#cos this is frankly getting ridiculous

[toytulini]

who is in charge of all the stupid arbitrary changes to every fucking app and website for no fucking reason have you never heard of "if it aint broke, dont fix it"?

i swear to god every app website service etc is just slamming the randomizer button on features every week and hoping it unlocks a market changing innovation instead of like. waiting to make sure the change is actually innovative before forcing it upon everyone

[bits-and-babs]

✦ 𝐎𝐃𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐍 ✦

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader (delta) | smut, 18+ | 4.1k

summary: you, soap and gaz make a silly bet at ghost's expense for an invaluable prize.

cw: mw3 spoiler free. 141 ridiculousness, humour, attempts to remove the mask resulting in life threatening (not really) injury, mild exhibitionism if you squint, very talkative ghost, 'interrogation' wink wink, unprotected p in v sex, reference to f receiving oral.

ghost mlist | main mlist | taglist

"Y'know, I'm sure as shit that L.t's got brown hair," Soap pipes up in the middle of the silence that had settled inside the safe house. 

The members of Task Force 141 glance up one by one, querying eyes cast Soap's way as the guesstimated observation hangs in the air. It's louder than chopper blades, thudding against your skull and roaring in your ears as you attempt to recall the information you have on Ghost, what little physical attributes you can attribute to him. Each time, you hit a brick wall. The only image conjured in your minds-eye is the black voids of the mask's eyes and the piercing amber of his irises. 

The wind howls outside, battering the windows with Wyoming snow and creeping in through the cracks in the panes. It makes a yowling sound as it slips through the crevices, carrying your memories of Ghost's appearance with it. He truly was like an apparition, there one moment, then gone altogether. 

Gaz's brows crease in the middle, little crevices in the skin showing his mind working over the sentence. 

"He doesn't," he eventually retorts, eyebrow cocked while shaking his head, "He's blonde." 

"What makes you say that?" Price scoffs at his colleague's certainty, "You ever seen his face?"

The silence that follows makes the Captain chuckle. A wordless 'that's what I thought'. 

"You willin' to bet on that?" Soap pushes Gaz with a lopsided smirk. There it is, that ridiculous playfulness that the Scotsman continuously let slip over coms. Simon had once reprimanded him for how it would get him killed– you were almost certain if he continued down this path in particular, he'd be in a box by daylight.

"I am," Gaz counters thoughtlessly, a smug lilt to his tone as he leans the crown of his head back against the rotting wooden wall, "He's got blonde eyelashes. He's gonna have blonde hair."

"What're ya gettin' so close tae him for?" Soap grins wide, loading the new ammunition and hitting a bullseye on the first shot, "You been snoggin' him or somethin'?"

"Lads," Price warns. It's only one word, but it says a lot; 'he'll have your head.' All of you know Simon 'Ghost' Riley well enough to know it's not a joke. Seen enough of the mangled bodies he left behind to know it wouldn't be clean, either. More like he'd hack your skull from your neck, picking out the dullest blade that'd struggle to slot between vertebrae.  

"Bets on, then," Soap continues, white teeth gleaming in the low light, "First to confirm gets the honour of shootin' Hassan between the eyes." 

It's like throwing a match at a body doused in diesel. 

                           ✰

The parameters of this wager are as follows... First: the competition is between you, Soap and Gaz. Price was ruled automatically exempt the moment he admitted he had, indeed, seen Ghost's face. It was a revelation that caused quite a storm- and a promise from Gaz of £100 if he'd tell.

The Captain, quite frankly, told him where to stick it. 

Second: None of you could just ask Ghost himself. That was boring; no fun in that. 

Thirdly, there are no other rules. Acquire the information by any means necessary to claim victory. Perhaps this rule should have been revised- because to say that 141's tactics for getting Ghost to reveal his face were a little unorthodox is an understatement of the highest order. 

Despite his hulking frame, Ghost is like a cunning fox, cognizant of even the slightest changes in energy and hypervigilant of those approaching. The midnight void of his grease paint that frames his eyesockets contrasts the whites of his eyes as they dart back and forth between you all. He appears to have noted the devious scheming, practically hearing the cogs turning in your heads the moment he returned from his watch. Something is amiss, and you know Ghost knows it. 

He says nothing. 

Day One; the grumpy, black-clad special ops soldier sits back in his seat as he crosses his arms over his vast chest, cautiously observing the minute movements the three of you made. He'd bristled when Gaz stood from the sofa simply to enter another room, poised and ready to pounce at whatever fuckery the younger soldier would attempt. 

"Hey, L.t.," Soap's drawl cuts through the humorously tense atmosphere in the room, and you brace yourself for his master plan. "When was the last time ye got a haircut?"

Ghost hesitates. Waits a beat. The silence stretches almost uncomfortably until he answers, thick, bassy voice almost booming in the box room. "What're you playin' at, Johnny?"

Soap shrugs his shoulders, exuding complete nonchalance as he settles into the seat across the table from the hulking mass of man. "Just wondered if the mask ever came off. How do you cut your hair?"

Amusement ripples through you in the sound of a chuckle, both men glancing your way. Ghost peers at you, suspicion pooling thick in his pupils. 

"Shave it," Ghost rumbles bluntly, with an air of finality that leaves no room for argument or for Soap to encourage him to try something stupid like curtain bangs or, God forbid, a mohawk. 

You can't help but grin from ear to ear as you watch the Scotsman's shoulders slump in defeat, already waving a white flag upon seeing how unwilling Ghost is to play whatever stupid game you're all partaking in. Even you can't deny the anxiety that prickles across your nerve endings when you see the way Ghost's biceps flex beneath the camo fabric of his uniform, primed for action. 

When Ghost's aqua irises slide to you, your shoulders shrug comically, putting on the performance of your life to appear as though you had no idea what Johnny was up to. You see the way Ghost's blacked-out eyelids squint in suspicion. He doesn't believe you, but doesn't say as much. 

Day Three and the polite, roundabout tactics had been discarded in favour of the nuclear option. Gaz had tried ambushing Ghost in the shower, opening the door without knocking as if pretending he didn't know the Lieutenant was in there. The door slammed so quickly into his head that an egg had been steadily growing on his forehead for the past hour and a half, blood seeping from his almost certainly broken nose. 

"You'll stay out next time, Bravo 2-6, if you know what's good for you," Ghost had growled through the crack in the door before shutting it with a click of the lock. 

Holding his face and slinking away, mortally wounded, Gaz uttered a humiliated 'Yes, lieutenant'. 

Soap, clearly not having learnt from poor Gaz, decided that the next best option was a trip, so to speak. Executing a ludicrously overexaggerated stumble, Johnny reached out to grab Ghost's mask to 'steady himself' and ultimately drag it from his superior's head. 

Ghost had leapt from his seat with a roar, threatening to send Sergeant MacTavish back to Scotland in a box with the Saltire draped across the lid. The standoff only settled upon Captain Price's barked orders to stand down or hang up the uniform. 

By Day Six, Ghost had bruised your opponent's egos enough that neither Soap nor Gaz dared attempt to peek beneath the mask again. They look at you like you're absolutely bonkers when you finally announce it's your turn to try and tame the beast. 

"Yer fuckin' mad, hen," Johnny grumbled, watching you observe Ghost from across the room. He'd settled on a chair in the corner of the room, ensuring no one could sneak up on him. "You can't seriously be plannin' on-"

"I want Hassan," you shrug, a smile playing on your lips. Though, at this rate, you couldn't care less about the terrorist and the honour of dispatching him. No, Ghost had made this ridiculous game far more competitive than needed, and you planned to win.

"Have fun," Gaz scoffed bitterly, still icing the blotchy green and purple bruise that had welted on his forehead as a medal of dis-honour. You hadn't exactly helped the healing process, poking it harshly with the pad of your thumb as you laughed at his mortifying misfortune. 

You wait patiently for Ghost to move, like a stake out on a mission. Lying in plain sight in a ghillie suit, a sniper rifle pointed right between his eyes and your finger on a hairpin trigger. You wait for him to break, for exhaustion to creep in. Thankfully, you don't have to wait long. The Lieutenant rises from his chair, announcing to 141 that he's headed to bed. 

A quiet mumble of 'goodnight' from each member grants him leave, and Ghost walks out of the room without further word. You waste no time in hurrying to your feet. 

"Are you gonna...-" Soap winces when you stand, trailing off when you start after Ghost, not allowing either of your colleagues to talk you out of this suicide mission. 

Though, the moment you turn the corner, you wish you had. Ghost's broad frame practically fills the narrow hallway like someone had plucked Everest from Nepal and shoved its hulking mass into a matchbox. He's ginormous, his usually silent footsteps causing the aged, rotting wood beneath the soles of his boots to creak with the weight he applies when he turns to face you. 

The dark hallway obscures Ghost's skull-face mask, but a glittering reflection of the golden light bleeding from the bulb in the living room area flickers across the wet surface of his eyes as he observes you. You can't allow the weighty pressure of his stare to phase you if you're to push ahead with your plan- so you step forward, swallowing down the nerves that Ghost's attention inevitably dredges up. 

"Lieutenant, sir," you address him smoothly, voice low as you gaze up at him through your lashes. Ghost's eyebrow arches in response, noting your somewhat suggestive behaviour. "Permission to spea-"

"I'm hopin' you'll tell me what you're all up to," his eyes spear your nerve as he interrupts you, "They're not lettin' up, but I'll get it outta you one way or another." 

"What... Did you have in mind?" You chance, heart slamming up against your chest when you realise just how obvious you're being. It's dangerous- you hadn't planned to be so forward. The idea that he'd be able to read your flirting so soon set off mortars in your veins. 

There's a pause. It dizzies you, throwing your previously sturdy confidence off kilter when Ghost tilts his masked head slightly. He's turning it over in his mind, considering the past few days' events. Then, he turns everything on its side. 

"I know what you're doing," he speaks suddenly, the rich baritone of his voice ricocheting off the walls and ringing in your ears like he's just discharged a round of ammo with each syllable. You jerk upright, standing to attention. 

"I don't know what you m-"

"You want the mask off," he interrupts you again, cutting your pathetic excuse short as he steps forward. It's ridiculous, the sheer size of him as he looms over you. "You lot made a bet."

Another beat. Ghost waits for a response, an admission of guilt. It feels like he's cornered you; every answer that springs to mind is incriminating. You know he can see your rueful expression, wide-eyed and panicked by the ease with which he puts you on the ropes. 

"Was this your plan?" He murmurs, reaching to grasp your chin. His palm settles on the hollow of your jaw, fingers fanning out across the bone. "Get me into bed and see if I'll take it off?"

Trembling in his hold, you whimper as Ghost's thumb stretches across to trace the curve of your lip. It follows the delicate arc, lining the shape of your mouth and trailing the dip of your cupid's bow. 

"'M sorry," you mumble weakly, cheeks hot beneath his touch. Again, you fold beneath the intensity of those honeyed irises. It's a miracle your knees don't buckle when he pushes the pad of his thumb just past your lips, so that it brushes the edges of your teeth. 

"That was your plan. Y'can still give it a try, love. But..." he hums, his voice throaty and quiet and settling in the pit of your stomach. It's embarrassing, the ease with which he figures you out, but his words drip over you, easy and warm, and all you can focus on is the slip of his thumb as he presses the pad against the flat of your tongue. 

"The mask stays on." 

Ghost’s insistence makes you giggle sheepishly and your stomach flip in dread, like a child caught with its hand down a bear trap. Despite the lewdness of him pushing his thumb past your lips, you know that he’s being serious, deathly so. You nod clumsily in recognition of his executive order, and Ghost gently taps the skin of your cheek with his free hand, the soft slap of his palm against your flesh standing your hair on end.

“Go.”

The word hangs in the air for a moment, weighing heavily in the claustrophobic space of the small hallway. It takes a moment for your mind, rendered utterly useless by Ghost’s imposing presence, to understand exactly what he’s implying. Only when he removes his thumb from your mouth to shove you forward towards a bedroom door does his intention become clear.

Oh. Oh!

Scrambling to force your feet forward, they practically float across the threshold of the bedroom door. You can feel Ghost looming just behind you, can practically feel the heat radiating from his chest warming the expanse of your back. Fingers clasp over your shoulder, practically swallow the curved flesh, and shove you back against the bedroom wall.

The force of impact winds you, the air expelled from your lungs swallowed down by Ghost’s lips bearing heavily down upon your own. He’d ripped the mask upwards, the hem of the ski-mask balanced across the bridge of his nose. Simon’s tongue licks into your mouth– intrudes upon the space like he’s kicking down a door, like he’s swallowing the breath he’d expelled from you with his heavy hand. 

Once the dazed dizziness dissipates, you moan in relief at finally getting what you wanted. Ghost’s gigantic paw takes hold of your jaw in a firm grip to fit his mouth perfectly against your own, his swirling fingerprints indenting in the soft flesh there in a mottled bruise. The soft pine he coaxes from you bleeds past your open mouth despite your attempt to suppress the frankly pathetic noise. 

Fuck it, this was worth it– all of it was worth it. The fear of getting it wrong, the anxiety of being caught, the panic that Simon could turn you away… All of it seeps into the darkness in the corners of the room when your superior drags his tongue across your lower lip. It’s though he’s relishing in the taste of the aftershocks of the arousal he sparks between your legs, the dopamine that rushes through you.

“Was this your plan?” Ghost grunts, grasping ahold of the scruff of your neck. Gasping weakly, you’re almost certain your eyes roll back in your head when he uses his harsh grip to steer you towards the bed. “Get me out of my fuckin’ mind so I don’t notice you takin’ off the mask?”

