can hardly bring himself to scold them because he just loves them so much and doesn’t want to break their hearts!

♡ Honestly doesn’t mind if he has boys or girls, like both sound great so you’d never catch this dad sulking at a gender reveal! In the end though I can see him having one of each, and it warms your heart to see how he teaches his son(s) to respect their sister(s), value and cheer them on from a very young age. He is all of their biggest cheerleader, though, handing them mics when he’s recording or playing around in the studio, showing up to every event of theirs he physically can, and just going ‘that’s my son/daughter’ with a huge smile all the time.

Felix

♡ The type of father to describe his kids as the twinkles in his eyes! Just constantly looking at them with adoration- they’ll never wonder if they’re loved 🥹

♡ He's always wanted a family, so having little ones of his own is Felix's dream come true for sure. You'll practically have to pry them from his arms, he loves showering them in affection so much!

♡ For some reason, I see him wanting three kids, the classic 'nuclear family' size or in his words the perfect number to fill up his arms! You guys are ever-so-slightly outnumbered, but your life's also full to the brim of cuteness.

♡ A pro at bath time! Felix is the epitome of 'organized chaos' during this time, managing to get all your little ones to love the water and keep it in the tub. He knows all their favorite toys and has a voice for each one.

♡ One Mother’s/Father’s Day you awake slowly, eyes fluttering at a few clattering sounds and shushes. Your eyebrows furrow in concern, but sleep swims too quickly still beneath your eyes to pull you up. Your internal questions are answered in moments as Felix and the kids burst in with a tray of all your favorites for breakfast, all clearly handmade as the notes and drawings scattering it.

♡ Absolutely no difference in his intent with raising boys or girls… but real talk, the sweetest girl dad on the planet OMG. While he is conscious about modeling caring and providing behavior in both, curiosity and discovery regardless… he has at least one girly girl that just steals his heart and has him wrapped around her finger. Will play as whatever princess needed, incredibly active in every single tea party he can make, you name it, he does it.

Seungmin

♡ The do-it-all dad. He learns sooo much about all of their interests when they're older and reads up on everything baby/toddler before then. An absolute champ at juggling care and keeping the house afloat!

♡ All he wants in life is to do right by his family and be a man you can be proud of. No fear with jumping right in to any aspect of raising your family, even if he does crack the occasional joke.

♡ He's a bit open on number, probably leaning between two or three but more wouldn't hurt if you'd like bigger!

♡ Bedtime is one of his favorite times. Just being able to lay down with the kids and read them stories, doing funny voices and raising and lowering for suspense, fills his heart. He'll sing them lullabies until their eyes stay closed and watch for a few moments wondering how he got so lucky to have this with you of all people.

♡ Invents a whole secret language with the kids one day, so you come home and can't understand any of them. Teases the dickens out of you, grinning and bumping your shoulder and egging the kids on to say more until relenting and letting you in on the secret!

♡ He can’t decide if he’s more excited to have a son or a daughter! Practically weeps imagining playing dress up but has also always wanted a mini me??? (See what I did there?) He takes photos of the kids often, which ends up sparking an interest in photography that he’s happy to foster. Heck, maybe through that his daughter will become his mini me and he gets the best of both worlds!

I.N

♡ Playful dad! It’s not uncommon to come home and find him rolling around with the kids in a big ball of laughter!

♡ He hadn’t always thought about having a family, but when he met you and you guys began your journey, he wondered how he would have ever considered anything else.

♡ Because of this, he never had some dream number in his head and he’s happy to give you the floor on that question whether you’d like one or three or six!

♡ S-Class (see what I did there) nurse. They'll practically demand that he's the one to care for wounds and put the bandages on because he's so good at distracting from the sting of cleaning it and kissing where it hurts.

♡ They love his trot voice. Thus he hams it up plenty, bringing out his most exaggerated moves and probably bringing props too. Would not at all be adverse to them becoming his backup singers or dancers.

♡ Loves the idea of at least one mini you and one mini him- his words! Y’all definitely get a mini him though, OMG: your son wants to be JUST LIKE his dad, practically following him around all the time. He takes after his dad’s goofy smile and performances so soon you really do have two trot performances to watch! Jeongin is so honored and floored by this that he’s always saying he has to be the best man possible for his son as well as for you 🥹 he always encourages his son to say the sweetest words to you too- but don’t say it was from him, shh!!!

