#god i think i that point i had fucked up my voice good

[daydreamerwoah]

Love Through It All (Alternate Ending - Character Death)

tw: mentions of cheating, mentions of divorce; hurt; angst; anger; rollercoaster of emotion; sadness; arguing; crying; mentions of therapy/counseling; kidnapping; violence; guns; injury; main character death

Please read Part 1 for my author notes for the beginning of this story if this is your first time here.

Had someone ask for a different alternate ending so here it is :)

*This picks up from part 13 in italics*

The moment the video stopped, you locked eyes with Simon. Your puffy eyes made him internally broken, but his facial expression hadn't changed, and you didn't know if he was upset that you had gotten revenge for cheating on you... or if it was something else. You wanted to say that it meant nothing. That you were drunk and fucking mad at him... but you couldn't say shit with the tape still over your mouth.

"I have to say, she sounds.. so damn good. Doesn't she?" Jax teased as he asked everyone in the room. Even with Andrei not responding, since he was the one who had his tongue on you, Jax smiled at Simon like he had won or something, "How does it feel?" He walked and stood behind Simon as he leaned down so his face was almost next to his, looking at you, "Tell her." He demanded.

Simon's eyes never strayed away from yours as you continued to cry. The look on his face hadn't really changed, but his eyes told you exactly how he felt. The regret that ran through his soul.... he wished he could been a better man; a better husband. You didn't deserve any of this.. yet you stayed. You had wanted to work on your marriage even after the ugly truth came out. It was his fault, and he would forever kill himself over it. He would be grateful if you ever forgave him, promising to give you the entire world and more after he so much tore yours apart by cheating.

"I love you," he lowly said, making you cry even more. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart... for everythin'."

"Satisfying, isn't it?.. Finally realizing your mistakes?"

Simon finally tore his eyes away from you and looked at Jax, "Let her go."

He paused, acting as if he was thinking about something, "I thought about it," he teased, "but see... I can't do that. She's knows far too much... much more than our girl Williams," he joked - a terrible one that made both you and Simon shoot him the deadliest glare.

He raised his gun up, pointing it at you, making your eyes widen.

"Let her go, Jax," Simon raised his voice, "This is between me and you."

"Oh, it's not just me," he chuckled, "But I guess it would be easier to take you out first." He moved his gun to point it at Simon's temple.

You yelled through the tape and thrashed around as you tried to get out of the restraints. Your skin was probably raw at how much you rubbed at the ropes. You wanted to beg him not to shoot your husband.. you even tried to. But it was pointless.

"Say goodbye to your wife... Lieutenant."

Time felt like it slowed down as you and Simon looked at each other. He looked angry and sad, but no doubt love. He loved you for everything you had given him, everything you had done for him. And if this was the last time he'd see you... then so be it. He was ready... and you didn't want that. You weren't ready to leave him; to say goodbye.

The wails that came from your muffled lips had you choking on the saliva that bubbled up in your throat. You wanted to vomit so bad.

"Close your eyes love," Simon told you. You didn't want to. God you didn't want to. But you couldn't stomach the thought of seeing him die right in front of you, so you shut your eyes tight and waited for the loud popping sound of Jax's gun to go off.

BANG!

The moment the loud pop echoed in the room, your eyes opened as you looked at the scene in front of you. And god, did you begin to wail as you saw your husband. He was slumped over in the chair. A bullet wound at his temple. Jax, who had taken a step toward you as he smiled, made you thrash in your restraints forcefully.

"When they find you... tell them Makarov said hello," he said as he snatched the tape off of your mouth. You couldn't help the loud cry that left your lips as you looked at him with pure hatred.

"Fuck you!!" you screamed, but it didn't even faze him.

He and the rest of the men walked out of the room, Andrei giving you a malicious wink before he shut the door. You couldn't help the loud cries that continued to come from your mouth as you sat there and looked at Simon.

He was dead.

God, you wanted to fucking die with him. The pain of knowing he was murdered all because of something that was bigger than this would haunt you forever.

20 minutes later, heavy footsteps rushed through the door, and you almost thought it was Jax and his men again until you realized that Price, Johnny, and Kyle had come in with their guns drawn.

But it was too late.

The moment they saw how distraught you were and looked at their comrade with his head hanging forward, they knew. The fucking knew that they were too late in rescuing both of you. Johnny kneeled down in front of Simon, putting his fore and middle finger against his neck to check for a pulse like he'd find one. "Fuck," he said as he looked up at the other two men.

Kyle rushed over to you and began to cut away at the ropes that tied you up, and the second you were free, you leaped out of the chair and ran to Simon, wrapping your arms around his neck as you cried. He was cold.. ice cold damn near, but you held onto him like he would somehow take a breath of air.

But you knew he wouldn't, yet you still continued until Price tried to pull you off of him.

"Y/n," he softly said.

"No!" you yelled, "He can't leave me! He can't- He's gotta come back. We have to work through this! Please John... please wake him up!"

Fuck.

His sad eyes eventually met yours as he frowned, "I'm so sorry."

************************************************************************

Someone once told you in the past to read about the 5 Stages of Grief. You thought it was silly. What did you have to grieve about, when all you wanted was to be happy with your husband? You didn't think about that kind of stuff, especially when it came to him. But hell, did you wish you had picked up on a few things at least.

Denial.

Even with Simon being taken away when the police and corners arrived, you still couldn't believe he was gone. It was like you were waiting for him to come out of every corner to surprise you - like he did at the club. The first couple of days were the worst, as you would call his phone only to hear it ring on the nightstand next to you. The day of the funeral, you almost passed out twice from how everything hurt (physically and emotionally).

Anger.