“That’s–” you huff, rendered breathless by Ghost’s intruding tongue, “That’s not it–”

Your pitiful attempt to excuse yourself is made useless when Ghost practically launches you onto the mattress of his bed, the rusted metal frame screaming under the sudden weight of your body. 

“No?” he queries, the usual boom of authority in his voice replaced by something that sounds far more like goading amusement as he places the hefty weight of his palm against your sternum, holding you down and thwarting any attempt to escape. 

He needn’t worry. The last thing you wanted was to leave. 

“Tell you what,” he muses in that smug tone you always hear over the comms, his free hand quick to grasp at the leather of his belt. The buckle clinks in the quiet as he works his fingers over it, “We’ll run through this mission, yeh? See if you can complete your objective, Delta?”

Your retort, or lack thereof, dies in your throat when Ghost pushes his crotch into your own. If it weren’t for the yelp of bliss that the Lieutenant had to smother with his palm, you’d hear the way he’d practically purred when he dragged his cock against you. 

“C’mon then. Try it,” he urged. 

It’s pointless, his mock-support. You just desperately reach for the waistband of his khaki uniform trousers, cockdrunk from the tease of its shape against you. Even in the low light, you can see Ghost’s scarred lips, the way they stretch into a smirk at your desperation. 

“Abandoning mission, Sergeant?” He asks you, unzipping his trousers. “Price’ll be disappointed to know this is all it takes for Delta to go AWOL.”

“Shut up,” you moan into the cold air of the cabin. You can see your breath. “Shut up and fuck me.”

When Simon removed himself from his trousers, making some glib comment about you being demanding, you marvel at the size of him. Girthy, swollen, the ruddy tip leaks precum down the arch of his cock and traces the pulsing veins. He’s rock hard and throbbing, framed by a thatch of pubic hair. 

Fumbling with your own trousers, you awkwardly try to remove them given Simon’s weighty palm still pins you down by your sternum. He watches, a glint in his eye in the low light that would almost embarrass you if you weren’t so focused on the task at hand. 

“What was the prize?” 

“H-Huh?” you stall, mind fried by Ghost’s unexpected line of enquiry. He picks up where you left off, violently yanking your trousers down your thighs and pushing your panties aside to expose your glistening cunt to his prying eyes. 

“What. Was. The. Prize?”

You hesitate for a moment, feeling Ghost’s fingers press against the inside of your thighs as he probes this unexplored territory of you. His touch skirts the areas you want him most, teasing and goading you for more information. “H-Hassa-ahh!”

You barely manage the first syllable of your answer before Simon rests the arch of his cock against your slick pussy lips. His body jerks slightly at the heat of your swollen cunt, the ease with which he can slide himself through your drenched sex. 

“You got to kill Hassan?” he asked for confirmation, his voice unwavering. You wonder how he manages to stay so steady– you’re coming apart at the seams, trembling as the head of his cock bumps your clit clumsily. 

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes rolling back as he continues his laboured, steady torture. His free hand settles on your hip, arching your pelvis up slightly to meet his own. You grind your hips upward against his cock, and Simon expels a soft scoff from lungs, those piercing eyes settled on your contorting expression. 

“Mhmm,” he hums, rolling his hips again. This time it’s even slower, teasing. “A temptin’ reward–” 

Simon is interrupted by the moan that splits your lips when he drags the length of his cock heavily against your clit. It sparks arousal deep in your abdomen, clings to the inside of your thighs wetly. 

Perhaps the disturbance is one transgression too many tonight, because Simon grasps your hips so hard that you are forced to stop gliding over the length of his cock. You pine in protest, but you choke on the pitiful sound when Ghost suddenly plunges his cock inside of you. It spears you open, breaks you apart, and you find your back arching desperately against the mattress. 

The palm that had rooted itself to your sternum flies up to clasp against your mouth, smothering the shriek of bliss that threatened to expose your extracurricular activities to the rest of your squad. You sob through your teeth beneath his life line, tears welling in your eyes as you feel him stretch your walls open to make room for his intrusion. 

You can’t help yourself. You need something to grasp onto, and opt for his wrist above your face. Digging your nails into the inked flesh there, you watch as the pain sparks something dark and twisted in Simon’s pupils, his azure irises swallowed by the expanding blackness.

He likes it. You can tell. His cock arches up inside of you, pushing deep and rocking against something earth shattering inside of you. Damp with sweat already, the skin of his wrist ripples as he tightens his grip on your face, refusing to withdraw from your pussy walls and instead opting for sharp, shallow thrusts that push you up the mattress with each connection of your hips. 

“Fuck,” he spits, using his tight grasp to pull you back towards him. It’s obliterating you, ripping you apart and pushing all your pieces back together in a mangled, jumbled mess. You whimper as you suffer through his brutal pace, marvelling at how good it feels when he consistently spears your g-spot. 

“When would you have done it?” Simon asks you, a little breathless now as he chases the high that begins to build at the edges of your body, tingling and pulsing. 

“Shut up–” you beg him, the low rasp of his voice launching you towards that pleasure that threatens to consume you. Jerking your hips up to meet his, your body mindlessly reacts to the sound of his timbre. 

“Oh, no,” he chuckles, shaking his half masked face. There’s a silver laden scar that stretches across the base of his chin. It matches the one that splits his upper lip to the base of his nose, the ski mask hovering tantalisingly over the bridge. “When?” 

The seriousness of his tone makes your thighs quiver when paired with the sharp thrust he punctuates his question with. Years of training in maintaining a cover-story while a hostage are blown to bits as though Ghost has launched a mortar at your resolve, because suddenly all your state secrets are spilling out of you quicker than you can shove the incriminating words back into your traitor mouth. 

“I’d– Hagh… I’d do it j-just as you’re cummin–hhah!”

“And spoil my fun?” Ghost hums, that heavy timbre licking up your spine and sparking viscous embers at the base of your spine, “Anyone ever told you that you’re very fuckin’ selfish, Delta?” 

You’d offer a witty comment, but Ghost’s angled his hips just right, and your jaw is falling loose to let out a panicked whimper. 

“There it is, shit. Look at you, Sargeant. Fuckin’, you’re so tight–” 

You’re like a slip knot, tightening around him further with each knock of your g-spot with Simon’s ridiculously large cock-head. Prickling tears of bliss threaten to spill over the edge of your waterline, continuing to sting even when you shut your eyes. You’re shaking, trembling beneath his rocking hips as you mewl his name. 

“S-Simon! Fuck–”

Wild, wet squelches of Simon sinking into your soaked cunt echo in your skull as he ramps up his violent thrusts, the springs of his mattress screaming an unmistakable rhythm to anyone walking by. He doesn’t seem to care now though, his eyes zeroed in on your expression like he’s stalking a victim with his sniper scope. Aiming for complete obliteration. 

“C’mon Can feel you squeezin’ round me,” he murmurs, the steady tone he’d offered earlier shuddering slightly as you squeeze impossibly tight around him, coil threatening to snap, “You’re so close, Delta. C’mon, paint my cock an’ I’ll eat you out with my cum in you–” 

                           ✰

“He’s blonde.” 

Gawping jaws drop to the floor at your very simple observation, Soap’s eyes nearly rolling across the uneven, rotten floorboards after falling out of his skull. You can’t help the smug smile that threatens to tug at the edge of your lips, especially given the sensation of Ghost’s eyes boring holes into the back of your skull. 

The awe only worsens when Price gives a subtle nod of confirmation from the corner of the darkened room, crowning you the winner of this utterly ridiculous joust. 

“How do you know?” Gary is as shaken as Soap by the confidence with which you’d offered your final answer, in disbelief as to how you could have possibly obtained it without being maimed, given the egg on his forehead was still throbbing despite days of icing it with the snow from outside the safehouse.

“His pubes are. I assume the curtains match the drapes,” you shrug dismissively. 

The sheer incredulity that flashes across Johnny’s face is utterly hilarious. The smirk that had been threatening to break finally cracks across your lips at the confirmation of your victory. Ghost’s eyes appear to have lazered through your skull, singing brain matter with the ferocity of his scowl. Frankly, you couldn’t care less– you can see it in your mind's eye; the gorgeous contrast of a blood-red crosshair settling across Hassan’s forehead, the weight of the trigger beneath your finger as you pull it back.

cod mwii/kinktober taglist:

@mockerycrow @bubuslutty @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @levi-llama @thebiscuitsheep @maelstrom007 @alexxavicry @bug-sy-boy @glennrheesworld @kittenfrostt @luvfromkat @blingblong55 @whore4dilfs @wolfyland07 @doggydale @dog55teeth @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @whore-for-anime @i-love-ghost @cyberpr1m3 @mockerycrow @bubuslutty @lundenloves @cheezitwh0re @haunt3dh3art @babychoi03 @infectedkura @allekat1988 @whore-for-anime @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @mockerycrow @cyberpr1m3 @i-love-ghost @allekat1988 @infectedkura @babychoi03 @freakquenci @maviee @yunggoblin @sleepystaarr @watyousayin @soupbinsoup @passi0np1t @damn-dean-blog @pheonyxmoon @magicalreviewphantom @limegreenbabx @johfaam0 @iaur @justsayk

@mortallyuniquepeach @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @crybaby-blue-blog @heart-atttack @pansa-1-san @maviee @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @s-u-t @ghostslynx @solidly-indulgent @glitterypirateduck @gummyfang @bii-aan-ckaa @konigsblog @crissteetee @crissteetee67 @sylvanasthebansheequeen @akaym2 @exploremyworldsm @thriving-n-jiving @su57 @cabreezer0117 @cathnoneofyourbusiness @marygraceee @thatchickwiththecamera @legend-o-zelda @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @tusk89 @bellasbees01 @dog55teeth

[luveline]

Hello! Can I request cornflower blue with Aaron, where he's just really into chubby!reader and she's so sweet to him and acts kind of similar to bombshell!reader, but is surprised and ecstatic when she finally notices that he's been flirting back?

tysm♡

You walk into Hotch's office feeling pretty and ridiculous. You know you look cute today, hair done pristine, skin dewy, your outfit one that accentuates the slopes of you (and this is all without mentioning the frankly gorgeous pair of shoes you're wearing). 

"Hello," you say. Something about Hotch makes you feel prettier. You couldn't put your finger on it, maybe it's the way he doesn't seem bemused at your flirting ('cos, oh, there's the flirty fat girl, how funny! like being sweet on people is weird when you do it). "How are you today, handsome?" 

"I'm good," he says, with a real, authentic, sticker of approval smile. "How are you?" 

"Better now I'm seeing you," you say, neatening the edges of your papers on his desk before offering them to a big hand. 

"I could say the same thing," he murmurs, looking down at the papers you've passed him with that boss look about him. He has to check your paperwork before it's submitted, of course, and this batch is a little late, so that's probably why he's happy to see you.

"Charmer. Do you need my help with anything while I'm here? I'm free." 

"You, free?" he says, still looking at the papers, one held above the pile, grabbing for a pen blindly. "In what world?" 

"This one, if you can believe it! Hotch, you understand me like nobody else does." You put on a saccharine, movie star tone, silky and smooth as you sit in the slippery leather chair in front of his desk. Elbows on the desk, you place your chin in your hand and watch him correct things you've written with a dreamy expression that isn't even really fake.

You quite like turning Hotch's innocuous comments into flirtation, if only to see his smile, but today the smile seems different. Almost like he knows something you don't know. You press your pinky finger over your lips and try to work it out. 

… Is Hotch flirting back? There's nothing to do but test it. 

"How do you make paperwork look good?" you ask. And it's important to note that you mean what you say, even if your compliments are said in a teasing, sunny manner. "Is there anything you can't do?" 

"Careful," he says, turning a page. Well, maybe he isn't flirting– "You might get something you aren't looking for." 

Your heart is a bat out of hell, leaping from your chest. "I'm always looking for something as long as you're the one giving it, Hotch... I've been thinking I'd quite like a new moniker, if you're up to it." 

He places the paperwork down into a tidy tray and leans back just a touch in his chair (what the fuck). "What would you have me call you?" he asks quietly. 

"Any Sweetheart will do." Is this real? Is he really giving it back to you? "Puppy love, angel, valentine. You could take your pick."

"Why don't you choose one for me?" 

You stand up from your chair and shake your head at him, fizzy energy with nowhere to go. "Handsome, you're in a mood. I'm going to do a lap, okay? Before I combust. Think you can get this," —you gesture to his chest in a big circle— "under wraps, or shall I start picking out colours for our engagement party invitations?" you ask. 

Hotch laughs and opens one of his desk drawers. You consider the joking over, and while you're disappointed, you're not surprised. That is, until he says, "I like eggshell white over cream, but I'm sure you'll make the right decision, angel." 

[justporo]

Astarion owns property in my head at this point. Can I request for Astarion and Tav where they finally settle down after everything with the Absolute is over and has finally calmed down, and Tav immediately gets extremely sick. Nothing deadly, but still severe. After all the stress from the tadpoles and fighting for their lives, Tav's body kinda just gives out. I'd imagine Astarion would be at a complete loss at taking care of someone, let alone someone that sick lol probably gets scared they're dying too

Oh, Anon, I feel you. It's not that he lives in my head rentfree, no! He owns the building and makes ME pay the rent by now...

This request resonates a lot with me, today, because I'm frankly barely holding on atm, my stomach's acting up and I can't wait for the finishline for this week... so I too could actually use some Astarion taking care of me - although if that might help? Let's see! (Spoilers ahead)

This is pure ridiculous fluff btw. And thank you for the sweet request!