[annleckie]

Reading AITA sometimes is like,

AITA for refusing to cancel our family's Thanksgiving tradition?

So, we do a regular, totally traditional Thanksgiving--the family gets together, we have all the traditional Thanksgiving foods at dinner, we watch football, and of course we do the Thanksgiving Mole Hunt.

So, my daughter (27F) lost her husband about five years ago. She was understandably really upset by this, and moved away for a while and met a lovely young man (30M) who she's getting married to next year. We're all happy for her and excited to meet this new family member. But when I emailed her inviting her and her fiancé to Thanksgiving, of course I said, "don't forget to pack your gloves and your mole hammer!" and her reaction was, well. She asked if maybe we could not do the mole hunt this year. Because her fiancé wasn't used to it.

But, I mean, the mole hunt is really important to my family! And to my husband's family and honestly lots of people around here are really into it. I told her no, we're doing the mole hunt, and now she's saying she's not coming to Thanksgiving. I don't understand it.

EDIT: Look, all you people in the comments saying "just draw pictures of moles, that's what my family does" are you kidding? You're going to appease the gods of the Underworld with a picture of a mole? And if you don't dig up moles, where do you get the worms for the worm roast? And don't tell me "buy them at the bait store" because bait store worms on your pumpkin pie is just, ew.

ANOTHER EDIT: So, I didn't put this in the post originally because I didn't want it to be too long, but people are asking if there's any reason my daughter is particularly adamant about not doing the mole hunt. The thing is, her first husband drew the short straw after pie one year and nobody thought it was any big deal but it turned out he didn't have a mole. He said he "wasn't feeling it" and so he just stood around drinking beer while we all dug up our moles. My daughter offered to give him her mole but I mean, when you're appeasing the gods of the Underworld you don't want to mess around. I do a traditional Thanksgiving, that's all there is to it. Really, it's not asking much for people to just dig up a mole to sacrifice in their stead in case they get the short straw! But my daughter was really upset, and I have to admit I wanted to say Oh come on who hasn't lost a spouse in the Thanksgiving mole hunt, but I realized that wouldn't be helpful.

AND ANOTHER EDIT: Look, I don't appreciate being called a "fucking bloodthirsty loon." I don't know how you all do Thanksgiving but these are important traditions to my family! And yes, I did lose my first two husbands on Thanksgiving but if they couldn't get up and stun a damn mole on Thanksgiving that's not my fault, is it?

LAST EDIT: I'm not replying to any more comments or messages. My daughter has said she's never talking to me again and has blocked me on everything. I'm heartbroken. On the other hand, that's more moles for the rest of us.

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

Productive Ways to Make Up | Dean Winchester

✦ pairing — Dean Winchester x afab!female!Plus Size Reader

✦ word count — 2.1k

✦ request — Maybe taking charge of the plus size reader. Like hot angry rough sex. Spanking maybe? Idk that just seems like it would be a good one. Maybe just they get in a fight during the holidays. Like at the readers family’s Christmas party. Then dean takes charge of her and they have angry rough sex

✦ warnings — nsfw, teasing, hints of a fight, smut, spanking (reader receiving), angry sex, rough sex, fellatio, face fucking (reader receiving), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (please don’t do this), creampie, aftercare.

✦ author's note — changed this to a New Year’s party just to fit the date better.

════════════════════════

The fight got out of hand easily, as things often did with Dean. It was one of those fights that you didn’t know how escalated to this, on this day specifically when you needed him on his best behavior.

Your parents had been excited to finally see you for more than a couple of hours, happy that your hectic schedule had given you a break for New Year’s. You had to skip Thanksgiving and Christmas because you were out of town, your mom didn’t take it well. This party was supposed to be perfect for everybody.

Dean rarely made things hard for you, but he had to do it today, apparently.

You left early, making up an emergency with Dean’s brother. Poor Sam, you had to drag him into this just so your dad wouldn’t start hating your partner out of nowhere.

For the first time in a very long time, getting home was worse for your mood. Dean didn’t help, glaring at you as you peeled off your jacket as if you had done anything wrong, as if you started the stupid fight.