The anger that flowed through your soul was more than knowing Simon cheated on you. It was more than knowing you cheated on him. You wanted to kill Jax. You wanted to make him pay for taking the love of your life. But you knew that was a crazy thought. It still didn't stop you from breaking things in your apartment - the glass of wine you were drinking out of, the vase on the side table. Days after the funeral, you quit your job because you couldn't stomach the thought of leaving your house because you were afraid and angry that Jax or Andrei would kidnap you again.

Bargaining.

You had no one to bargain with except whatever angels were up above to bring your husband back. And bargaining, you did. You begged and begged and begged like it would make a difference. You had even bargained for the universe to take you instead of Simon; to switch places with you.

Depression.

The worst phase you felt. You wanted to die. You thought about it so many times. It didn't make you feel better when you continued to go to counseling - for different reasons now. You just wanted to be with your husband again. The plaguing thoughts of taking a bunch of pills and never waking up crossed your mind so much during that phase.

Acceptance.

When things finally settled - and fuck did it take a while for that to happen - the only thing that had changed was knowing Simon wasn't going to come back by some miracle. Every other day (if not every day), Price, Johnny, or Kyle would come to check on you, along with Ava, who constantly brought dinner just to make sure you would eat.

It was heartbreaking. Simon was gone. It wasn't like you two had gone through the divorce, but he was gone from you forever.

But what hurt the most was the note you found in your husband's belongings when Johnny brought them from his office. Even he felt weird that they had cleaned out his space there, saying it wasn't right.

It was crushing to read it, and you cried in Johnny arms for a long time that he ended up putting you to bed and calling Ava to stay with you because he had to leave.

The note was written a few days before you were kidnapped. Simon once again apologized for everything that he did, the pain he caused you, and the deep love he expressed to you. He went into detail about his feelings and how he would die for you if it ever came to it.. Fuck it was like he had predicted his own death or something.

Why did life have to be so fucking cruel? Why were things the way they were? Just because you had accepted that he was gone didn't mean you were ever going to be over it. But you could only hope that somewhere up in the skies he was watching over you.

Not going to lie.. this was hard to write because I teared up proofreading this but let me know how you all like it!!

Taglist: @kalypsoox @fruitymoonbeams-blogz @kylies-love-letter @xrosegoldwolfx @linaaaaa654 @jessicab1991 @darkravenqueen98 @yazyazali @thychuvaluswife @chloeforde @cownini @ssc7514

[5five5five5five5five5five]

Pls headcanons of a flirty dolores [human] and five .

Trying to forget "that season".

Denial stage activated.

Pls and thank you.

Good day/night.

OOOHH YES! but first i want to write a human Dolores of my own then we can get to the flirty stuff. * she is in her mid 30's and works as a librarian who LOVES books and is very smart and pretty and perfect.

she is MADDENINGLY in love with the Noir detective novel series " Five "max" Hargreeves and the Umbrella of Time. a long running series about a Old man who turns into a young man some times and solves crime with his dog Mr. pennycrumb. * she hated that when they turned the books into movies, they hired a actor that looked NOTHING like how she sees him in her head. Five looks like how she sees him in her head. she cant pinpoint why it bugs her so much. its just wrong. thats not him??? * one day well sorting books, she no clips into the backroom subways and gets stuck. idk how. s4 logic aka make shit up. but she thinks "what would Five do?" and copy his mapping and travel style. * and then they meet......Jesus my kinnie ass heart melts even thinking about it lol. * "five?!" "Delores?!.....are you..real this time....." "wait how do you know my name??....and yes i am very much real? are YOU?" "how do you know MY name?? and yes??" then they nervously chuckle and tell each other how they know each other. * they get a bit sad that the others Delores and five were not real and five admits he got the better end of the stick by being a cool book character....she didn't deserve to be just a......mannequin. but Delores reassures him that his life needed her and that's what gave it so much value. "and at least you got to physically hold me~ i just had....really embaressing art of you...." *Delores drawing him then she thinks he's not looking. she wishes he was a bit older but her self shipping ass is used to his age "powers" but knows this Five cant turn back. at least he's not 13 Five lol. *he's tried to explain his age situation a few times.... shes so understanding about it and five, for the first time, feels seen....and got does his face get red. she knows he's a old man. she loves him BECAUSE he's actually an old man. ANYWAY TO THE FLIRTY STUFF. MY BRAIN IS JUST ON FIRE WITH HUMAN DELORES. * they CAN NOT stop looking at each other. five feels so stupid being THIS flustered. its not his wife. he knows this. but god....shes so stunning. younger then his Delores but he doesn't mind. * she's taller then him no matter what. she was taller then him when he was old, young doesn't matter. shes a tall women and he loves that about her. *her always behind his shoulder correcting his math. and him huffing and admitting shes right. *she likes to head to him. he likes listening. hearing her voice with none of his own voice fused in is so refreshing. he would read his head in her lap and just relax for once in his life. *them slow dancing and mumbling soft words of comfort to each other. *she loves booping his nose. at first, it bits him because the handler used to but ends up finding it nice. its a trait she would have. *he loves watching her move. dance. walk. talk. shes in front of him. again, their eyes are glued to each other and its hard hard not to. just knowing their loves are real keeps them going. *that art meme of all the lovestruck chibis surrounding a very flustered person. that's Delores if she walked into the deli. imagine all the fives looking over and melting in surprise. crumbling in their seats because they are filled with "i miss my wife,tails" energy. the five we are following for this post has to fight them back and give protective glares well she admits the attention is nice and oh god! so many fives! *when five finds a way to return, he doesn't fucking hide it and want to introduce her to his family so bad. she is worried about ending up in a different timeline. he understands the risk but at this point, he just wants the love of his life. and Shes so starved for adventure that she agrees wholeheartedly.

sorry if this wasn't all flirty themed stuff, i just really wanted to write Delores.