Pairing: Astarion / GN!Tav (You) Wordcount: 1,5k

Strawberry Sugar High

You hadn't left the bed for the better part of a week and you felt you had contracted most every kind of ailment that one could suffer from under this sun. You felt shaky and dizzy. Your limbs hurt and felt weak. Your stomach was in a weird limbo of feeling strange and barely allowing you to keep anything down. Radiating heatwaves making your whole body sweat came and switched places with icy chills so even the coziest of blankets couldn't stop you from shivering. You were down bad - and Astarion almost scaled the walls not knowing what to do with you or how to take care of you.

"My sweet, I brought you...", Astarion started to announce cheerfully as he opened the door to your bedroom with a bowl and a steaming mug in his hands. Then he saw how you had hogged every possible piece of fabric in your giant joint bed and had wrapped yourself in it. At the sight of it, Astarion's shoulders slumped visibly and with it his procured goods - which almost caused scorching hot tea to splash on the floor.

“…some fruit and tea”, he finished audibly distraught and walked over to sit somewhat next to where you had rolled up into a mess of sheets and blankets and were silently shivering. He carefully placed down mug and bowl on the nightstand before he turned to the pile that you had become.

“I really thought you were getting better, my love!” The sad and suffering puppy eyes he made at you almost made you think he was the one to be worried about.

“Y-you say t-that every-ytime you le-leave the room and co-ome back, A-Astarion”, you replied through shattering teeth which sadly took the edge off of your snide remark.

“I know, love. Because every time I hope you might would have started to feel better. But you’ve been like this for almost a week and yet no improvement in sight. You have me worried sick!”, he dramatically explained.

The shivers temporarily left your body to allow you to give Astarion a death stare – the audacity of this man. “I am so terribly sorry that I dare put you through th-this. Now please h-hand me the t-tea!”, you sarcastically replied and worked your hands out of the mountain of blankets to stretch them out towards the nightstand where the vampire had placed the mug.

Astarion handed you the mug. “Careful, it’s scorching ho…”, he said while you grabbed it from him and placed your palms around the hot ceramic and sighed at the bliss of warmth.

Astarion stared at you as if you had turned into an ox.

You took in the smell of the fresh brew and sighed again – pine needles, mint, chamomile, and a hint of lavender. You took a sip slowly because it was actually really hot and closed your eyes for a second. The hot drink temporarily made you feel better.

“You really got the right mixture down now, Astarion, thank you!”, you said as you opened your eyes again and smiled broadly at the vampire who had swung his legs onto the bed and crossed them by the ankles – bare feet sticking out of the pant legs – to sit beside you. At your compliment his face lit up, his eyes filling with sincere joy.

“Well, I’m happy to hear I am proficient at taking care of you, my sweet sick darling”, he said and raised one of his eyebrows in arrogant manner. “Well, let’s not forget the time when you didn’t strain the pine needles or when you tried to make mushroom soup and created bile”, you replied to his cocky demeanour and then took another sip of tea. The shivers were really calming down now.

Astarion’s mouth became a straight line. “Well, I am sorry, but it’s been over two hundred years since I last had to know my way around a kitchen – you’d be surprised how easily forgotten mundane things are”, he pouted but stretched out his arm to rub circles on your back – or what he thought must be your back under the thick padding of fabric.

You were fairly certain, Astarion had never really known his way around a kitchen, but you really didn’t want to rub it in since he was actually trying so hard to take care of you. And he had really been worried sick about you since it seemed he had also forgotten how much impact even a rather harmless sickness could have on a mortal body.

“Feeling better now?”, Astarion asked while he kept rubbing your back. This time there wasn’t a hint of sarcasm or arrogance in his tone, just a sincere, caring question.

“I am. Thank you, my heart”, you answered and turned a bit to him to give him another smile. “I guess after everything that happened my body was just in dire need of a break – and now forced me to take it. I guess in a few days I’ll be merrily dallying around again”, you spoke as you looked at Astarion but then spied past him to where you had seen something of interest in the bowl he had brought.

“I’m happy to hear that, my sweet, because I don’t know…”, the vampire replied with a smile then furrowed his brows as he saw your focus shift past him and you leaned to look behind him. He made to lean with you. “My beautiful eyes are up here, my love”, he murmured playfully.

But you craned your neck now to see what it was he had brought you – broad shoulders and handsome face be damned. “Gods, are those strawberries?” “Indeed, sweetheart.”

Your mouth opened and you stared at Astarion in anticipation: “Where did you get them? Those are not in season for a few more months! I love strawberries, they’re my favourite fruit, no, food!” Your eyes gleamed at the vampire who replied with a smug grin: “I know, darling. I am actually a good listener in case you hadn’t noticed yet.”

You stretched to give him a kiss which almost resulted in you falling over and spilling all of the remaining tea. Your heart filled with an incredible amount of joy – not only because there were strawberries to be had, but because you felt so seen by your soulmate. You smiled at Astarion. “Indeed, you are”, you happily cheered him. He smiled back just as warmly.

“I got them from a place where they magically empower the crops. It did almost cost me an arm and the rest of my dignity though, but here we are”, he explained jokingly to which you raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

“Feed me!”, you then demanded excitedly when he didn’t spill any more details. To which the vampire grinned even more broadly, showing his sharp fangs in the process. “Oh love, I am more than happy to indulge you in this pleasant reversal of roles”, he crooned and turned around to grab the bowl of fruit while you kept sipping on your herbal tea.

He grabbed one of the deep red fruits and slowly lifted it to your already excitedly opened mouth. You were almost salivating, as Astarion offered you the berry, holding it elegantly in his long, slender fingers. The fruit almost touched your lips, but then, at the last possible moment: the vampire flicked it in his own mouth with his thumb.

Your mouth stayed open but now in a desperate expression while Astarion chewed. His facial expression became confused then pleasantly surprised, not even looking at you for a moment. “Oh dear, these are actually rather good. I had almost also forgotten how good these taste. I haven’t eaten a strawberry in forever.” He gave a quick high-pitched laugh while still looking a bit confused. This certainly had awoken a memory he had probably thought lost forever. But still – weren’t these for you?

“Excuse me, my tragic darling vampire, I really love you rediscovering your love for these mortal pleasures known as fruit, but weren’t these meant to soothe my sufferings?”, you said and pouted at Astarion. He readily replied by finally offering you one – for real this time, while he smirked at you and stole another one for himself.

As you bit down the taste just about exploded in your mouth. They were perfectly delicious and sweet. You sighed blissfully and let your head fall back with closed eyes. You were definitely feeling better by the minute.

“So good! Thank you so much for getting them – I feel so much better already!”, you said to Astarion and shimmied over to him to first lean past him and put the mug on the nightstand and then hugging him – arms extending from your ball of blankets.

Astarion pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re welcome, my love. Now – share the rest?” “Only if you promise to get more tomorrow!”

The pale elf threw his head back and laughed. “If that is what it takes to nurse you back to health, I am more than happy to oblige, sweetheart”, he promised with a chuckle before he gave you another of the sweet berries and then popped another strawberry in his own mouth.

Author's note: Okay cool, where do I get strawberries now? Hope you enjoyed!

[g1rld1ary]

bloody genius ; anthony lockwood x fem!reader

➻ rushed to get this out before I go out tonight (wish me luck lols) but am pretty fond of it !!

➻ word count: 1686

➻ synopsis: after a long night of sifting through research for an impossible case with lockwood, you do something you didn't quite mean to

➻ warnings: light mentions of series typical murder/violence, kissing, idiots in love

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

You groaned, tipping back in your chair and rubbing your eyes, trying to make them see straight. You and Lockwood had been pouring over photocopied newspaper articles, floor plans and assorted research for hours and you weren’t getting any closer to stringing any of it together. With Lockwood & Co steadily improving their reputation, the company was getting more and more cases with shorter and shorter timeframes. To combat this influx of cases and the consequent research that needed completing, you’d all decided to split the load where possible. This meant that currently George and Lucy were in the library researching one case whilst you and Lockwood had shut yourselves in the kitchen to struggle through another.

You supposed you had the better deal, though, supplied with easy access to tea, the thinking cloth, and, of course, Lockwood. He was your secret favourite out of your coworkers-turned-family, though if you asked Lucy she’d say it was no secret at all. Regardless, that brought you to the current moment where the thinking cloth was filled with nonsensical lines following trains of thought, all edges punctuated with a frankly ridiculous number of question marks.

Lockwood himself looked almost as frustrated as you felt, but you could tell he was trying to hide it and save face. He caught you staring and flashed a smile, but it lacked its usual charm when his eye bags were more pronounced than usual.

“Hey,” He said softly, putting his hand over yours to stop you drawing stress doodles — the latest one a crudely drawn murder scene, “We’ll get it soon, just gotta find the connection between it all.”

“Sure, Lockwood.” You tried for a smile but it came out as more of a grimace and Lockwood could see the exhaustion etched into your features. He frowned, more concerned for your wellbeing than the case at the moment.

“Maybe you’ve done enough for tonight? Go get some sleep and we can pick back up in the morning?”

“Are you going to go to bed?” You asked, already sure of the answer, “I’m not leaving you to do this on your own, not this time.” He opened his mouth to argue but you shut him up with a glare. He held up his hands in light-hearted surrender. As an alternative Lockwood suggested a break; only a few minutes, but enough for you to make two new mugs of steaming tea and him to crack open a new packet of biscuits. “I’ll even let you break the biscuit rule,” He stage whispered, ducking out of the kitchen to check on Lucy and George and refill their own stash of snacks.

You watched him go, smiling softly. You loved evenings like this — well not like this where trains of thought didn’t quite make it to the station and you had the infuriating feeling of knowledge being held just out of reach, but nights where you were all home and together. You liked them even more when it meant you got to spend time with Lockwood and he got like this; treating you just a little bit differently to George or Lucy, offering you extra biscuits and giving you that soft smile, the one that made your heart flutter in a way it probably shouldn’t when looking at your boss. It fed your delusions of one day telling him how you feel, sure, but the lightness of his attention overpowered the inevitable heartbreak you’d face when he got a date that wasn’t you.

He returned with a confident grin, snapping you out of your stupor. You buried yourself in a new file, scanning for anything that could make sense of the mess of a case you were given. Maybe a Type Two, could be a poltergeist or not, who knows who the ghost was — the whole thing was ridiculous and you had no idea why Lockwood would even take it, but he said he felt sorry for the poor old man who came to the doorstep of 35 Portland Row. The both of you sat in comfortable silence for what felt like hours, knee-deep in paper.

Your eyes were glazing in and out of focus until you caught a snippet of something that had you gasping and tumbling out of your chair, standing frenetically in front of Lockwood looking ready to perform.

“What if I told you,” You said grinning, “That your dear old man had a sealed criminal record until a few years ago? For being a suspect in a murder case no less!” Lockwood was solely focused on you now, dark eyes searching your face for more information. You were no less enthusiastic, eyes scanning the police report quickly for the relevant information. “He was a suspect in the murder of a Charlotte Black back in the 50s. Her sister alleged that the two were involved but the police found no evidence of his involvement, nor of their relationship at all, with the exception of two letters the sister sent during the time of the investigation. Officers on the case said his apartment was ‘severely lacking a female touch’ — ouch — and said to them he was definitely not in a relationship. The record was sealed because the allegations had a dire impact on his accounting firm!” You were buzzing despite the grim subject matter, as you’d finally found the link that could tie the case together.

Lockwood was similarly ecstatic. “Obviously the relationship had to be a secret for whatever reason which was why there’s no marriage certificate or record of letters between them. The letter I was looking at before must’ve been from this sister, it detailed her desire for independence and her interest in his business. She found out about his shady numbers—” He jumped up to grab a letter of complaint over botched figures from a client, “He got mad and killed her! Y/n you’re a bloody genius!” You flushed at the compliment.

“And she’s here now because he’s coming out of retirement, he bragged about it when you were hearing his case! God, it would just be great if we had, like, one more piece of evidence, just to confirm they knew each other,” You sighed, clenching your fingers at the single hole in the puzzle.

The door opened suddenly and George appeared, holding a small folded piece of paper.

“I think this might be from your case, not ours — odd looking couple,” George said, popping the photo on the edge of the dining table, giving a quizzical look at the two of you standing in the middle of the kitchen before heading back to the library. You and Lockwood exchanged a look, almost too scared to take a peek, it was too perfect. You grabbed the photo of Charlotte Black her sister had attached to the letter, plus the one of the man that you’d found in a local newspaper in the archives and laid them both out on the table for comparison.

Lockwood sucked in a nervous breath before slowly peeling open the photo. You couldn’t contain your joy, it was them! The whole night was suddenly worth it, the two of you jumping around the kitchen like little kids on Christmas. One second you were doing a stupid victory dance and the next your lips had pressed themselves to Lockwood’s. The moment you’d become cognisant of what had happened you stepped back, feeling your heart plummet to your toes. This was not how you’d imagined that would happen. Plus, Lockwood’s unusually stoic face was igniting your anxiety, cold spreading through every branch of your veins.

“Oh my God,” You breathed, willing your legs to work, “I am so sorry, Anthony.” Your body caught up to your brain and you headed to the door until you were pulled back, a hand on your waist twisting you to face him again. And then his lips were on yours with purpose this time, the hand not on your waist finding its way to cup your jaw. When your brain was done short circuiting you matched his fervour tenfold, bringing your hands up to rest on his chest, gripping the collar of his shirt to bring him impossibly closer.