He grabbed you by the hips before you could leave the living room, grip tight and strong. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To the bedroom. Or am I not allowed?”

“Watch it,” he warned.

“I need to call my mom and assure her Sam isn’t dying.”

Dean pushed you against the wall to stop you, trapping you with his warm body to the cold wallpaper.

“Dean…” You struggled against his hold.

“Oh, honey, you know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

In most circumstances, you would wiggle against his hands just to egg him on. But this time, you honestly simply wanted to annoy him into letting you cross the living room and hopefully find the warmth of your cozy bed where you could call your mom and take a nap.

Dean had other plans. You hated that you weren’t as against them as you wanted to be. After all, it was a more productive way to take out your anger than yelling at each other in the middle of the half-empty living room on New Year’s Eve.

Your breaths mingled as both of you opened your mouths to say something. Dean took charge, as he often did with these things, and leaned in to kiss you.

A hand of his came up to grip your chin, forcing your mouth open to slip his tongue past your red lips. You squirmed, feeling your skirt ride up at the movement between the wall and Dean’s bulk.

“Don’t be a brat,” he gritted out. Yet he traced the outside of your thighs with both hands, forcing your skirt to bunch up at your hips. Humming against your skin, he manhandled you toward the couch.

His hands fell on your ass. He made it jiggle with a light spank, laughing when you gasped in surprise. “That okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you consented.

He immediately spanked you again. “Count for me.”

“One,” you mumbled as the first slap landed. Dean hummed, you could picture the smile on his face, and did it again. “Two.”

“See how easy everything is when you listen to me?” He sounded almost condescending. Slapping you again, harder, he waited for you to count once more before rubbing his hand over the spot he had just hit.

He made you count to ten, careful not to make you cry. No matter how pretty you looked with tears streaming down your face, this was clearly about control, not a punishment.

Rubbing your ass, Dean ripped your pantyhose and spread your legs open. “Of course you’re fucking dripping already.”

He sat on the couch and brought you onto his lap. You would probably ruin his new pants, but by the way he grabbed you and pulled you into a sloppy kiss, that was his intention.

You moaned as he pushed his tongue against yours. Before you could start enjoying yourself with the kiss, Dean pulled away. He even laughed when you whined.

“Be patient,” he told you. “You aren’t supposed to enjoy this too much.”

You pouted, naively thinking it would convince him. Dean wasn’t in a playful mood, he just wanted to remind you who was in charge and why. His grip on you tightened, bringing you flush against him.

The tent in his pants brushed against your sensitive skin. He purposefully drove you to move your hips backward, then forward. You rested your hands on his chest, grinding against him of your own volition.

"You're enjoying this, huh."

Dumbly, you hummed. His laugh almost snapped you out of it, but it was too late. You cried out as he stopped you from keeping grinding. It bordered on torture, feeling the texture of his pants on your bare skin, rough and so readily available for you to get off.

Dean pushed you to your knees and undid his pants in haste, pulling his cock out of his underwear swiftly. He petted your head for a moment, then tapped his cock against your cheek. “Open up.”

You did so, resting your hands on your thighs in expectancy.

He caressed your cheek before shoving his cock into your mouth, only careful not to get to your throat for a moment. As he hit your throat, you gagged from the force, then relaxed as your brain registered what was happening.

He groaned as you began to hollow your cheeks, thrusting his hips up and choking you with his cock. You gagged once again, balling up your fists. Not touching him was worse than the sensation in your throat, that one you weirdly enjoyed, something about him causing you to gag and slobber all over his cock simply did something to you.

He knew.

“Should have known this would shut you up.” He rutted his hips, groaning deeply as his cock slipped down your throat.

He grunted as your tongue slid along his cock, gripping your face tightly so he could fuck your mouth at a quicker pace. The only indication you got that he wanted to come was him pressing your face to his pelvis.

Before you could taste the familiar salty cum, he pushed you off his cock and caressed your neck with his thumbs as he regained his breath.

"On your back."

You understood he meant on the couch simply because you were sure he would never fuck you into the floor when your backs were so ruined from all the hunting. So you laid on the couch you had fucked on more times than you could count and waited for him to get inside you.

Dean showed you two fingers. "Keep these warm for me, yeah?"