[ylissebian]

caught up this week right in time for the start of season 5… we’re so back

[monsterbisexual]

the silt verses: chapter 34

chapter 38

[carp-esh-ove-lem]

i think me making a dropout/d20/naddpod sideblog is inevitable at this point

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.

wc: 6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice. 

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window. 

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman. 

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment. 

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara? 

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning. 

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach. 

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was… 

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying . 

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist. 

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!" 

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring. 

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask. 

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him. 

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep. 

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him. 

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class.  She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely. 

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day. 

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it. 

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo. 

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it. 

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course. 

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself. 

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall. 

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure. 

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself. 

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here. 

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video. 

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen. 

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all. 

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners. 

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you. 

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs. 

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-" 

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please." 

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers. 

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall. 

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home. 

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions. 

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night. 

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy?? 

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water. 

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there. 

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway. 

You wince."...F-Fine?" 

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?" 

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice. 

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further. 

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together. 

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand. 

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee. 

"You look… wet." 

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze. 

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed. 

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression.  His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds. 

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?" 

He's got a hand on your arm now,  The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details. 

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy. 

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside. 

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word. 

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?" 

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too." 

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same. 

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way. 

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost. 

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand. 

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza? 

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal. 

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy. 

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats. 

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought. 

"Yeah?" 

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-" 

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!" 

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway. 

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-" 

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips. 

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you. 

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand. 

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close. 

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile. 

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side. 

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular. 

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?" 

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it. 

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty. 

"Huh. I guess they do." 

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums. 

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name. 

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch. 

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ." 

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest. 

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-" 

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own. 

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name." 

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing. 

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-" 

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together. 

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest. 

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts. 

"¿Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck. 

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum. 

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth. 

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin. 

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt.. 

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara. 

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?" 

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?" 

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction. 

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach. 

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel." 

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth. 

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue. 

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole. 

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue. 

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off. 

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily. 

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him. 

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him. 

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs. 

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck. 

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should. 

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head. 

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily. 

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

_

_

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

_

edit: the full fic xx

[gojonanami]

will literally send you small bottles of my eyelashes to make wishes on if you write some of these men being subs

𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐒 - ft. nanami, geto, gojo, & choso

warnings: nsfw, 18+, tying up, blindfolds, handjobs (m! receiving), riding, oral (m! receiving), edging (m! receiving), overstimulation

a/n: *adds small bottles of eyelashes beside bottles of tears* i have a collection now :)

NANAMI

“sorry gojo, nanami’s a little tied up at the moment,” you have his phone pressed between your cheek and shoulder, as you run your fingers down his chest, watching his muscles twitch under your touch, “yeah I’ll tell him to call you back, bye,”

kento can only look up at you helplessly, his arms tied above his head by his own black dotted tie, his button up undone and hanging off his body, his cheeks deliciously flushed for you.

“should’ve have let gojo heard you earlier, begging for me,” you lean down, ghosting your lips across his jaw, “but you would’ve liked that wouldn’t you, kento?”

“no…I wouldn’t—“ and you tsk him, the click of his belt sending a shiver through his body, as he grits his teeth, “please, can you—“

“that sounded like a demand, nanamin,” you undo the button of his slacks and tug them down, your eyes fixed on the tent in his boxers, “and I don’t think you’re in any state to make those, are you?” And your question is punctuating by a finger tracing over his erection.

a hiss leaves his lips, as his blue gaze pierces you, “please, touch me,”

and you smile, as you pull his boxers away, your lips kissing his weeping slit, your fingers grasping the base of his hard cock, “of course, kento.”

GETO

“no wonder gojo likes to wear these,” your lips brush over his left ear, tongue tracing the outer part before drawing a circle around his gauge earring, making suguru swallow thickly, “heightens all your other senses,”

“don’t think that’s why he wears one, sweetheart,” his words leave his lips slowly, doing his best to keep his voice steady — how cute.

you’d fix that in a moment.

“well that’s why I have one on you,” your fingers trace over his bare stomach, lips kissing down his body, before your tongue drags over his abs, “look at you - special grade geto suguru — at my mercy. spread out all for me,” and his cock twitches, teeth baring down on his bottom lip, “don’t act like you don’t love it, sugu, your body betrays you,”

And your thumb and forefinger toy with his nipples, pinching it, drawing a short gasp from his lips, “stop—“

“you don’t want me to stop, do you?” you lean away, and it’s a point of pride for him — he didn’t want to beg, he couldn’t. but god, fuck, he was so hard, “we all have base desires, suguru — even sorcerers,” you climb into his lap, straddling him, the only thing separating his cock from your needy cunt being his already far too soaked boxers.

“fuck—“ he’s trying to touch you, but you catch his wrists, “princess—“

“tell me what you want,”

even with the blindfold, you knew he’s glaring, “you know what I want,”

“use your words,” and you grind down on him, making him groan.

“please, fuck me,” your lips curl, as you tug down his boxers and sink onto his leaking cock.

“good boy.”

GOJO

“you don’t usually have a problem talking, so talk,” you press kisses to his jaw, “oh but you got your mouth full don’t you?” your fingers run over the panties you have stuffed in his mouth. Drool left the corners of his pretty pink lips, his eyes blown out with pleasure from the numerous times you had brought him so close to climax.

only to pull away.