You only pulled away when you were at genuine risk of passing out, unable to conjure a single word. Lockwood gazed at you with glossy, blown out pupils. That, mixed with the pink blush on his cheeks and swollen lips created your favourite ever version of Anthony Lockwood — an image you hoped would be privately yours from now on.

“So, is this where I ask to take you on a proper date, love?” He asked, his smile melting your heart into a puddle in his hand. You couldn’t let him have all the fun, though, and willed yourself to produce a teasing grin.

“Seems appropriate, doesn’t it?” Your eyes strayed to the clock on the wall that showed an inappropriately early hour of the morning, “I think we both ought to get some sleep, tomorrow’ll be a big job. Goodnight, Anthony.” You punctuated it with a soft kiss to his cheek before slipping out of the room to silently scream as you bound up the stairs, victory dance making a reappearance behind your safely closed door.

Anthony was left standing in the kitchen like a fool, hand sitting softly where you’d kissed him. A lovesick smile passed his face, thoughts of the impending case long gone from his brain, and in their place sat pictures of you and a looping memory of you slotting your lips between his. He wasn’t sure how long he was standing there basking in your light, but Lucy walked past to drop her mug in the sink, shooting Lockwood a knowing look before heading up to the attic. Lockwood found himself giggling uncharacteristically, giddy with the glee of finally telling you how he’d felt since you first walked through the door of 35 Portland Row.

[raina-at]

Blanket

It’s not too much of an exaggeration to state that one of the most significant saving graces of John’s life is his ability to sleep anywhere. An unstable childhood, 24-hour shifts at the hospital and military service have turned John into an all-weather-all-conditions sleeper. He can sleep sitting up. He can sleep at any time of day or night. He can sleep on the floor, on sofas, on planes, on trains, in cars. He can even power-nap on the tube and never miss his stop. 

It’s a life skill that comes in very handy when your life partner is Sherlock Holmes. 

It’s not that Sherlock never sleeps. It’s more that he doesn’t seem to have a circadian rhythm to speak of. He does things in the order they occur to him, and whether it’s ten in the morning or ten at night doesn’t seem to matter to him too much. 

This means John has fallen asleep on stake-outs, at NSY (by now he’s pretty sure there’s not a piece of furniture at the Yard he hasn’t drooled on at some point), in jail cells, in dark alleys, on rooftops, on park benches, against trees, in pubs, in museums, and one memorable occasion a walk-in closet in Westminster Hall. 

These skills come in especially handy once he’s a father. He’s fallen asleep with Rosie somewhere on his person so often, it’s frankly ridiculous. He even admits that the times he’s fallen asleep standing up with Rosie strapped to his chest in her baby carrier are, unfortunately, non-zero. 

It doesn’t help that John has never been the best sleeper when he’s actually lying in a comfortable bed, alone, in the dark, in silence. He’s been plagued by nightmares all his life, and the irregular hours he’s kept since he became an adult have fucked up his circadian rhythm almost to Sherlock’s level. It also doesn’t help that the two people John would literally die for, who share his bed most often, are both terrible co-sleepers. Sherlock comes to bed whenever, wraps himself around John, hogs the blankets, snores, changes position, talks in his sleep, then gets up two hours later when he gets bored of sleeping. Rosie turns into all limbs when you share a bed with her, kicking and throwing elbows like a trained street fighter, and for all that she’s so small, she’s a world-class blanket thief. She gradually steals all the blankets, then drops half of them on the floor on the far side of the bed. John inevitably wakes up every time she kicks him, and he always wakes up freezing. John goes back to sleep fine, but it isn’t exactly restful. 

The thing is, John isn’t as young as he used to be. And while he can still sleep anywhere and through anything, he feels it on the day after. 

Case in point, he and Sherlock actually went to bed at a reasonable hour last night—age is mellowing out Sherlock’s circadian rhythm somewhat, or just makes it harder for Sherlock to ignore it— but Sherlock got up around two and came back with an armful of fussy five-year-old. He put her down between them, got in bed on his side and both of them went right back to sleep, Rosie drooling on John’s shirt, Sherlock snoring loudly. Every time John drifted off, Rosie kicked him, or elbowed him, or Sherlock muttered something in his sleep.

John finally gave up and went to sleep on the sofa. He slept fine, but the sofa is old and lumpy. Which is why he’s in the kitchen at 5:30 am, with a kink in his neck, a child-foot-sized bruise forming on his thigh, a monster headache and the largest coffee mug they own filled to the brim.

He sips the coffee and scrolls through his phone as the paracetamol does its work.

Then he goes into the bedroom to get his clothes.

Sherlock is sprawled on his stomach, shirt askew, hair a wild mess. Rosie’s lying practically on top of him, drooling all over his back. The blankets are on the floor, most of the pillows are strewn around the bed. Sherlock is snoring loudly. Rosie moves a bit and kicks the last pillow to the floor.

John bites down on a laugh and snaps a picture of the two of them. Then he picks up the blankets and tucks them around the sleeping pair, knowing it’s an exercise in futility, and drops kisses on one tousled dark head, and one blonde one.

Then he grabs a pillow from the floor and an extra blanket from the closet, curls around Sherlock’s other side, and goes right back to sleep.

----

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[jasonsmirrorball]

THE VERY FIRST NIGHT JASON TODD (college! au)

↳ the first night you spend at his place

You don’t mean to stay over, the first time that you do. Truly you don’t. But it’s late, and you’ve spent the entirety of the afternoon dozing in and out of consciousness on the–quite frankly, illegally comfortable–couch in Jason’s living room. The both of you lie, pressed into each other, against the couch cushions and watch the reruns of old tv shows that are showing. 

A cool wind breezes in through an open window, and at your back, Jason is warm. The sun has long since set, but neither of you have mustered up the will to shut the blinds beyond the comments made every so often when a car will beep loudly, or a truck drones down the road, so loud the both of you flinch awake where you’d lingered on the precipice of true sleep.

It’s this such disruption that pulls you so meanly from sleep, startling you where you’d been so very comfortable in the arms of your boyfriend, and your movement in turn wakes him. He grumbles, and the both of you blink blearily in the dark at each other.

“What’s wrong?” he yawns, making to tug you closer. You stay upright, and he frowns at you, greatly inconvenienced. You would laugh if you were more awake, but sleep clouds your senses still and you reach for your phone. The time blinks at you, a mocking 12:19 and you let out a breath that is heavier than Jason feels it ought to be.

You show him the time and he stares blankly at you. “I’ve missed the last bus,” you say, and he screws his face up as another yawn tears out of him. His arms come around you once more, this time successfully pulling you closer.

“So what, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tucking his nose into your neck.

“Be serious,” you murmur, brushing a hand over his hair. “I should get home.”

He lifts his head to look at you. “‘M being serious. Just stay.”

You pause. 

“Stay the night?” you murmur, unsure. He nods, earnest and sleepy. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll drive you home, if you want,” he says gently, leaning up to press a soft kiss to your mouth. Your heart snags on how he grows a little shy as he pulls away, eyes flicking away to where your necklace has slipped out of your shirt collar. “Just thought it’d be more convenient….y’know…you could borrow my clothes if you want.”

“Jason Todd, you romantic, you,” you breathe out, a surprised laugh colouring your voice. He grumbles as you giggle, heat crowding in your face. You cover up your shyness with a false bravado, peering down at him to tease, “Will you make me breakfast in the morning, too?”

He glares up at you, teeth nipping at the tip of your finger. “I would. ‘Cos I’m a gentleman. And a good host. And your boyfriend.”

Everything in you seems to turn topsy turvy at his words, heart melting into a syrupy sweet, treacle-like mass in your chest. You can’t help but kiss him again. 

“Okay,” you whisper, and his eyes brighten in the dark. “I’ll stay, if you’ll have me. If you promise I’m not being a bother.”

“Could never bother me,” he says plainly, happy. “C’mon, sweetheart. Get you something to wear, think I’ve got a spare toothbrush, somewhere.”

You think that your first night together is going to be nerve-wracking. That you’ll stiffen up in bed and never fall asleep for fear of–fear of what? Getting too comfortable, you think. You think you’ll do something ridiculous and be laughed at for it. You don’t know if you could bear it from Jason.

But as it happens, you are guided down the dim-lit hall, hand in his, feeling very much as though you have already fallen asleep. A soft shirt is pressed into your hands, and shorts you forego–sleep plies you soft and uncaring, you’re here anyway, aren’t you? Jason says nothing, only pressing a kiss to your shoulder and leaving. He returns some moments later, takes your day clothes from your hands in exchange for a red, unopened toothbrush. 

You slip under the sheets and sleep claims you with a kiss. 

me when i lie and say i'm saving writing jersey boy for friday and the weekend. september and october are my peak jason months i think. the weather turns gentle and everything starts to bloom again, and i feel so much love for this silly little fictional man. he makes my heart ache. i love domestic jason. i think mid afternoon in september is always so pretty and the evenings are even lovelier. it makes me think of love so much even though i think i'd run away if it came within six feet of me.

[cha-melodius]

💘 firstprince please :)

💘 fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss  (I skipped ahead on prompts so I could write the companion piece to this ficlet. if you were hoping for fake relationship, watch this space, I have another one of these hearts to do lol. read all the kiss ficlets)

Alex doesn’t know how he got himself into this situation.

To be fair, coming out was entirely his idea. It’d been too long since he let loose and had fun, so when a girl in his econ class told him about this party, he’d put on his tightest pair of jeans and crop top, styled his curls just so, and dragged Liam along with him for good measure (Alex loves his best friend, but the dude needs to get out more).

So far he’s had fun dancing, and he’s been hit on by plenty of very enthusiastic girls, but nothing’s really clicked. There’s something else thrumming under his skin that he can’t put a finger on. It didn’t really help that he nearly ran into Liam making out with Pez Okonjo on his way to the bathroom. Obviously it’s fine that he was, Alex knows (now) that Liam is gay, and he’s free to kiss whoever he wants. It’s not like Alex was jealous. If anything, it was kinda hot—they looked good together, Liam’s pale skin against Pez’s dark tones, which is frankly not a thought Alex is sober enough to deal with right now.

Alex is also not sober enough deal with running into Pez later, who has a tall, blond, ridiculously hot friend in tow this time. Blondie is wearing a plain button down and khakis, like he’s at a business lunch, but somehow the way his shirt is cuffed at the elbows and unbuttoned at the top to let his collarbones peek out is more alluring than most of the half-dressed coeds at the party. Then there’s the way his golden hair flops over his forehead and his blue eyes shine in the low light, and it’s a lot, ok? Fuck.

It’s honestly a bit of a relief when Alex gets dragged away and convinced to do some kind of scavenger hunt, which sounds kinda dumb, but whatever. It’ll keep his mind off Pez’s hot friend. He works his way down the list, taking shots and doing ridiculous dances and convincing people to give him their numbers (not hard), until he hits one in particular—make out with someone you met tonight.

He’s met plenty of people tonight. Lots of girls who’d probably be willing, honestly. Somehow, only one person sticks out in his head.

Apparently he’s not even fucking subtle about it, which is embarrassing. Liam catches him looking down at his list, then back up at Henry across the room, and slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Go on. Ask him,” Liam goads, grinning drunkenly at Alex. “I think he’s into you.”

As if on cue, Henry glances over at them, then quickly looks away again when he sees them staring.

“You’re on drugs,” Alex scoffs, trying and failing to shove him away as something inside his stomach turns over at the thought that Henry might be into him. It’s probably just the liquor. “Maybe he likes you.”

“Nah,” Liam says confidently. “You wanted a wingman. I’m winging. Wingmanning? I dunno, man. Just go kiss him, ok?”

Alex can feel his face getting hot. “Fuck off.”

Liam’s grin goes sharp and wicked. “I dare you.”

Fuck. The best friend dare is sacred. If Alex doesn’t do it, he’ll have to do something else later that’s like ten times worse. Fuck.

Alex crosses the room in some kind of daze, the rest of the party falling away around him. Is he really doing this? Apparently so. He stops by Henry’s elbow, and the other man turns to look at him.

“Hey,” Alex says. Amazing opening line, truly. Fuck, he’s an idiot.

“Alex, right?” Henry replies with a little smile. Alex nods. “What’s up?”

Alex swallows hard. “Can I kiss you?” he blurts. Henry’s eyes go wide, and Alex holds up the sheet of paper. “It’s a dare.”

“Oh,” Henry says, sounding almost disappointed.

“But also, like, you’re really hot and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, and I’m not gay but I— I might be bi, I guess, I don’t really know because my best friend is gay and I never thought I was really into guys but I kinda want to kiss you, I mean, I really want to kiss you, if you’re into it, and oh my god, I’m such a fucking idiot, please forget I ever said any of this to you.”

Alex turns on his heel, ready to flee the house and probably the country, but Henry catches him by the arm and pulls him back. Pulls him in, firmly, so that Alex has to tip his head up, and then Henry’s kissing him. Softly at first, but Alex whimpers and opens his mouth, tilting his head to slot their mouths more firmly together, the taste of cheap booze and sugary mixers blending on their tongues. Henry gets a hand into his hair and Alex likes that even more, likes the way Henry surrounds him, likes the way Henry's waist feels under his palms. Never wants it to end, actually.

Henry does eventually pull back, though. Sadly. Alex promises he doesn’t whine.

“So,” Henry murmurs. He still hasn’t let Alex go, and Alex is entirely ok with that. “Thoughts?”

“I think I need another. Y’know. To gather more evidence.”

“Another kiss?”

“Yeah,” Alex breathes. “Maybe more than one.”