You nodded and opened your mouth, eager to suck on his fingers. Dean cackled, shaking his head.

"Can't leave this pussy unattended, honey." He teased at your entrance, gathering the slick dripping down your labia. "So good for me," he mumbled to himself.

Sliding his middle and ring finger inside you, Dean hummed to himself. "Knew you'd be warm and ready for me."

Teasingly, he curled his fingers. You whimpered.

"More." You couldn't help yourself.

He started shoving his fingers in and out, thrusting like he had done this a million times before. He almost had. The lewd sounds bouncing against the walls made your skin grow hot, feeling yourself getting more aroused at the wet echoes.

You squeezed around his fingers and rolled into his hand. Dean tsked, shaking his head. He tried to hide his proud smile from you as best as he could, but the cockiness always won over. His thumb grazed your clit as he wiggled his digits inside you, crisscrossing them.

"You know what? Go ahead, fuck yourself on my fingers. Can't do all the work for you."

Rutting against Dean's hand, you allowed yourself to enjoy the tendrils of pleasure every time his thumb made contact with your clit and his digits became buried inside you. He would stroke against your movements when you would get too complacent, reminding you he was still in charge. As if you would have it any other way.

You gasped out his name, hands floundering in search of something to hold onto. Dean removed his fingers before you could even grasp your orgasm.

Taunting you, he licked his fingers clean. "You would have made your mess already if you hadn't been so difficult earlier. You know that, right?"

You mumbled a reminder, "You were difficult too."

"Take that back," he demanded, wrapping a hand around his hard cock.

You shook your head, frustrated to no end as Dean started to pump the cock you should have been riding already.

As if reading your mind, and somehow agreeing, he roughly grabbed your thighs and forced your legs open enough to slot himself between them. He slapped his cock against your clit, smirking when you jolted. He did it a couple more times, only stopping when he dragged his tip along your slit to wet it.

Dean coated his cock all over with your wetness, using his fingers to gather some more for good measure. The emptiness inside you grew. All of this was not only unnecessary but only dragged your so much-needed pleasure.

"Gonna fuck some manners into you, honey," he announced in glee as he pushed inside you.

"Uh-huh."

He hovered over you to kiss you, sticking his tongue into your mouth while holding your legs open. You panted as he thrust into you with little care of pace or rhythm, only worried about fucking you stupid.

"I can feel how badly you want to come already," he boasted, relentlessly pumping his cock into you like he would die if he didn't reach as deep as humanly possible. "Hold on," he insisted, almost desperate. "You gotta wait until I tell you to."

Just as you were going to hum in acknowledgment, he pulled out and forced a desperate cry out of you. Dean grabbed your hips, guiding you onto your knees and hands.

Pressing his chest to your back, he pushed back in. His hands moved to your belly, searching for the hem of your top; as he found it, he rode it upward. Some of his fingers were ice cold, leaving goosebumps all over your skin as his hands reached your breasts.

He pulled on your breasts as he pistoned into you, quickly and harshly, pushing your face into the couch. You gasped for air, whining as you ground back against him, chasing permission to come.

Dean wouldn't relent that easily. He dropped your breasts, wrapping an arm tightly around you whilst resting his other hand on your thigh. Slapping your clit, he started to pant in your ear. "You're so fucking close," he told you, as if you didn't feel like you were on fire.

His fingers drew circles on your clit, applying as much pressure as your desperate humps and his hurried thrusts allowed him to. "Come on," he encouraged you, "let go. Make a mess all over my cock."

His thrusts only slowed down long enough for you to ride your high, coming so close to using him to get off that you hoped you would remember to plant the idea of trying that out into his head. He picked up the pace again, taking advantage of your pulsing walls and your half-relaxed state.

"Inside?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yeah." You moaned at the overstimulation, hoping he would just come already so you wouldn't have to go through more of it right now. Maybe later.

Not only did he fill you with cum but he pushed it deeper with a couple of pumps, moaning through a string of curses. His embrace loosened around you, but Dean didn't let go.

With his chest against your back and ragged breath in your ear, Dean coaxed you into laying flat on your stomach. "You okay, baby?"

You hummed. "Yeah, all good."

He kissed your shoulder and slowly withdrew from you, slipping out. "Gonna clean you up," he told you before you could ask if something was wrong.