“look at you, spread out for me in your expensive little chair — imagine what the higher ups would think of you — the strongest sorcerer all fucked out by my touch? so fucking close to bursting from a single touch,” your pointer finger ran over his twitching cock, “do you wanna cum, Toru?”

and you ease the panties from his mouth, “fuuuck, please, baby,"

"please what, toru? i've already given you so much, you're so greedy," you press your lips to his, swallowing his protests and his whines, as he tries and fails to find any friction against you, but you're woefully out of reach, "look at you, your cock is so pretty like this — all flushed, just like your cheeks," your fingers trace over his cheek bones and the bridge of his nose, "and all f'me? i'm so lucky,"

"please," he's panting, head tilted back.

"please, what?" you lean close, as your fingers reach for his dick, but stop short.

"let me cum, please, I need to—with your hands, your mouth, I don't—" and he's gasping as you climb into his lap, your dripping folds above his cock.

"the only place you're cumming, Toru, is in my cunt."

CHOSO

how many times has choso come already? four, five, seven?

you'd lost track. and so had choso from the looks of him. he's laid back, panting, as your lips and tongue clean up the cum he'd spilled on himself. god, he tastes utterly too good for his own good.

"made such a mess again, choso," you chide gently, as he whines, his thighs shaking from your treatment, his purple eyes clouded over with lust as they flutter open, "such a good boy for me though,"

he's whining, "please, love, i can't—" he's shaking his head, sweat dripping down his body, as he's already so hard again, red and leaking pre-cum, already jerking when you've barely moved to brush against his cock again, "it's too much,"

"do you have one more for me, sweet boy?" you whisper quietly, waiting for the safe word that never leaves his lips, as his teeth find his bottom lip, a sharp inhale as he nods. and you're trying so hard not to swallow him whole -- pressing your thighs together to hold yourself back, before your mouth sinks onto him again.

he's jerking forward, his violet eyes watching you part your pretty lips for him, letting his cock enter your mouth, and it's all too much, too soon. "can i please, I want to--" his hands reach for your head and you look up and nod, bobbing your head more steadily, as his fingers find purchase in your hair, as whines and gasps leave his lips.

"feels so good, baby," tears in his eyes, he's begging, "please, please, i'm so close, i can't--" and you suck on his cock as your tongue swirls around the length, and he's cumming hard and fast down your throat, as he pants, out of breath, as you pull yourself from his length, a string of saliva and cum dripping down your mouth.

he watches with glazed over eyes and his chest heaving, as you kiss your way up his spent body, "such a pretty boy f'me. all for me."

a/n: i was gonna write full length fics but i figured with how long my wip list is, i better be a little more judicious with my time lol - i hope you all enjoyed <3

[celestiamour]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ it's a gift (you keep those) ]❜

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ giving him a plushie that reminded you of him┊1k words

setting: deadpool & wolverine (2024) worst! logan contains: fluff, crushes, probably ooc but he’s so cute & wade is hard to write for, written for dp&w logan so idk if he got gifts in xmen, i forgot about laura, they are in touch and have a wonderful father-daughter relationship, i’m so sorry, edited

➤ author's note: i have so many thoughts but too incompetent to write

logan’s never sure who will appear when he opens the door as wade’s quite the extrovert, either vanessa or one of his many other friends whom he’s now become somewhat acquainted with, but he certainly wasn’t expecting to meet the familiar eyes of the cute neighbor who lived a few doors down. he nervously scratched the back of his head, suddenly becoming aware of his shabby appearance, “uh, are you looking for wade?”

“no, i was actually looking for you!” god, your smile is so bright, it’s blinding. he normally hates perfume of any sort as it’s so overpowering to his heightened senses, but the one that you wore smelled so lovely like always. is that a new shade of lip gloss you’re wearing? it really suits you. (why on earth is he noticing all of these details out of the blue? he needs to snap out of whatever spell you put on him after being introduced when he first showed up and only interacting in passing since then).

“looking for me?” he repeated, in disbelief, trying his best not to allow his surprise to slip into his voice. considering he isn’t from this dimension and not the most agreeable person to be around, he had no friends of his own yet and hasn’t been visited by anyone since he got here. a beat of panic struck him, thinking that he was in trouble for something and you came to complain. he really couldn’t think of any other reason you were here for him even though you were so cheerful.

you were carrying some shopping bags with you, dropping them on the ground before reaching into one and pulling out a large fuzzy plushie of a gray cat hidden under layers of glittery tissue paper, “i saw this cutie when i went shopping with my friends and thought it looked like you!” you held it out for him to take, looking so proud of the stuffed animal.

he hesitated for a second before accepting it, trying to take in the fact that you were reminded of him in your day-to-day life. it made his heart flutter, and he found himself dumbfounded by the feeling. he was frequently teased by his roomate about his little “crush” on you, claiming that it was oh so obvious and that the sooner he accepted it, the better, but he never realized until now how pathetic he was when it came to you. was the wolverine really getting butterflies like a fucking schoolgirl in his old-ass age? thank god no one was home right now to bully him about it, he would never hear the end of it.

“it does not look like me,” he scoffed playfully after a quick examination.

“no, it definitely does! it’s a big, grumpy kitty—” you took a step closer to hold it with him, pointing at all the similarities you observed, although it was clear you were exaggerating for laughs. “see the little frowny face and ears? it could be your identical twin separated from birth! willy mentioned that you act like a cat most of the time, and i think it fits perfectly!”

the smile he didn’t realize was plastered on his face faltered at the last piece of information, grateful that you didn’t notice. that idiot has been talking about him to you? he might as well forget about any chance of getting with you, because knowing how he yaps without a filter and loves to play matchmaker, you probably think he’s a freak of some sort. “only good things, i hope…”

you giggled, the sweetest sound he ever heard. “of course, he’s really fond of you… well, maybe a bit too fond, but you already know about that!” you opened your mouth to continue the conversation or say something else, but your phone started ringing and you excused yourself, looking a little shy as you grabbed up your bags. “i’ll talk to you later!” you sounded so excited about the prospect of it before leaving, your voice and footsteps becoming fainter as you walked back to your place.