Henry laughs, low and warm, and he kisses Alex again.

[mercurygray]

Hii could I pls request #26 "The smell of Cologne/Perfume on warm skin" for Cord and Bucky? 👀 — @shoshiwrites

She'd never had an issue with the commanding officer before, but Cord was quite sure this was verging on ridiculous.

It was one thing to be told to show up to a party - that was well and good. She could do her hair and fix her dress uniform as nicely as the next girl.

But to be told she had to dance? And with him?

"Don't worry," Major Egan said, obviously just as thrilled as she was with the direction the evening was taking. "I won't get any ideas. It's one dance, not an engagement. In five minutes you can go back to hating me."

The band was playing something by Benny Goodman and of course, no sooner had Harding issued his order but they'd switched to slow songs. It would have been fine if the CO had made the observation that Cord hadn't gotten a dance and left it lie, but then he'd added that he would be damned if chivalry on his base was dead, and ordered his former Air Exec to get the Lieutenant a turn around the floor, and there had been snickers.

Cord had to admit, grudgingly, that she'd wanted at least one dance. But she wasn't partial to the way she'd got it. Or the man she was getting it with.

Benny Goodman was making her think of home, and dances at the Legion Hall downtown and airmen who were away from home for the first time getting anxious about asking the shop foreman's daughter for a dance. Nights that smelled like cheap cologne and gardenias and the faint tang of spilled whiskey, even if the dance was supposed to be dry. She'd gotten her first kiss at one of those dances - Tom, a tall skinny fellow from Indiana. She wondered where he was now, whether he was still flying.

None of that, however, helped her with Egan - or the matter of the next four minutes - but she wanted, in this exact moment, to make sure they got something straight. "I don't hate you, Major."

"Really? 'Cause you got a funny way of showing it."

It was true. She was not the man's biggest fan. John Egan was loud, and frankly full of himself, and the world's most devoted flirt, but she didn't …hate him. That just wasn't true. Disliked, strongly, but not hate.

But how to explain that to him? "The first time we met you called me gorgeous."

He scoffed. "And? It was true!"

Cord felt herself go red. "But you call everyone gorgeous," she pressed on. "A Lieutenant would have been nice. I'm an officer- just like you. I worked hard for it, and everyone seems to forget that." Including the CO, it seems. I'm not just here to be an easy date. "Everyone respects a pilot. It's different for us. If you'd walked all over me…then they all would have. Sir."

John Egan might have been many things, but stupid wasn't one of them - and while he could be loud, he could listen, too. For a moment it was just the two of them and the Goodman in the background. "Seems I owe you an apology, then, Lieutenant. For forgetting my manners. I think I've done okay since?" She nodded. "But I stand by the gorgeous comment," he added, almost forcefully. "A man's allowed to say things that are true. Or am I cutting in on some guy back home?"

Cord suddenly felt a little pale, and extremely mindful of just where they were, and who she was with, and who might be watching them, and the feeling of Egan's hand wrapped around her own, the other decorously between her shoulder blades, the smell of his aftershave musk and faint sandalwood. "No, no… guy back home." Certainly none calling me gorgeous. Dozens of airmen who'd been happy to take a dance or two on a Friday night, but never anything… serious. Not when they were always moving on to something else. "And you?" She asked, trying to be polite.

He chuckled. "No one would have me." His smile was just this side of reckless, and she had a hard time believing what he said. You mean to tell me all the girls in Nebraska don't have eyes? You've never had a problem getting a date here. "And it didn't feel right," he added, almost as an afterthought, "to tie a girl down like that. At least not yet."

"She'll be lucky when you find her, sir."

He murmured assent. "Does this make us square now, then, Lieutenant, or can I expect to keep getting shut out of the tower?"

He was fishing now, and she knew it - the ground between them felt thin and she didn't like the feeling. "I'll keep shutting out anyone trying to be a distraction," she said, as fairly as she could.

He smiled at that, and Cord felt something in her chest soar up seeing that smile before it fluttered back down again. Oh, he's not that charming, girl, some small part of her sneered. You've just been out of the game.

The song wrapped up, and the two of them broke away to clap for the band and go their separate directions. "Do you need a drink?" Ann asked, steering them towards the bar without waiting for the answer.

No, Cord wanted to say, following her friend. But I think I need my head checked.

[just-some-random-blogger]

I'm nervous about requesting this since I don't know if it's a good idea, but here goes: Reader goes camping for a weekend and decides to invite Dream to do typical camping activities (canoeing, swimming, hiking, etc) with them on one of those days. Can be pure fluff/slice of life (though I wouldn't mind a little bit of smut too).

Marshies

Dream of the Endless x Reader + Destruction of the Endless x Reader

Summary: "Pardon," Dream shakes his head, "how were you two acquainted again?" Destruction and you turn to each other as you bring your chocolate marshmallows closer to the open fire. In unison, you reply, "Didi."

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: gender neutral reader, camp instructor!reader kinda, unbelievably mopey!dream, puppy!destruction, fluff, jealousy, bro vs bro?, typos, etc.

A/N: HELLO MY BABY LOVE FANGIRLMARY. I AM SO HAPPY YOU CAME TO MY INBOX I DO A DANCY DANCE. I LOVE YOUR URL UR DP AND YOUR REQ SO MUCH I GIVE YOU AN EXPRESS PASS. I havent had a req like this at all i think AHHAHAHA. It's so, how you say, simple and cute which is a great thing to start with for me. n ur like me fr cos i get nervous sending asks T_T so if you're still nervous lemme hold your hand. anyway, it kind of spiraled, and I felt like adding an endless sib so i did and I HAVE A SOFT SPOT FOR DESTRUCTION OK 😫 i hope you don't mind huhuhuh and hope you like it my love <3 i think i've used this gif before but its too perfect for the fic not to reuse HAHHAAH Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @deniixlovezelda @shadow-pancake9

You were a rainstorm and Dream was a sponge, except he didn't know it. With every opportunity he had to be around you, he took you in until he was overcome with an uncomfortable heaviness. He was leaking with grimy emotions. And he was awfully spineless.

Matthew had been croaking from his shoulder, telling him he was a ridiculously wet sponge, and that he had to pull himself together and wring himself up because he was, frankly, disgusting.

That did not bode well for the bird. But this is not about that.

It's about how the lord of dreams did get thinking that. Perhaps, he should in fact act upon these weeping urges, for it was painful to be around you yet not have you.

It was unclear who was more shocked when you suddenly invited Dream for a weekend away, Matthew or Dream himself.

And so with the thickest, greasiest, smuggest smirk, Dream accepted the invitation. He made it known that he was graciously making room in his labor-filled schedule to accommodate your request, but accommodate your request he surely would do.

For the days building to that weekend away, Dream would study all the spectacles that involved camping. He would be camping with you and you would be camping with him; it will be lovely. He visited the dreams of those who enjoyed the leisure, and those who were objectively good at it, soaking in all the things he could learn, much like the sponge he was.

You can only imagine how shocked he was to find that the precious gift of the precious free time you, in your humanly nature, prized so much, was not even a gift to him at all, it seemed. For a gift was not typically shared, not meant to be shared, much less with some 20 other people.

"HEY DREAM!" you beamed, grinning ear to ear as you raised a hand and waved at him the moment you spotted him.

You promptly jogged over and huffed through your smile, "I'm so glad you decided to come! You'll like the people here, I promise."

Dream looks at you as a toddler busts a lung out crying. He cannot find himself to smile, though you do, for a corrosive jealousy was ripping through his stomach. You begin to explain that most of the people present were from the same circles as you,and that you did most of the planning for the weekend. You reiterate that it will be fun.

And yet as your expression softened and your brows raised while you assessed his form, he could not not smile at the sight of your doe eyes.

A dark cloud thunders above him.

He begs to disagree.

"You didn't bring any bags? Any equipment... at all?" you tilt your head.

Dream places his hands behind him, "I find no need for it. After all, anything you can posses comes from nature, does it not?"

You pull your head back and chuckle, "wow, okay, nature man," you grin, "I'm glad you at least dressed for the woods. I would have told you off if you kept your trench coat on."

Dream needlessly brushes off his tank top then places his hands in the pockets of his jogging pants, "I am capable of dressing cordially to the setting."

What he was incapable of doing though, was sharing. But you already knew that. At least he thought you did.

You introduce him to many people, he nods in regard but does no more. When someone calls for your help to set up some things, Dream immediately swoops in and makes sure that he would be the one to help you as you help.

"I must say," Dream starts as he lends you a hand whilst in building some tents, "I thought that today would be a more... intimate setting."

You turn to him as you poked a stick through the fabric, "it is. This is the smallest number of people I've hosted for a weekend at this site."

Dream's eye twitches, "but I had thought," he turns to you with a stern expression, "the invitation was exclusive to me."

To be honest, you were too preoccupied with setting up to notice how serious he was about it. The moment you caught the glint in his eye, your stomach dropped. Your lips part at the grave expression etched across his face. "Uhhhh," you clear your throat, "well, I mean, you're the only person I invited, if that counts for anything."

Dream sucks in a breath as he finishes doing his side of the tent. He walks over to you and helps you with your side. He does not look at you as his hands take yours but he knows in his bones that your eyes were on him. He also knows there was a heat blossoming in your cheeks.

He mutters, "I see," he spares you a moment's glance, "then I am glad."

That didn't last long though.

The next thing he knows, he's made to sit with a group of men, all somehow bearded, laughing over the 'good ol days' over some beer in between scolding the human spawn they had with them.

After that, he was doing yoga with some mothers that were giggling over embarrassing stories, and how good looking he was in between scolding the human spawn they had with them.

And then, well, he was holding a leash of dogs who were eager to run off but not allowed to because their masters where setting up, and so they ended up barking at the human spawn they had with them.

Then, like a true omen, he heard the laugh of the prodigal.

How did he know it The Prodigal? Well, considering the earth shook beneath his sneakers and the flock of birds fled from the trees, he was certain it was him.

Normally, he'd be glad to see his little brother, but when he saw his giant frame next to your smaller one, well, let's just say everyone who was in the middle of a nap at that moment woke up from a terrible nightmare.

"Brother," Dream interjects your giggling conversation.

Dream, needless to say, was salty to see your temperate exchange. He had gone above and beyond to socialize with the people in this camp, and yet here you were with the wrong Endless.

You and Destruction turn to him mid-catching your breath. All Dream could think about was how you had your palm on Destruction's bicep.

Was the temperature dropping?

Destruction perks. He raises his hands and steps forward, "brother!"

Dream is sealed into a tight embrace and is lifted off the ground in the process. His eyes are on you as you look between him and Destuction.

"You two are brothers?" you ask in surprise.

Destruction turns to you as he sets Dream down, "we are!" He slaps Dream's back, making his body flinch to the side. The older of the two grunts where the younger one smiles, "he's my big bro!"

"Oh!" you say with wide eyes. You tilt your head, "well then that explains the odd names."

Destruction gives a hearty laugh. Dream eyes him hotly.

Destruction sighs, "I'll know to call you if I ever did you get my brother to agree to come out somewhere."

Dream grunts.

You shake your head, "I'm equally surprised to see him here, honestly. Most of the time I'm not even sure if he enjoys being around me."

He turns to you upon hearing this.

"He's a tough nut," Destruction retorts, pulling his brother into a side hug, "but he's not hard to crack."

Before Dream can even respond, his brother rakes them both over to the lake, "now, how about we go canoeing!?"

Destruction couldn't have offered a more terrible idea.

The canoe boats were not suited to carry the Endless, much less two at once.

Destruction, ever the gentleman, did not hesitate to plunge ankle deep into the lake, only to ensure that you get into the boat safely. He held your hand as you stepped in, and Dream bristled as he watched.

When his brother turned to him, offering out a hand in order to do the same for Dream, the older of the two practically seethed in annoyance.

He turned his cheek and crossed his arms.

Destruction sighed, "oh, come now, Dream. The canoe awaits!"

Dream is adamant and stays put.

Destruction presses his lips into a line and decides to get in with you.

"Come on, Dream," you urge upon seeing his pettiness, "canoeing is fun! I promise."

One of the many promises you've made thus far.

Dream lets out a breath upon hearing your voice and the yelp-turned-giggle that you release as your tiny canoe rocks because of his massive brother.

Dream holds back an eyeroll as he watches you clutch onto Destruction, as not to rock the boat further. You giggle again, as does his brother.

"Very well," Dream says, walking over to you both.

It was futile however; every attempt in joining the already crowded canoe lead to only disaster.

It was clear Dream could not join in the canoeing, at least not in the same boat.

So the two of you rowed deeper into the lake, and Dream followed after in a separate canoe all by himself. A miserable predicament.

He could hear your soft voice, droning about all the nature facts you knew. It was audible, your excitement. He could not see you, not with his physical eyes at least, but he knew your face was lit up. It always did in moments like this. Destruction listens intently as you speak, though undoubtedly, he knew most of what you were talking about already, being a nature buff himself.

He reacted with excitement accordingly. He gasped, and laughed, and inquired further in all the right moments. He made your voice lift into further enthusiasm. He made it sound so easy. And perhaps it was to him.

Dream then rowed faster, so that, finally, your rides were side by side.

Destruction talked to you about the old sprites and spirits that used to live in these parts. Dream catches how you lean in to listen to his words. His eyes practically burn when he catches the flower in your hair, the same kind of flower that was in Destruction's.

Dream felt like jumping into the canoe across him, but that would hardly put him into your good graces, so he doesn't.

Before he realizes what he is doing, Dream clears his throat then loudly speaks, cutting his brother off, "you know I am friends with the queen of the fairies."