Cleaning you up with a damp rag, Dean caressed your skin soothingly. "Can you sit up and drink some water?"

You gave it a try, groaning as you turned around on the couch. Sitting up was especially daunting as your sore ass made contact with the cushioned seat.

"I..."

You looked up at him, glass in both hands.

"I'll run you a bath, then we'll call your parents and invite them over for dinner this weekend."

"Really?"

"Really."

By the end of the night, you called your mom from your warm bed, head on Dean’s chest while his fingers traced your back.

[lesmissocials-fuckedup]

Les Mis socials - official 2023 ranking

Here they are - The results of the "Worst post of 2023" competition and overall an archive for the worst posts the Les Mis social media teams have cursed us with this year.

1- "Who should Marius choose ?" - January 29

That one can be crowned "Worst post of the year" by far - The musical seems to once again have misunderstood three of its most important characters, reducing them to being mere love interests and defining Eponine and Cosette's relationship by a rivalry over Marius.

2 - Cosette at Thanksgiving - November 23

The US competitor also took a very strong stand here - not only because it shows a deep misunderstanding of what the character of Cosette fundamentaly stands for, but also because it can be seen as offensive by many. Putting an abused and starved french child in front of a Thanksgiving meal, really ?

3 - Mother's day - March 19

A picture of Madame Thénardier ? For Mother's day instead of Fantine ? It's more likely than you think. Although on this one the team gets extra credit for acknowledging that Madame Thénardier is not a good mother, which shows an unusual level of understanding when it comes to their own musical.

4 - The Wimbledon post - July 15

Also known as That One Post Where Everything Is Wrong - and for sure not their best use of this promotional picture. From the tennis racket to the editing of Cosette's arms to make her look muscular, it is the proof we never needed that there should not, in fact, be a Cosette for every occasion.Not to mention they somehow messed up the colors of the French flag... not a good look for them.

5 - Christmas Eve - December 24

Just a very disappointing post all around as an adequate way to wrap up this year. On the 200th anniversary of Valjean meeting Cosette in the woods, we got a quality pun and an edited picture that we could, at the very best, consider as inappropriate - would it only be because they added snowflakes to a barricade that was build in June.

Honorable mentions for this year go to :

The Fourth of July post - that surprisingly did not make it in top 5. The US team might win the battle for "Most incorrect use of this Cosette picture" with this one - and it is made even worse by the fact they did not post anything for July 14, the national french holiday.

The World cup one - similar to the Wimbledon post in that it just gets everything wrong overall, from the awful pun to putting Cosette in front of an english flag.

Easter Cosette - not surprising, but still extremely disappointing.

Christmas Cosette - in the same way, it is the exact same post as last year and never fails to disappoint.

Any time they felt the need to put sunglasses on Cosette - which, honestly, was a lot.

A very uncanny use of emojis in every single post, that never gets less disturbing.

Overall a very good year to archive their fuck ups - but they still did not manage to beat the record set last year by the Queen's Jubilee post ! Maybe they will do even better in 2024 ?

[bookshelf-dust]

kids show up, and i get no kisses.

billy hargrove x gn!reader

word count: 1,254

warnings: swearing, suggestive comments, fluffy fluff

a/n: hi!! some billy for you. this is my way of romanticizing a holiday i’m not totally over the moon for, but this is how i wish it’d be. if you don’t celebrate it, you can skip this, or imagine eating a whole bunch of stuff you like, or ignore me as a whole. this is also me encouraging byler. i hope you enjoy it!! <33

————

Billy's palm was warm where it rested on your bare thigh, callouses scratching back and forth from time to time. He'd made himself at home, his legs over yours, sticking where skin met skin. He had on those little green shorts despite the fact that it was freezing outside.

It was one of those days where neither of you had to work, and it was too cold for him to go outside. A day where he insisted on being on top of you the whole time, insisted on being all over you. Not that it bothered you. You did live together after all.

Billy was staring at the television, some rerun of something on. You thought he was paying attention, but his words told you he'd really been off thinking away.

"Are we supposed to, like, do Thanksgiving or somethin'?"

This would be your first major holiday living together, and honestly, you'd thought about it, but you weren't really sure. You certainly didn't want to go home, and that wasn't going to happen for Billy either.