“wait, you didn’t take back the cat—”

��it’s a gift! you keep those!”

“oh… right…”

he lingered for a moment, unable to say much in response since you left in such a rush. when was the last time someone gave him a present? staring at this brand new item, he still couldn’t see the resemblance in any way, but knowing that it was a gift from you gave him a rare feeling of happiness which returned every time he looked at it from then on among his few possessions. 

“oh my goodness, what is this adorable thing?!” wade exclaimed when he saw it sitting on the couch where logan slept, picking it up to gawk at before tossing it up in the air and catching it before it hit the floor. “ooh, let me guess, it’s a gift from her, isn’t it?” 

the mutant groaned at his mocking tone. “put it down before you ruin it with your grubby hands,” he commanded, snatching it from his grasp (rough enough to make his point clear, but carefully enough not to tear it apart). his roommate didn’t even bother pretending to be offended like he usually would as he was simply overjoyed that his “ship” was coming true. “it doesn’t mean anything, don’t make it weird.”

“it doesn’t mean anything?! how can you say that when it’s going to be the first gift you give to your first child together—”

“first what??”

“nevermind, what are you gonna name it?”

“i have to name it?”

“have you never owned a stuffed animal before? you have to name it! how heartbroken is she going to be when she asks what you named it and you say that you haven’t done that?! she’s gonna think that you don’t value her gifts!” you would think the world was going to end if he didn’t do so if you heard the way he was speaking.

“fine, i’ll name it…” he looked deeply into the toy’s soulless eyes, noting how soft the outer material was against his calloused hand, “... fluffy…”

“that’s such a shitty name—”

“shut the fuck up, it’s been decided.”

[sapphire-writes]

Beyond The Play

college!Art x college!Reader

summary: Tashi needs some time alone with her man, which leaves you without a room for the night.

word count: 3.8k

rating: mature/explicit/18+

warnings: alcohol, fingering, dry humping, p in v sex with a condom, light praise, titty sucking, there's only one bed oh no!!

a/n: thanks for all the love on my first Challengers fic! hope you enjoy this one!

“You are so fucked,” Art says, taking another sip of his beer.

“Shut up.”

“He’s right,” Tashi agrees, sighing heavily, glancing at her cards.

You’re all sitting on the floor of your and Tashi’s dorm room, half-empty beer bottles littering the floor between you. You’d been playing poker for the past hour or so, swindling more of Patrick and Art’s money. It’d become a Friday night habit of yours, card games and beer with Patrick and Art. Patrick was always a maybe, he only came to visit his girlfriend a couple times a semester. 

But you, Art, and Tashi were always a solid trio. Tashi and Art had met through tennis of course, and you had met Art through Tashi after rooming with her freshman year of college. You’d become fast friends, and roommates for the next several years. You got along with Patrick well enough, you had to once he and Tashi started dating.

You could tell that had been a sore spot for Art, at least for a while. You’d suspected he’d had a thing for Tashi, and fire and ice hadn’t been the same since. You’d once asked Tashi about it and she’d only shrugged. Even though she was with Patrick for now, you knew Tashi had only one true love. 

Whatever Art felt for Tashi was easily molded into friendship, and the three of you became nearly inseparable. Which was good, even if you may or may not have developed some feelings of your own for the blond tennis player. 

But your friendship was more important. Those feelings could be pushed aside.

“God damn it,” Patrick curses, “I fold.”

Tashi snickers, revealing her cards and Patrick swears once more. 

“I need a smoke,” Patrick says, standing and leaning across Tashi’s bed to the open window.

“Oh no you don’t,” Tashi says, standing at lightning speed, “Outside, we are not getting in trouble for this.”

She grabs Patrick by the shirt collar, dragging him off the bed. He dramatically chokes, but lets her drag him towards the door.

“Art come on,” Patrick insists, reaching for his best friend.

“What? No, I wanna stay,” Art says, sandy hair falling in front of his eyes, “You don’t need a babysitter—”

“Yes I do,” Patrick insists, “C’mon five minutes, I swear.”

The boys tumble into the hall and you can hear their voices fading as they make their way outside. You stand from the floor, gathering up some beer bottles, and folding up the empty pizza box.

“Hey, d’you think you could sleep somewhere else tonight?” Tashi asks, brown eyes wide, “It’s Patrick’s last night, and y’know we really haven’t had any alone time.”

Your chest constricts at the thought. You totally get where she’s coming from but, it’s your room too. The thought of sleeping in the common area is less enticing. 

“Or at least just for a couple of hours,” Tashi backtracks, seeing your expression, “Just so we can—”

“Yeah, Tash it’s fine,” you tell her, swallowing your annoyance. Tashi’s been nothing but thoughtful and kind as a roommate, and friend. It’s an inconvenient favor, but nothing crazy. “I’ll get out of your hair for a couple of hours.”

“You’re the best,” she says, kissing your cheek, “Seriously, I owe you one.”

“You sure do,” you tell her, “I expect full payment for this.”

“Do you mean a trip to the movies with slurpees and popcorn?” Tashi asks, raising her eyebrows. 

“With extra butter,” you clarify and point at her, “You’re not cheaping out on me.”

“I’d never,” she insists, feigning seriousness before breaking into a grin. 

You finish helping Tashi clean up and begin your excommunication from your room. Walking down the hallway you bump into Patrick and Art on their way back from Patrick’s smoke break.

“What’re you doing out here? You start smoking?” Art asks as Patrick keeps walking past you, picking up the pace, “Hey where…”

“Party’s over,” you tell him, as Patrick turns the corner, eager to return to Tashi now that she’s alone.