Both you and Destruction turn to him.

Dream ceases his rowing and allows his boat to drift next to yours.

There is a long silence between the three of you.

You turn from Dream to Destruction, jaw turning slack.

Why are you looking at him?

You push your shoulders back and tilt your head, "ah..." you smile at Dream, "I see."

Dream clenches his jaw. That was not the reaction he expected. But then again, he was unsure of what he was expecting.

It's Destruction that diffuses the thickening awkwardness, "he commissioned Shakespeare to write for the queen, you know."

You pull your head back then chuckle, "ah," you smile brighter, "he did, did he?" You turn back to Dream, "and which Shakespearean work would that be?"

Dream lifts his nose, "I have inspired the bard to write a great many plays. Two of them however are specifically for me."

You lean back in laughter, clutching your chest in delight, "ah, is that so? Let me guess, is one of them A Midsummer Night's Dream?"

Dream smiles, "precisely."

You laugh louder, shaking your head, "that's seems about right. I must admit," you sigh as you level your breathing, "I haven't really read that story at all. I... don't think I have the brain power to."

"No shame in that. I personally prefer painting over plays," Destruction notes, claiming your attention once again, "I admit, my attention span is not so suited for long winding plays."

You laugh again but Dream does not enjoy it, "yeah. I don't mean to offend the dead, but I can't really understand Shakespearean at all, so. The language is too outdated for me."

Dream accidentally (intentionally) hits the side of the other canoe. He feigns ignorance for a moment but then turns to the two of you, offering a wry smile, "apologies."

He was not at all apologetic.

In the end, Dream was situated between yours and his brother's shoulders in front of the large campfire most of the people on this wretched camp trip were circled around.

The explosiveness of the day had melted into a solemn and warm nightly gathering. Everyone was doing their own thing, cooking food, passing said food around, sharing stories. There was a strong sense of community. Dream, yet, felt like he did not belong.

The nightmare king, as he was talked over by the two of you, passed the 3rd plate of pie, rhubarb this time, to the person past you, then sunk deeper into his spot.

You were oblivious to him, he thinks

You were not. You noticed he was sulky ever since the canoeing. You offered a stick of animal shaped marshmallows to Dream mid conversation with his brother. He declined and sat up straight.

"Pardon," Dream shakes his head, "how were you two acquainted again?"

Destruction and you turn to each other as you bring your chocolate marshmallows closer to the open fire. In unison, you reply, "Didi."

Ah, Death. That made sense.

"Wait," you raise a finger, turning to Dream. He immediately perks up. Finally, he has your attention.

"If you're related to Didi," you start, "then that means you're-" you point to Destruction, "related to Didi."

Destruction grins, "my big sister!"

"Ah," you smile, "being sweet must run in the family."

"I have had enough!" Dream blurts, standing from his spot. He does this so abruptly that you drop your marshies and it calls the attention of other camp goers, not that he cared at all at this point.

He fails to realize that you did very much care.

You feel the hair at the back of your neck prick as you look up at fiery Dream. He pipes, "you told me it was I that you invited, I and only I, and yet you have done nothing but speak to my brother the whole day!"

Destruction can feel the agitation radiating off you for being put in the spot like that. He raises a hand, "Dream-"

"You are not being spoken to, Destruction," he turns to his brother, "know your place."

Not that you looked, not that you wanted to, but you could feel everyone's eyes burning into your body.

Destruction raises his hands in defeat. He turns to the crowd and sees a few of them were looking on in their direction. He turns back to you then the next second decides he knows what to do. Destruction looks out to the cliff from not too far off, then with the slightest tilt of his head, it falls with a loud splash into the lake.

It effectively distracts everyone who was looking your direction and everyone who wasn't.

"WOW!" Destruction points and stands, "that was a rock falling!"

You stand as well, looking to the people moving over to see what had happened to what, but Dream's grip on your arm keeps you from following.

"Please," he mutters, making you turn to him. His face is mystical in this light. It is shadowy yet so beautiful. "Speak in earnest. I cannot take this any further. I wish to know who between us has your heart."

You are effectively winded by this talk. It came out from seemingly nowhere.

"Is it I or my brother that you want to be with," Dream mumbles lowly, making your entire body freeze.

Your breath hitches, "b-be- what?"

"Must I speak more plainly? You can only have one. I am not particularly generous, and I certainly do not like to share what is mine," he raises his hand. You hold your breath in fear of the sound of your shaky breath when he brushes his fingers against your shoulder, "what I want to be mine," he whispers. "I especially find it difficult to release something that I want-- tenfold knowing what I want could well end in the arms of one of my siblings."

Your heart was echoing in your ribcage and your eardrums at this point.

The thumping would have excited Dream had he not been so green with envy.

"Destruction is dear to me," his soft lips move ever so slightly, "but if it comes to it, I will fight for you."

You nearly choke on your breath and your spit. A fight? One between Dream and Destruction? It sounds like a primordial event. A shiver runs down your spine. You shake your head quickly, "please don't."

Dream knits his brows and shakes his head more surely than you did, "I will."

Your breath hitches, "to be honest-" you blurt, "I didn't realize you- you... liked me like that."

Dream watches as you gather your thoughts.

"You... you do pop up in the strangest places, but I chalked that to something of fate or... proximity," you give a nervous look, "and you're not very good at showing emotions... I normally convince myself that if you didn't want to be around me, then you wouldn't."

He steps forward and places his hand on your cheek. "Allow me to make myself perfectly clear then," he rubs your skin with his thumb. Your skin pricks with goodbumps.

"Think back to the first moment we met. Every moment after, all instances that you have seen me was not coincidence. That was me purposefully reaching out to you, wanting be near you, wanting to see you, wanting to hear you, wanting to be with you, wanting you."

Both his hands are on your face now. His thumbs ghosts over your lips, "I want you."

You gulp.

"Do you want me too?"

You can't speak. You cant think. You can't breathe.

He doesn't let you when he leans in and kisses you. Soon enough, he gets his answer when you grab onto his top and kiss him back.

The forest trembles beneath your feet. Neither of you notice.

There, behind a not too far off tree, Destruction watches.

Matthew, in an announcer voice: In a total 180, the Dream rizz reaches maximum capacity, and in the end, he gets what he wants.

[cordonianroyalairlines]

All I Want for Christmas Part 1

Series: Cordonian Royal Airlines

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings for series: Various

Pairing for this chapter: Riley x Drake, Liam x Max

Word Count: 2,475

Rating: General

Warnings for this chapter: None

A/N: Listen. I had an idea for the @choicesprompts #rewritechallenge holiday edition. I had the whole scene in my head, but then I decided it needed a little lead-up. Then I decided the lead-up needed a lead-up and then these characters completely just took over, threw my script out the window, and took a whole detour to examine a little budding romance between Liam and Max when this story was supposed to be focused on Drake and Riley (and it still is, mostly).

Long story short, it got a little out of hand so I have split it into two chapters. I'm tagging all of the following:

@choicesprompts rewrite challenge, holiday edition TRR x Untamed Heart (one of my all-time favorite movies). @choicesficwriterscreations holiday prompt: Stuck together in the snow; @choicesdecember2023 Christmas and @choicesholidays: This is the worst Christmas ever.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Lassiter, have a pleasant stay!” Riley waved with a smile painted on her face as the last passenger debarked. The smile faded from her face as the guests disappeared down the jet bridge and her eyes took in the heavy snowfall blanketing the runway.

Max noticed her despondent expression. “You okay, Ri?”

She turned toward her best friend and coworker with a sigh. “Remind me again why I volunteered to work this flight?”

“Uh…because your sister is getting married in less than two months, and you needed the overtime to pay for the ridiculous over-the-top bachelorette party she wants.”

“Right. Amelia,” Riley nodded to herself, “I’m doing this for her.”

“I think you do too much for her, Ri,” Max clucked at her like a mother hen, “She takes advantage of your generous nature.”

“Oh, Max, it’s fine. You only get married once!”

He arched an eyebrow at her.

“Okay,” a giggle burst out of her, “Hopefully, she only gets married once!”

“Frankly, I’m surprised she found anyone willing to marry her. Is there something wrong with him?”

“Max!” Riley laughed as she thumped him playfully on the shoulder before turning serious. “I just hope we’re able to take off tomorrow as planned.” Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, and she had promised her mother she’d be home so she could spend Christmas day with her parents and siblings.

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

Riley turned toward the voice to find the pilot striding toward them. Captain Liam Rys stopped in front of the flight attendants to announce, “There’s a blizzard headed straight for us.”

“Maybe we could just fly out right now—” Riley started hopefully.

“That’s a negative,” Liam cut her off, “that would put me over my flight limit for the day. We’ll proceed to the hotel as planned and hope for the best but be prepared to spend Christmas here.”

“Remind me why you agreed to fly into Estonia, the blizzard capital of the world, two days before Christmas?” Max grumbled.

Liam’s eyes flicked to him in annoyance. “Because of the obscene amount of money Mr. Lassiter was willing to pay for me to do so. You’ll thank me when you get your next paycheck and there’s a substantial bonus on it, on top of the holiday bonus you just received.”

“It’s okay,” Max shrugged with a tinge of disappointment in his tone, “My brother is in Japan anyway.”

Liam’s expression softened a little. “I’m sure he wishes he could spend Christmas with you.”

“Well, he’s flying with Leo, which he loves. I’m just disappointed that we’re almost never assigned to the same flight.”

Liam averted his eyes, unwilling to tell Max that was on purpose. Bertrand had requested that Max not be on the same flight as himself after the younger Beaumont’s enthusiasm became embarrassing for him. Max had gushed to a passenger about his pride in his older sibling, proudly articulating that, “My brother’s the co-pilot. He’s really good at it. He’s almost good enough to be the pilot!”

Liam shuffled his feet awkwardly, then nodded at Max, “Yes, well…. See you at the hotel.”

“You will?” Max’s head whipped around in surprise. Liam had never expressed an interest in seeing him outside of work before.

“Well, he was a little snippy,” Riley observed as Liam disappeared down the sky bridge.

“But did he seem….I don’t know…interested in-“ a flush crawled up his neck and then flared across his face, “Never mind. Of course not.”

Riley’s brow furrowed. “Interested in what?”

“Nothing. Let’s just get this cabin cleaned up so we can go.”

***

Riley awoke the next morning to sheets of snow pouring from the sky, blanketing the city in white as far as she could see from her hotel window. Which wasn’t that far. The snow was coming down too fast and too thick for her to see past the parking lot.

“Shit!” She aggressively pulled the curtains closed and dove back under the covers.

***

“So, what have you two been up to all day?” Liam asked as the four-member flight crew sat down for dinner in the hotel restaurant.

“Well, I slept in, then I called my mom to let her know I wouldn’t be making it home today and probably not tomorrow either. Then I drown my sorrows in a steaming hot bubble bath.” Riley responded as she pulled the menu over to her.

“Yeah, but then we saw a movie,” Max reminded her. Turning to Liam, he rambled excitedly, “This hotel has a theater in it. There was popcorn and everything! And then we took a cooking class! Can you believe that? The hotel chef hosts a class here once a week, but they did an extra class today because it snowed everyone in.”

Liam smiled at Max’s enthusiasm. “That sounds like fun. Now I feel boring. I read all day. Drake, what about you?”

“What about me?” Drake was busy shoveling a complimentary roll into his mouth.

Riley laughed. “Have you not been listening to the conversation? He wants to know what you did to keep busy today, you dork.”

Drake grabbed his water glass and chugged the cold liquid down to cover the fact that he had not heard a word of the conversation since Riley stopped talking. He was still picturing her in that bubble bath. When he sat the glass down, he responded, “I did my usual morning workout. The gym here is excellent. Since I couldn’t go for a run, I hit the heavy bags and then swam a few laps.”

“How many is a few?” Max asked.

“Twenty.” Drake’s eyes flicked to Max as he answered before landing quickly back on Riley’s face searching for any clue that she was impressed, or at least interested in him.

Not that he cared. She was a coworker, and he didn’t date coworkers.

“All before lunch?” She raised an eyebrow.

He wasn’t sure if she found his morning activities impressive or stupid. Her expression gave away nothing. “I find it hard to sit still,” he answered.

Liam scoffed, “You sit in the cockpit for hours at a time.”

“First of all, that’s different. I’m doing plenty as you well know and second of all, that’s why I need more physical movement when I’m on the ground.”

“Makes sense to me!” Max nodded emphatically as the waitress arrived with the menus.

They ordered their food and ate while making companionable chit chat. After dinner, Max suggested they continue the night across the lobby.

The hotel bar was crowded. The four coworkers quickly parted in the crowd. Drake and Liam navigated to a small table in the back and ordered drinks.

“You don’t want to ask her to dance?” Liam nodded across the room to the dance floor where Max and Riley were laughing and twirling to the music.

Drake followed Liam’s eyes and froze as he watched her sway and shimmy to the thump of heavy base. “I don’t dance.”

“I’ve seen you dance.”

“Not well.”

“So, you’re worried about embarrassing yourself in front of her?”

“What? No!” Drake reached for the tumbler of single malt scotch as the server placed it on the table in front of him and took a long pull as his mind spun with ways to shift the conversation away from his nonexistent love life. “What’s going on with you and Max?”

Liam startled so hard that bourbon sloshed over the rim of his glass. He stared at Drake in a blind panic. “What do you mean?”