You turned to look at him, light from the tv creating shadows on the slopes and plains of his face. He looked so pretty. "Do you wanna? Like eat together maybe?"

"Hm. Maybe?" Billy rubbed his nose. You reached over him to pull the chain on the lamp, room darkening from the now fully set sun. He set a hand on your back to steady you, but when you moved back he pulled you fully in his lap, setting your forearms on his shoulders.

"Did you celebrate it at home?" You questioned tentatively, swiping a thumb over his freckles and giggling lightly because of how much you liked them. He wouldn't even scold you for your fawning anymore.

"Mom cooked when I was a kid, but clearly that went to shit. Susan fucked something up on accident once and then Neil just made us go out to eat after that, or eat leftovers. I think we might've gone to like a grandparents or something when I was really young? I don't know."

"Why don't we figure something out, yeah? Pick stuff out. Maybe we could have Max over?"

Billy contemplated, dramatically taking your face in his hands. "Okay," he drawled.

————

That's how you found yourself in the grocery store, list in hand as you searched through the potatoes for some that looked promising. You found some just as Billy returned with the peas he'd wanted.

Moving to another section, you looked through the pie crusts before glancing up to ask Billy for help. You caught him in the act of racing down the aisle, body hoisted up on the cart, leg pushing him off of the tile until he reached the end cap and spun around. Clearly he was bored.

He caught your gaze, tossing his head back and laughing because you'd seen him. But you didn't mind when he got like this. Any chance for him to release some of that childhood energy was good. Deserved.

"Need somethin' baby?" He put his hands on his hips, out of breath.

"You want pumpkin or apple pie?"

"Pumpkin."

"Good. Wasn't gonna make apple anyhow."

He grinned at you, fixing the collar on his jacket, brown leather worn in from years of wear. "What else do we need? I can get whatever you want."

He peered over your shoulder at the list, reading the things you hadn't marked off yet. "Milk, eggs, gravy. Come on sweet thing." Billy placed one hand on the cart, reaching the other out to take yours and place it on his belt so you could grab hold. "I'm on it."

————

Billy was finishing deviled eggs when there was a knock at the door followed by, "I'm coming in! Please be decent!"

You laughed over the stove where you were finishing mashed potatoes. Max entered the kitchen along with Lucas and Will.

Billy wiped his hands off. "Hi boys. Hi shitbird." You turned in time to catch their hug—short, but kind, and followed by a yank of Max's pigtail.

Will made his way over to you. "Smells good." He hugged you sweetly and then snuck a roll. Lucas followed, and then Max.

"Are we having macaroni?" She asked, hopeful.

"Your brother made it." You looked over at the timer on the counter. "It's almost done." She laughed in triumph before offering her help, which you declined, telling the three of them to do whatever.

Billy cut up the turkey into thin slices, so that it was "fall-y apart-y" the way you liked, and then the five of you sat on the floor around the coffee table in the living room to eat, the Macy's parade on in the background.

Will sat to the left of you, Billy on your right. You took this as your gateway to breach the question, knowing he recognized your home as a safe space, even though everyone knew now. You turned to him and he looked up, watery doe eyes meeting yours. But apparently, Billy was wondering the same thing as you.

"How's Mike?" He asked, looking around you, beating you to the question.

Will blushed, but smiled nonetheless. "He's good. He's really good. Finished a campaign the other night."

"Yeah? That's good."

You all drifted into varying conversations throughout your meal, Billy and Lucas talking about basketball, while you, Max, and Will critiqued the varying dance groups in the parade or talked about what they were doing on fall break.

Eventually, Billy helped you clean up while the kids set up Monopoly on the table in place of the food.

Standing in front of the fridge, rearranging the Tupperware, Billy wrapped his arms around you, snuck his warm hands under your shirt to rub at the chub of your tummy. His nails grazed your sides, making you laugh.

You shut the fridge, turning around to face him. "Something you need, Mr. Hargrove?"

His smile reached his eyes, and you reached out for his freckles again. He leaned into your touch. "Just you. And I want pie."

"'Course you do. Anything else?"

"Kisses. Kids show up, and I get no kisses, even in my own damn house. Pretty please?" He batted his lashes at you. "I've been so good today."

"Today."

He scoffed. "Rude."