Art frowns, confused.

“But we were—”

“Art,” you cut him off and place your hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly, “Party’s over. Unless you’re eager to be a third.”

Art’s cheeks flush and he glances away, forcing out a laugh. Something tugs at your heart watching his half-smile appear. 

“Uh yeah ... .no thanks,” he says and you pat his shoulders before releasing them, “Wait but where are you going to go?”

You shrug, “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“You can’t just wander around campus, it’s like 2 am,” Art says, beckoning you with his hand, “Come back to my room, at least till they’re done.”

“Really?” you ask, “Cause if you’re tired I can just—”

“Don’t be silly,” Art says, poking your shoulder, “C’mon.”

Art’s room is in a separate building on campus, about a five-minute walk from you and Tashi’s building. Art is lucky enough to have a single; you’d been there a handful of times before class or practice. He keeps his room neat, aside from some clothes scattered on the floor from quick changes before practice. You smile as he hurriedly picks them up, throwing them into a hamper in his closet.

His bed is unmade, navy sheets messy as though he’d just woken up. 

“Sorry bout the mess,” he says, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.

“I’m not judging, you’re cleaner than most guys I’ve met,” you tell him and he laughs. 

Suddenly, it hits you how late it is, sleepiness hitting you like a train as you yawn. This triggers Art’s yawn and the pair of you stand awkwardly in front of each other. 

“Um,” Art says suddenly, “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” you agree, stomach sinking, “I can just—”

“You should stay.”

You’re silent at that. You stare at him, as he nervously plays with the hem of his t-shirt, waiting for your reaction. You’re not sure what to say. It’s fine, right? Just a friend, helping out another friend.

A friend whom you have a big fat annoying crush on.

“I mean….it’s just late and you’re tired and who knows when they’ll be done.”

“I don’t have anything with me,” you tell him, voice sounding softer, meeker than you’d like.

“Oh, here I got you,” he says, walking to his dresser. He shuffles through the drawer a moment before revealing a shirt and clean boxers, “Just did laundry today. You can….you can change in the bathroom. I even have an extra toothbrush.”

You roll your eyes at that, taking the clothes from him. 

“Okay,” you agree.

“Bathroom’s right there.”

You nod, quickly making your way across the room and into the bathroom. You close the door and quickly change, finding Art’s spare toothbrush unopened in a goodie bag from the dentist shoved into a spare drawer. You quickly wash your face, brush your teeth, and change into his clothes. The shirt is baggy, with Stanford Men’s Tennis written across the front. It smells like him, like his detergent and his cologne and you can’t help but greedily inhale.

When you exit the bathroom, Art dips in, leaving the door open as he brushes his teeth. You place your clothes in a pile on his desk, awkwardly waiting for him. When he emerges, he’s wearing only his boxers and a gray t-shirt.

“I’ll take the floor,” Art says, his face turning beet red, “You can have the bed.”

“Art no,” you insist, “It’s your room. I’ll take the floor, it’s only fair—”

“Yeah that is not happening,” he says, satisfied smirk on his face, “Tashi’d kill me if she found out I made you sleep on the floor.”

“We could…..” you wet your lips, struggling to get the words out, “We could share the bed?”

Art watches you, his eyes wide. You watch his Adam’s apple bobs as he contemplates your question. Suddenly your pulse quickens, and embarrassment floods your body, and your face flushes. You turn away from him, scooting onto the bed.

“I mean only—”

“—if you’re comfortable,” Art finishes and you shut your mouth. You both giggle at the overlapping sentences.

“Yeah, I’m comfortable, Art,” you tell him, patting the space beside you, “Come on.”

Art moves onto the bed and you push closer to the wall. He’s so close when he lies down beside you, stretching his arm above your head. You’ve grown accustomed to the moonlit room and at this distance, you can almost count each eyelash that frames his blue eyes. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers, minty breath wafting over your face, making your head spin.

“Mhmm,” is all you can manage as the heat of his body warms you under the covers.

He’s silent then and you lay there for a moment, watching each other, listening to your shared breathing. Art chuckles then.

“What?”

“It’s just…” he trails off, “Nothing, it’s silly.”

“What is it?”

“You’re the first girl I’ve shared a bed with,” he admits, shyly glancing away from your gaze.

“Art Donaldson,” your tone is teasing, “I find that rather hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” he insists, brows furrowing together, “I mean….I’m not saying—wait” he wets his lips nervously, “I’m not a virgin—”

Your eyebrows raise, a smile curling at the corner of your lips. No, you did not doubt that. 

“Not that anything’s wrong with that, I just—wait and not to imply—”

“Art!” you cut him off, reaching forward and pressing your fingers against his lips, “I’m kidding. Don’t freak out.”

“M’not,” he mumbles, lips moving against your fingers.

“I’m fucking with you, Donaldson,” you whisper, taking your hand back, “I know you’re a gentleman.”

“Thank Christ,” he says with an exaggerated exhale causing you to giggle once more. He watches you, a smile on his face, eyes flickering to your lips.

Your face heats up as he wets his lips. Suddenly, nervousness flutters in your belly, and your heart flutters in your chest.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning away from him to face the wall.

You wait for his response, hoping he’s not disappointed. Disappointed about what, you’re not sure. 

“Goodnight,” he says softly and you close your eyes.

You wake up early. Birds are chirping outside the window, golden sunlight is beginning to bleed into the room, and Art’s chest is smushed firmly against your back. His arm is curled around your middle, hand splayed under your shirt and on your tummy, face buried in the crook of your neck. He’s so warm, his presence so comforting, you just want to close your eyes and melt back into him. 