“I mean….you usually pay no attention to what the flight attendants are doing when we have layovers. Yet you invited everyone to dinner tonight and you’re the one that was watching them dance. I’m pretty sure you’re not into Riley because if you were, you wouldn’t be pushing me toward her. So that leaves Max. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He lowered his glass to the table with a sigh. “It’s that obvious?”

“To me, but I’ve known you for a long time, Li.”

Liam blew out a long breath. “Shit.”

“Why don’t you just tell him you’re interested?”

“No,” Liam shook his head vigorously, “I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“So many reasons! Starting with the fact that I’m his boss and that’s a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen.”

“Not if he likes you back,” Drake countered.

“That’s not likely.”

Again, Drake asked, “Why not?”

Liam scoffed as he gestured toward the dance floor. “I mean, look at him! He’s fun and popular and hilariously funny. And look at those dance moves! He’s interesting and cool. What could he possibly see in me?”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short, man.”

“I’m a stick in the mud and you know it. I was the president of my debate team. He was the lead in his school’s production of Beetle Juice.”

“How do you know- “

“Bertrand told me.”

“So, you’ve been pumping his brother for information?”

“Not the point. He’s amazing and fun and talented and I’m….me.”

“Liam, come on, man, you-“

“When I was twelve, I read law books for fun.”

“Geez, okay. Never mind. You’re definitely going to die alone.”

“Shut up,” Liam laughed, “I know you think I’m being dramatic.“

“You fly planes for a living,” Drake reminded him. “In my experience, a lot of people find that sexy.”

“Yes, well, I know your experience is quite extensive in that area but-“

“Are you calling me a man whore?”

“If the shoe fits….” Liam muttered into his drink.

“Insult me all you want, but it isn’t going to change the fact that you’ve got it bad. You should just tell him.”

“Oh, okay, Mr. I don’t like Riley.”

Fuck. Drake took another long drink. The conversation had come full circle. His eyes drifted across the room to find her again. She was still with Max.

***

Riley led Max off the dance floor and to a table as she flagged down a server for some water. “What’s up with you tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve been acting squirely all night and you keep looking around like you’re searching for somebody. What’s that about?”

Max flushed, “Ah….I think I might have a thing for Liam.”

“Wait…what?” Riley shrieked, then clapped her hands over her mouth.

“I don’t know….” Max dropped his eyes to the table. “I mean, you know, he’s hot or whatever.”

“Max!” She slapped his shoulder. “Since when? And why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugged. “Just recently I’ve started to notice him more, that’s all. He’s always being nice to me and- “

“He’s nice to everyone.”

“I know, but it’s more than that! I can’t explain it, okay? It’s just…the way he looks at me sometimes….”

“I have never seen you act shy before! You hit on that model last week!”

“Oh, him? Yeah, but that was just--”

“That man is an international star, and you had zero qualms asking for his snap.”

“I know, but- “

“And he gave it to you!”

“Sure, but Liam isn’t just a pretty face, Riley! He’s so fucking smart and serious. He’s sophisticated, and there’s just no way he’d be into a goofball like me.”

“Ah, Maxey, anyone with half a brain would be into you.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re my best friend.”

“Yes. But also because it’s true.”

“No, it’s not. I’m the general fuckup in my family. Just ask Bertrand. Or my father.”

“Max, you’re not a fuckup!” Riley admonished. “You’re just different from your brother and father, thank God! I’m sorry, I know you love him, but Bertrand is the most boring man alive, and your father is a dick, so please don’t judge yourself by his opinion of you.”

“Bert’s not boring. He just had to grow up fast. My father put a lot of pressure on him and he, unlike me, rose to the challenge. I mean, look at us. He’s a pilot and I’m a flight attendant. Do you remember what my father said when I told him I wanted to be a flight attendant?”

“Yes, but on the bright side, it was the first time he acknowledged your sexual orientation.”

Max snorted, “That’s not funny, Riley.”

“You laughed.”

He bumped her shoulder with his own with an amused shake of his head, “If your point is that my father is a homophobic, controlling, abusive asshole whose opinion should mean nothing to me or anyone else with a lick of self-respect, then point taken.” He lifted his glass to her.

She lifted hers and tapped it into his with a grin. “My work here is done. Now go over there and ask him to shoot darts or something.”

***

“All right, well, this has been fun, but I’m going up to bed now.” Liam pushed away from the table and stood up, stretching as he did so.

“You really are a stick in the mud,” Drake laughed as the server cleared their table and asked if he could get them anything else. “Yeah, an unopened bottle of what we’ve been drinking tonight.”

Liam turned to go but froze as a voice that sent heat shocking through him spoke, “Hey…Liam….you wanna…go play darts or something?”

He turned to find Max smiling at him. Trying to push down the rising panic in his throat, his eyes flicked to Drake, who just gave him an amused smile, then back to Max, who looked uncharacteristically nervous. “Uh…. sure.”

“Great!” Relief washed across Max’s features. Then he remembered himself and begrudgingly turned to include Drake in the invitation. “Would you like to join us?”

“Nah, I’m good. You two go ahead. I’ve got a bottle of top-shelf whiskey, and this hotel has steak on their room service menu. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay then, goodnight and Merry Christmas,” Liam didn’t meet Drake’s eyes as he waved bye and then followed Max to the dart boards lined up against the far wall.

Drake chuckled to himself as he took the bottle from the server and thrust a handful of bills at him. He started for the door, then thought better of it and backtracked to the bar, reaching across and grabbing a clean tumbler to take to his room with him.

He had to dodge a bunch of drunk people on his way back, causing him to veer off course until he was damn near on the other side of the room.

It wasn’t so much that he saw her as he felt her presence. His head lifted and his eyes somehow went straight to her despite the dozen or so people between him and the table she was seated at. Without making a conscious decision, his body angled in her direction, and he made his way over to her, reminding himself the whole way that he didn’t get involved with coworkers.

[bits-and-babs]

𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐘𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐒 – 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐎'𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

↳ summary: miguel has an issue with the performance and comfortability of his suit. he feels he's found a suitable solution– but he can't tell you.

↳ pairing: pervy!miguel o'hara x f!reader

↳ content: 18+ MDNI. SMUT. pervy!miguel, sneaking into your home, panty stealing, miguel wears your panties, (m) masturbation, masturbating in your panties, a little dirty talk, imagines p in v sex with reader.

miguel masterlist ୨୧ main masterlist ୨୧ join taglist ୨୧ ask

Disgust coats Miguel's tongue in a kind of rancid film, his lashes fluttering closed as he tries to breathe through the turbulence of the unhinged thoughts that bounce in his skull. Of all the ideas he'd contemplated to make the suit a little easier to wear, this was by far the most demented.

The delicate, silky midnight fabric of your high-cut thong had sprung to mind late at night, sleep ebbing at the edges of his consciousness and poisoning his ethics. He'd noticed them the last time he saw you, the elasticated straps that framed your hips peeking over the denim waistband of your jeans when you bent over to collect some papers from his office floor. It's as though the image had imprinted itself on his brain's grey, swirling surface and seared into his retinas.

Friends, Miguel he had to remind himself consistently. You were his friend. Friends don't steal other friends' panties.  

Frankly, this ridiculous plot had all come about thanks to the absurd skin-tight suit Miguel consistently afflicted himself with. His excuse for invading your privacy was aerodynamics. The smoother the outline of the suit, the quicker he'd swing from his webbing... Or so he told himself. It was a perfectly reasonable excuse, as far as his bias was concerned. 

The temptation was intolerable. Of course, getting a thong was easy enough– Miguel could buy them from the mall with the excuse of wanting to see an imaginary girlfriend in them or order them online if it embarrassed him too much. But the debauched notion of wearing your panties, the kind you wore and smelt like you, drove him crazier than he could ever admit. 

He hadn't been able to stave off the desire for very long. Some forty-eight hours later, Miguel found himself snatching the object of desire from your laundry basket, blanketed by the pitch blackness of the dead of night. Driven by this repulsive need, he'd retreated to his office almost as swiftly as he had entered your home, careful to conceal evidence of his presence. All items had been placed back neatly while Miguel scoured for your thong, and he'd pulled your bedroom window back to its original position, open just a crack. 

Thoughts of your silhouette, framed only by the panties in his hand and their matching bra, had carried Miguel home. He'd been rock hard by the time he'd stumbled back into the office, practically ripping the lycra-like material from his body to slip the panties on. 

So here he stood, spider-suit a crimson and midnight blue pool at his feet, naked in the mirror beside the panties that barely stretched across his ample hips. His thick, muscular thighs looked even wider when paired with the dainty lingerie and the dark trail of hair that sparsely scattered his lower abdomen looked far prettier when decorated like this.

Miguel's eyes slid over the silky fabric against his smooth, tanned skin. The silk canvas barely contained the base of his cock and his balls, straining over the ample flesh he'd managed to stuff into the already limited, thin cloth. The scalloped straps of the thongs dug into his hips, little diamonte hearts encrusted by the base of the chords– he hadn't noticed them until now, his cheeks warming as he studied them in the mirror. 

The sheer mass of Miguel's frame was far too large for the undergarment, the elasticated waistband stretched across the shaft of his cock, so it rested against his stomach, erect. The ruddy tip of his swollen head leaked creamy pre-cum against his abdomen at the consistent pressure, throbbing weakly when Miguel passed his eyes over it.

"Hng-" he huffed a breath through his nostrils, the sound almost a wheeze. Fuck, he could smell you on them, the musky scent of your sex. Miguel can't contain the monster, his palm tracing over the outline of his cock. The fabric is stretched so thin against his dick that he can see it twitch, the engorged vein that extends across the arch of him evident in his reflection. 

"D-Dios-" Miguel moans softly, watching precum drip from his swollen tip onto the dark fabric of your underwear. Running his thumb over the head of his cock, Miguel smears his spend over the velvety skin and watches the muscles of his abdomen spasm with the intense pleasure that spidered across his nerves. 

"Oh fuck, pretty baby," he whispers, tracing the crescents arches of his nails over his clothed length, babbling to himself as he relishes your scent, imagining tasting you. "Want your pretty pussy on my face..."

Miguel's hand quickly grasps the mirror's frame, his knees threatening to collapse beneath the weight of his bliss. He's drooling precum now, steady dribbles leaking down into the elasticated waistband and trailing across his knuckles. Fuck fuck fuck– would you be as tight as your panties felt on him? Would you squeeze him like this? 

Pushing his thumb beneath the seam of your thong, Miguel lifts the waist of the lingerie upwards. Shuddering breaths heaved from his ribcage, bracing as he lets the stretchy band slip from his digit. 

It snaps back onto his pulsing cock with a 'crack', the stinging sensation from the impact rocking down the length of his spine as Miguel rubbed the flat of his palm across the flushed head. His jaw falls loose, vermillion irises rolling back into his skull.

"Hhah- fuuuckkk– gonna cum-" he choked out into the emptiness of his office, quickly snapping the fabric onto his length again. "Gonna fuckin' cum–"

Miguel's eyelids flutter, almost missing the lurch of his dick. Cum spurts from the tip, splattering across the reflective surface of the mirror, painting ribbons of creamy white across his bronzed skin. It seeps into the midnight blue of your panties, darker blotches oozing into the silk as he rocks his hips into his touch. 

When his exceptional vision finally rights itself, Miguel notes the tearstains that streak down his cheeks, wetness clinging to the ebony eyelashes that frame his dilated pupils. He heaves a shuddering exhale, letting out a hoarse scoff at the rakish vision of himself, smeared in cum and wearing his friend's panties. 

Despite the fizzling arousal that singed the edges of his nervous system, Miguel's mind continued to develop images of you. Forever unsatiated, it conjures the depiction of you sprawled across your bed with your cum stained panties balled up and stuffed in your mouth. Your jaw aching, eyebrows stitched together as Miguel's ludicrously thick cock sinks into your tight pussy. Would you tear up, back arching as you attempt to rock your hips further onto him despite the stretch?

Flopping into his desk chair, Miguel covers his eyes with his palm and feels his ravenous cock twitch under the soiled fabric once again. He was pretty confident he'd never return this thong now...

join the taglist here

Oscar Isaac taglist ;

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[babybluebex]

ok so i tried to post this last week but i posted it on mobile and it got all fucked up bc tumblr mobile sucks, so let me try this again: tom grant being ready to defend you at the drop of a hat

it's been a long week at the resort park, guests making a fuss over nothing and making your job (and life, frankly) a living hell. the only reprieve is your boyfriend, tom— coming home to him is a breath of fresh air, and his smile when he sees you warms your heart.

he knows you've been having a rough few days, so he offers to treat you to a night out, a few drinks and a night away from those guests. he tells you to dress up real pretty so he can take pictures, maybe that black dress that you wore to your anniversary dinner? it's a little short, but that's ok; you know that tom would just give you his jacket if you get cold. tom would probably give you his jacket anyway, even though he's the one who recommended the dress— the man gets jealous rather easily.

and that's put to the test that night at the pub. it's a small seaside pub, nothing but out-of-towners and the occasional cornish customer, and tom helps you up onto the barstool with a gentle hand. he orders a pint and mumbles something about going to the loo, and he buries a kiss in your hair before he goes. your pints arrive while he's gone, and you sip at yours as you scroll at your phone.

and then: "you ain't from around here, huh?"

you look over. a guy, muscled, some sort of tourist, undoubtedly looking for something to occupy his night. not your type. he was talking to you, and you sigh.

"yeah, i am," you say politely, instead of ignoring him. tom will be back any second to save you . "i work at the resort park a few minutes away."

"but you ain't from cornwall, huh?"

you sigh. "no," you say. "But my boyfriend is."