You took his face in your hands and kissed him anyhow, slow and sweet, eliciting a groan from him. You pulled away, but he muttered an "Uh, uh," instead.

This time he ran his tongue along your bottom lip, before slipping it into your mouth. You pulled away this time, making him pout. "B, in case you forgot, there are minors on the premises."

He kissed your forehead. "Yeah, yeah."

Speaking of, said minors joined the two of you in the kitchen and you doled out pie to each of them. Leaving you and Billy alone again, you watched as he spooned out cool whip on either of your slices. He rubbed your nose, ridding his index finger of the creamy substance he'd gotten on it.

He used it as an excuse to lick it off, swiping his tongue over your nose. "Billy!" You giggled—exactly the reaction he'd been hoping for.

The five of you spent the rest of the afternoon talking about everything and nothing, whining over board games, and eating yourselves so full that there was no other choice but for all of you to nap in various locations, splayed out over whatever surface was around.

You couldn't have asked for anything better.

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for making my mom’s boyfriend feel bad on purpose?

disclaimer: my parents have an open marriage

so i (20m, northern cheyenne) don’t have a problem with the modern celebration of thanksgiving.

really. i don’t.

the whole “pilgrims and indians” schtick is gross, but i find that generally, outside of elementary schools, nobody thinks about that part very much. people mostly just want to see their families and eat weird food. and i fucks w that.

the problem comes in with my mom’s boyfriend.

my mom (52f) is white, but she’s been married to my dad (53m) who is also northern cheyenne for 26 years. she’s the DEI coordinator for our county’s public school system and she’s one of my favorite most trusted shire people ever. so i never really have to censor myself around her. i can make jokes and complain and vent and etc etc etc. she’ll always listen.

her BOYFRIEND though.

i really do like my mom’s boyfriend (41m). he’s super cool, recommends good books, teaches me about plumbing, all sorts of other Manly Step Dad Shit (/hj).

but he is decidedly extremely caucasian. like so white.

he’s not /racist/ but he’s that in-between that a lot of white people are where they’re never mean, but you gotta watch what you say around them bc they bruise like a two week old apple.

there have been a few instances where i have in fact bruised his sensitive white man apple skin.

1) i was listening to a podcast with my mom about people indigenous to Hawai’i protecting Mauna Kea. we were listening to it out loud in our living room, and her boyfriend came in and listened for a few minutes before asking me to turn it off because it was “depressing”. fair enough. i figured he was having a rough day and i turned it off. (side note, it was All My Relations, “For the Love of the Mauna”.)

2) we were driving somewhere and trading off command of the AUX. i put on a song by Nahko and Medicine for the People, specifically their parody of “My Country Tis of Thee”. he again said he didn’t like it, it was depressing, and could I please turn it off. i did.

3) this is where i’m the asshole. we’re planning for thanksgiving, and i mentioned wanting to do a anticolonial thanksgiving. we’d watch some stuff about the wampanoag tribe (first contact tribe at plymouth rock), i’d make frybread and fried squash blossoms (along w my mom who would make the thanksgiving basics) we’d have a grand old time. her boyfriend asks why we can’t just enjoy thanksgiving without making it too political.

i’m like. that’s not political? it’s cultural?

and he says that to him it feels self flagellating and it would make him feel bad.

and i said honestly? the idea of thanksgiving’s history makes Me feel bad. and not to complain dude, but as an american indian, it’s always about you, and never, ever about me. so truly, i don’t care if you feel bad. we’re not doing a fucking colonized thanksgiving in this house. so if you’re just here for that sham bullshit, go and stay gone.

my mom says she agrees with me that an attempt at a decolonized thanksgiving is a good idea and a good compromise for our mixed family, but that i was way too harsh on her boyfriend and should’ve tried explaining in a kinder way first, since he’s really not educated on this stuff. i see where she’s coming from; i worry i might’ve scared him off of ever learning about cultural decolonization. ik it’s not my responsibility to make him care, but that doesn’t change the fact that plenty of white people are subconsciously looking for a reason not to care about natives, and by being a dick i might’ve just handed him that reason. so not only was i an asshole to him, but an asshole to my community at large by disservicing our reputation.

idk. i think i ruined thanksgiving :/

What are these acronyms?