Art groans in his sleep, moving his hips slightly and your eyes snap open.

Oh, Art.

He’s pressed firmly against your backside, rock-hard, hips unconsciously grinding against you. Your mouth falls open slightly feeling him against you, the hard outline of his cock bullying against your ass. Art groans again, hand on your stomach pushing you closer to him.

A breathy sigh escapes you and your head falls back against him slightly. 

“Art,” you breathe, answered with another groan, this one edging on a whimper. His hips gyrate, cock pressing against you with need, “Oh God…”

You swallow, breathing becoming more shallow. Your pussy clenches, and you can feel the growing wetness in the boxers Art had lent you, thighs pressing together desperate to relieve some of the pressure.

“Art wake up!” 

Art wakes with a start, head pulled from your shoulder. You can’t see him, but you feel him tense, the warmth of his body ripped from yours as he lurches backward, right off the edge of the bed. He falls with a yelp, hitting the floor with a loud thud. You sit up turning toward him. 

“Fuck!” he says, scrambling to sit and hide his erection, “Shit, I’m so sorry!” His face is red and he grabs a pillow, placing it over his lap, “God–fuck, I’m so sorry I was asleep—” He keeps stuttering, unable to meet your eyes. 

“Art.”

“It’s just biological you know, just morning wood, I would never do anything without your explicit consent–enthusiastic consent!”

“Art…”

“And I would never want to ruin anything between us, ever–”

“Art!”

His head snaps toward you then, eyes meeting yours. His mouth hangs open, eyes watery as he looks up at you. He looks so sad, so embarrassed, and disappointed. And something else as well. Worried, perhaps. 

“Get back up here,” you tell him.

Art’s mouth remains open in shock as he glances at the bed.

“Now?”

“Yes, right now.”

Art scrambles to rejoin you on the bed, lying beside you. He faces you just as he did last night, sandy hair falling across his forehead. You smile softly at his disheveled appearance and his flushed cheeks.

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop talking,” you tell him, reaching forward and brushing some hair from his face. You let your hand trail around to the nape of his neck, fingers curling in his hair. “You have my consent.”

Art’s eyes widen, lips parting in shock.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you tell him, pulling yourself closer. His hand drifts to your hip, anchoring himself to it. “Explicit, enthusiastic, all yours.”

The last word has barely left your lips before he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips against your own. They’re warm and soft, he kisses you with innocent eagerness, the hand on your hip pulling you flush against him. You lift your leg, hitching it around his thigh, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging slightly, earning a moan against your mouth.

“Fuck,” he moans against your lips, “You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.”

Something deep inside your belly warms at his admission. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” he answers, kissing you again, “Since freshman year.”

“Why didn’t you…..oh fuck..” your question trails off as Art mouths your neck, sucking and biting the tender skin.

“Didn’t want to ruin anything,” he mumbles, kissing your collarbone. 

You hum at his answer, tilting your head to give him better access. His hand moves from your hip bone, up under your shirt—his shirt. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, mouth returning to your lips.

“Yes,” you tell him, “Please touch me.”

You can feel his smile against your lips as he does what you ask, fingers grazing the underside of your breast. Pushing against him, his hand cups your breast, squeezing lightly. You pull away from his lips briefly, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it to the end of the bed. Art’s eyes devour you and he kisses you desperately as he continues to play with your tits. 

“Fuck you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck until he reaches the top of your chest. 

Art’s lips move across the tops of your breasts, as though he’s struggling with choosing which one to lavish with attention. Luckily for you, he decides rather quickly and latches his mouth to your right nipple, thumb, and forefinger, tweaking the opposite. Your back arches as he gently bites down, sucking the hardened peak harshly before releasing it with a pop. 

“Art.”

He simply moans, ignoring your cries as he brings his mouth to your opposite nipple, repeating his previous action. Pleasure winds a current in your lower belly, your thighs clench as he repeats his little torture, alternating back and forth between your breasts. You grab his hair, tugging him not too gently until he glances up at you, cheeks red, lips glossy and puckered. 

He’s too pretty.

You pull him back to your lips, kissing him feverishly while trying to rid yourself of the clothing you have left. Art feels you squirming and assists, hands moving the boxers down your legs until you’re able to kick them off at your ankles. Your hands move to him next, eager to even the playing field. 

You tear his shirt over his head revealing his toned stomach from countless hours on the court. Your mouth waters at the sight before Art is on you once more, lips capturing yours in another heated kiss. His hand returns to your hip, curling against it before he reaches further, squeezing your ass.

You smile against his mouth as he squeezes again. 

“You’re just fucking perfect, aren’t you?” he murmurs, returning your smile.

His hand grazes down the back of your thigh before venturing to the front where your legs meet. Your breathing becomes more labored the closer he gets to your hot center. 

“Can I?” he asks, so softly, you nearly drown out his question with your heavy breath.

“Yes,” you tell him, and that’s all he needs. 

Art slides a curious finger between your wet folds, gently circling your clit. Your mouth falls open as he continues.

“You’re so wet,” he remarks, dipping his finger lower, and finding your entrance. 

He lets his middle finger sink into you, met with little resistance. Your walls greedily accept him as he curls his finger upwards, beginning to pump it in and out. Stars explode behind your eyes and you moan, clutching onto his shoulder.

Art smirks, eyes aglow at the pleasured noises you emit.

“That feel good?”

“Yes—fuck,” you squeak as he presses another finger inside of you, “Oh god.”

“Yeah?” 

Art crooks his fingers against your velvety walls, pressing against that special spot inside of you that has your head lolling against him, moans spilling from your lips. His thumb joins, caressing your sensitive clit in time with the strokes of his fingers. 

“Feels so good,” you moan, “I’m so close.”