"i don't see any boyfriend" the guy says.

"he's off at the loo" you tell him. "and he's the jealous type, so it's probably best if you leave me alone before he sees you."

"what if i wanna talk to you, though?" the guy asks, and you sneer.

"i'd rather not" you say. "thanks, but no"

"well, alright" the guy says. "don't gotta be a bitch about it. you're dressed like a slag, wouldn't want the likes of ya anyway."

"oi" you hear tom say, and you look over your shoulder to see him. his cheeks are red with anger, and you silently giggle at him. oh tommy, like a wiley little stray dog, always ready for a fight. "whatchu say 'bout my bird?"

"this is the boyfriend?" the guy asks "doesn't look like much to me"

"watch it" tom says, taking a step forward. "how 'bout you step off, mate, 'fore i do something you won't like?"

"'step off'? s'it the 90s?" the guy laughs, and you hold back your laughter. later, you'd tell tom that that did sound sorta ridiculous, but now wasn't the time. "don't want her anyway, she's all yours"

"right, s'why you even talked to her in the first place, cos you didn't want her" tom said. "piss off"

you smile all watery at tom as he gets up onto his barstool and sips at his pint, and he sorta grunts "what?"

"my hero" you coo and kiss his cheek and, when you look at him again, his cheeks are a different sort of red and his eyes have hearts in them. "defending me from some creep"

"s'all in a day's work" tom mumbles, and you smile. "what? m'i supposed to just let him call you a slag and get away with it?"

"you're so cute" you tell him. "your accent got all thick and you started talking all funny. you're adorable"

"oh, stop" tom says, and you kiss him again.

"never"

[choke-me-joey]

since it hasn't been taken off the list yet.. can i request 28 with JQ? 🫣

(your writing is immaculate my horny ass can't wait to make its way thru the entire list)

I hope you like this bby 😘 I combined it with another prompt especially for you cos you're like, the best.

28. I want to watch you/I want you to watch me.

Bonus prompt:

26. Keep those eyes on me, beautiful.

Joseph Quinn x reader

Content warning: 18+ content minors DNI, rpf (don't like don't read), reader is a teasing brat and Joe has had enough of her shit, masturbation, pussy shots (is that a thing?????), oral (f receiving), cum eating, idk it's just filthy okay???

Hoevember/Dickcember masterlist

This wasn't how it was supposed to go at all.

You'd planned it so perfectly. You were going to get Joe so riled up that he'd have no choice but to take you home, throw you down on that new rug and fuck the ever loving shit out of you in the living room aka the only room left in the new house that you hadn't shagged in yet.

Your plan was foolproof; low cut dress, pushup bra, his favourite perfume that you wear, mixed with alcohol, subtle glides of your hands over his crotch under the table at the bar, pressing your body up against his, the grinding on the dance floor...it was textbook on how to turn Joe on. And you thought it had worked when he'd grabbed your waist on the dance floor and pulled you into him, growling in your ear to get your coat and say your goodbyes to everyone.

Which led to deep, open mouthed and panting kisses in the (private) back of a taxi back to your newly purchased home, Joe's hands trailing up and squeezing your bum as you unlocked the door and let him practically shove you through it, pinning you up against the wall in the hallway, hiking up your dress and grinding his jean covered cock against your flimsy underwear.

"Fuck me, Joe," you begged, trying to move your legs and tug him towards the living room.

"Upstairs," Joe grunted back against your mouth, and you pouted. "Up. Stairs."

Ooh, that tone.

You did as you were told, giggling as Joe swatted at your bum as you both sprinted up the stairs and into your bedroom.

"On the bed. Naked." Joe instructed you and you obeyed, pulling off your dress, shoes and underwear and lying in the centre of your, frankly ridiculously massive bed (a splurge for the new house). Joe slowly unbuttons his shirt, shucking it off. He then reaches for the button of his jeans. Your tongue darts out to lick your lips as you watch him, the obvious bulge in his jeans making your mouth water. "You wanna suck my cock?"

You nod, eagerly climbing towards him. "Ah, ah. Back where you were. Don't think you just got away with all that shit you were doing at the bar, baby. I know exactly what you were up to."

"I wasn't-"

"Yes, you were, you fucking brat." Joe growls, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them down. His black boxers do little to hide how hard he is now and your eyes flick to it again. "I was trying to speak to my friends, and all you wanted was for me to bring you home and fuck you. You're such a whore for my cock that you don't care about anything else."

"I'm sorry, Joey, just wanted you so bad," you pout again, giving him the face you know he can't refuse.

"Don't look at me like that. It's time for you to learn you can't always get what you want from me-" Joe pushes down his boxers and kicks them off, spitting into his hand before stroking his cock slowly. "Tonight I'm getting what I want. I want you to watch me."

"Joey, please!" You whine, desperate to touch him, to taste him.

"Don't make me cuff you." He warns. "You're gonna watch me, and don't you dare touch yourself. If you're good, maybe I'll eat that pretty pussy afterwards, okay?"

You nod, knowing he meant business. "Good girl. Keep those eyes on me, beautiful. Wanna show you what I do when you're not around to help me out."

"Please," you whisper, your thighs squeezing together. You'd always told Joe that you'd wished you were there to watch him jerk off whenever he would call you on FaceTime from his lonely hotel room, all hard, leaking and desperate to cum.

Joe groans as he strokes himself, slowly, twisting his wrist at the top like you do when you wank him. His thumb swipes at the precum gathered at his mushroom tip, using it to lube himself up. "Open your legs, baby."

You do so, allowing your legs to fall open so he can see your slick pussy practically shining in the dim light of your bedroom. His cock twitches noticeably in his hand. "Fuck, you always get so wet for me, love."

"Always, Joey," you nod, your hands twitching by your sides desperate to touch yourself or him, but you knew he'd follow through with his threat of cuffs.

"I know baby, cos you're my good little slut, aren't you?" Joe growls, looking up at you through his eyelashes as he fists his cock.

You nod again, whimpering as you squeeze your thighs together again to ease the ache. Joe frowns, clambering on to the bed and kneeling between your legs, forcing them open. He pouts his lips and allows a glob of spit to fall from his mouth onto your awaiting cunt, making you moan out his name. "Aw, poor little thing, you want my cock?" Joe teases, leaning forward and sliding his cock through your pussy lips, lubing his dick up with your arousal and his spit. He breathes out "fuck", all gravelly and raw and you shudder, hole clenching around nothing. "Too bad. I told you, you're not getting what you want."

He pulls away and starts to fist his cock faster, holding your legs open with his free hand, his eyes going from your dripping cunt to your face, and back down. "Hold your legs back for me."

You do as you're told, holding your legs up so he can really get a view of your pussy and ass. Joe groans loudly. He's getting close, his breath coming out in harsh pants and his hand working his cock at lightening speed. His hips even start to move of their own accord, fucking into his hand. "Shit, you're so fucking....hnng fuck, I'm gonna cum-!"

You moan with him as you feel his cum landing on your pussy, dripping down to your asshole. Joe swipes his cock through your folds again, mixing his cum with your slick.

You cry out as he suddenly drops down, and eats your pussy like a man starved, swiping his tongue through your collective messes and groaning loudly against you at the taste of both of you combined on his own tongue. You let go of your legs, your hand flying to his curls and giving them a harsh tug. In response he shoves two thick fingers into you, immediately curling them to stroke your g-spot.

When he looks up at you from between your legs, those beautiful brown eyes big and lust-blown, that gorgeous mouth ravaging your pussy and his thick, perfect fingers hitting you just right, it's game over. You cum, long and hard, your release soaking Joe's mouth and chin. You scream his name as your body shakes, thighs clamping down on either side of his head to keep him there. He doesn't stop, keeping the same pace and rhythm until you're squealing and pushing him away.

"Joey," you whine, your body trembling. He chuckles, gently removing his fingers from you. You grab his wrist and shove his fingers into your mouth, cleaning them off and revelling in your own taste, all the while keeping your eyes fixed on his. You release his fingers with a soft 'pop' and pull him into a kiss, moving his body on top of yours. "You know you owe me a shag on the rug, right?"

Joe laughs. "I was getting to that. Round 2?"

You angle your hips up and your pussy swallows the tip of his cock, hard and raring to go once more. He sighs blissfully and you shoot him a wicked grin, before expertly rolling the two of you so you were on top.

"Now, I want you to watch me."

[not-goldy]

💀💀💀💀💀💀

I will reserve my comments on that cos I am not in the right mental space to dabble in controversial topics of that nature with all the immaturity, lack of comprehension, twisting of words, projecting, reaching and bigotry that that comes with.

Mi minding ma own business

That said, I really don't think he is copying Jimin anymore. I think it's a little more than that quit frankly.

I mean sure it's fun to think he is copying Jimin cos we love that 😏

BUT

At this point I'm just raising an eye brow at the people around him. Not that their malicious or anything. It's just on the surface of it it seems they are "turning him into Jimin" and I say that with lots and lots of care and reservation because Jungkook is HIS OWN BEING.

He looks more expressive- I wouldn't say queer because as a queer person I find that very ridiculous that the way a person dresses can suddenly change their view on their sexuality. If so, with all the suits I wear to work, IM A CIS STRAIGHT CONSERVATIVE WHITE MALE. I'm Donald Trump😭😭😭😭😭🤣

And while I adore the celebration of queerness in whatever form we describe queerness I'm a bit skeptical when it comes to Kpop idols especially due to the humongous queer baiting and appropriation agenda prevalent within kpop.

I choose to call Jungkook expressive even though queer has always been how I've described him since day one- and while that may seem hypocritical of me it's really not.

To me JK is queer. He would always be queer but to see him embody that so overtly by leaning into this queer for show practice in Kpop makes me uncomfortable 😅

He's always been the gender bending queer hailing captain of our little team here- but looking at him now it's like seeing your favorite song writer suddenly get in front of the mic. Not only are they writing, they singing too. That makes you wonder a lot.

And now I'm plagued with questions like was he always a singer? Did he always want to sing the songs he writes? Does he really love music or is he just looking to cash out?

Also, if ever there was any doubt that Jungkook liked who Jimin is as a person and what he stands for, this right her dispels that. He's not copying him. He is channeling him.

He is expressing himself in ways that makes him feel good and alive. His admiration for Jimin is adorable.

It's like watching your girlfriend whip her hair and wondering how you'd feel like in heels.

I love it here.

[lambourngb]

wip wednesday

from "you and i were almost nothing" - a soulmate story based on this prompt: Soulbonds Identity Porn - Soulmate Goes By A Different Name Than The One on Soulmate's Skin

To give Carole credit she at least waited until Goose had drifted away to the diner’s beat-up piano to begin her interrogation. “All right, something is up with you. Tell me everything.”

Short and to the point, Mav wasn’t sure if Carole even knew how to beat around the bush. He nudged the french fries closer to Bradley, it was what passed for a vegetable on a plate full of chicken nuggets and bought himself a few seconds of a reprieve. “Nothing is up with me, unless you’re talking about our chances for the Top Gun trophy.”

Carole gave him the look again, and then, as if in sync, Goose started up with the slow tune that Maverick instantly recognized from his faded memories of his childhood. They were working together against him, using their mysterious Soulmates connection apparently to outnumber him. Mav held firm, until Goose tipped his head back to look at them with a saucy wink, “These… arms… of … miiiinnne-”

“Carole.”

“Mav.”

“Carole, stop him-”

She held up her hands in a faux show of powerlessness, “I don’t have any control over him, Goosey is his own man. I mean, just look at that mustache and shirt, do you think I’m involved in that decision makin’ process?”  She smiled wider as Mav glared across the table at her. Like it wasn’t a planned ambush.

In the meantime, Goose kept singing to the nearly empty dinner with a gusto, “These arms of miiiiinnnnne, they are yearning, yearning for wannnnting you-” From the front counter, their waitress was smiling at the display and everyone knew, Goose needed no encouragement to continue his ridiculous act.

Traitors, both of them. Mav realized he should have never shared his childhood connection to Otis Redding with them, and caved. “Okay, fine, there’s this guy-”

“You found him!?” Carole cut him off with joy and excitement.

“No,” he answered firmly. For as maddening as Tom Kazansky was, he wasn’t Avnotom. “Nothing like that. He’s in our class and he just pisses me off.”  

“Keep eating, baby,” Carole said gently to Bradley, nudging him away from playing with the nuggets on his plate, and then fixed an eye on Mav, like a drill sergeant during inspection. “And you, keep talking, you’ve dealt with assholes before, what makes this guy different?”

“Nothing.” Maverick winced at the frankly blistering look Carole sent him, and amended it, “It’s a competition, of course, guys are going to be into it,” another look, even more narrowed, “Okay, I’m into it, I know I push things to the limit but the safety of my aircraft and crew comes first. I might have been a little too aggressive chasing down the CO, but I apologized to Goose about it. But this asshole, Kazansky, had the nerve to imply that I was in it for personal glory, that I only care about myself, that I don’t know what side I’m on out there-”

“And you’re mad because he’s wrong?”

“I’m mad because-” Mav broke off, unable to finish the sentence to its conclusion. He was mad because Kazansky had taken something he had learned in a vulnerable moment and had broadcast it to the whole class. He was mad because he had thought they had reached a new understanding after that volleyball game and he was apparently wrong. He was mad because he wasn’t mad at all, he was hurt instead- 

After leaving his aunt’s house as an adult, he had made a vow to never let someone hurt him again like that, and Kazansky had just brushed right past that wall. His words had cut deeper than Viper’s after that failed hop.

“I’m mad because he doesn’t seem to get it.”