“Yeah? You're gonna come for me?” he asks, kissing your neck. Your fingers tangle themselves in his blonde hair, tugging harshly, your orgasm building deep in your belly, “Come on baby, come on my fingers, I wanna feel this pretty pussy come.”

His words send you over the edge and your pussy clenches around his digits as you come, thighs shaking from the intensity as warmth floods through you.

“That was so hot,” Art says, kissing you, still buried to the knuckles inside you, “You’re so hot. Let me fuck you, please.”

You hum against his lips as he carefully removes his fingers from your warmth. He pulls away, bringing his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean. You watch him awestruck as he moans, eyes closing at the taste of you.

“Get inside me,” you tell him, “Right now.”

Art doesn’t need to be told twice, sitting up and pulling his boxers off as you lay on your back. Your eyes drift down his stomach to his cock. It’s pretty, just like the rest of him. Long, girthy, a neat tuft of dark sandy colored hair at the base. The tip flushed red and weeping as he strokes himself. 

“Condom?” you ask, and he nods, walking to his desk and rummaging through the first drawer. 

He comes up successful, ripping the wrapper with his teeth and rolling the condom on his length before crawling on top of you. You spread your legs for him as he lines himself up, rubbing the tip along your soaked slit. 

“Art, please put it in,” you whine, hips lifting.

“Jesus, I’m not gonna last long if you keep that up,” he says, shaking his head.

Your responding giggle is short-lived as he slowly sinks inside of you, filling you to the brim.

“Oh god,” you whimper, as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You okay?”

“More than okay,” you answer, cupping his cheek. He mirrors your action and you smile, a sudden burst of tenderness exploding in your chest, tears welling in your eyes. 

Art rotates his hips, pulling back and sinking back into your inviting warmth. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, kissing your lips, “I’ve dreamt of this for years.”

“Me too,” you admit, wrapping your legs around his waist, “God, Art, I’ve wanted this forever.”

This spurs him on, his thrusts becoming quicker, more eager at your confession. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” you whimper as he pounds into you, “Wanted this for so long—used to talk to….to Tashi about it—”

Art moves his hand along your side, reaching your thigh and hooking your leg over his shoulder.

“What’d you tell her?”

The new angle sends him deeper, the head of his cock rubbing perfectly against that spongy section of your walls that has your mouth dropping open in pleasure.

“Wanted you,” you manage as Art holds one of your hands above your head against the pillows, “Wanted this so bad.”

“I’ll give it to you,” Art says, his breath catching, “Fuck—oh god you’re so pretty like this, fuck.”

“Art!” you cry his name as your second orgasm builds, sneaking up on you as he slows his pace, “Why’d you—”

“Wanna savor this,” he says softly, kissing the tip of your nose. His thrusts have slowed, hips moving with leisure. 

The pressure in your belly continues to build as he smirks down at you. Tennis has done wonders to his stamina; he fucks you like he could keep this pace for hours, barely breaking a sweat. You whine, throwing your head back against the pillows as he kisses your neck, your hamstring burning deliciously with the stretch. 

“Please come for me,” he murmurs, right next to your ear, “I’ve got to feel that sweet little pussy come around my cock, please.”

You do as you’re told, spurred on by Art whispering praises and encouragement in your ear and you fall apart, clenching around his cock and milking him for all he’s worth. You feel his hips stutter, cock twitching inside your warmth as he follows your release with his own. Art’s lips find yours then, and you can taste yourself on his tongue as he kisses you like a drowning man coming up for air. 

You stay like that for several minutes, his cock softening as you kiss one another, before he slowly pulls out. He takes a moment to take off the condom, tying it off and tossing it in the trash before he rejoins you in bed.

“C’mere,” he says, pulling you across his chest. 

You lie with your cheek pressed against his pec, listening to the gentle beating of his heart. He strokes your arm with his fingers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asks, face buried in your hair, “About wanting me? This?”

“Mhmm,” you answer, putting all your cards on the table, “I may have harbored a small crush on you.”

Art picks up your hand measuring it against his own before lacing your fingers together.

“I wish I knew that earlier,” he admits, still holding your hand, “I’ve been in love with you for ages.”

You glance up at him between your lashes and he grins.

“It’s true,” he says with a smile.

“And here I thought Patrick was the only one who owned your heart,” you tease, causing him to playfully bite your wrist, “Hey!”

“Not the only one,” he admits, rolling you over onto your back, “I’m glad you got kicked out of your room last night.”

You lean up, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“Me too.”

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[tgcg]

an open fly walking

i didnt like this one but i thought id finally air it out since its been sat in my folders for months now

TG: hey karkat

CG: YEAH?

===

TG: you ever noticed you like

TG: walk weird

CG: WOW, OKAY.

CG: HAVE *YOU* EVER NOTICED THAT I DON'T GIVE A SHIT?

TG: pff

===

TG: no listen because i got my ears scoping that shit im like a scouter for dude activity

TG: ok maybe me mentioning it to you is gonna fuck up your ecosystem or something but

TG: you have the heaviest feet of the century man

CG: I DO???

TG: just thrust them straight down into the ground like youre trying to homebrew a san andreas fault

TG: viciously tamping on tectonic plates hoping for top score on the richter scale

TG: waging war against solid particles and the basic flow of gravity

TG: i could ID those footfalls out of a million i mean it

CG: SERIOUSLY?

===

TG: i mean theres nothing wrong with it but

TG: yeah

CG: I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU'RE FUCKING WITH ME RIGHT NOW.

TG: im not fucking with you striders honor

TG: when have i ever lied to anybody about anything

CG: NOT UNPACKING THAT QUESTION WITH YOU TODAY.

CG: BUT SHIT, HOLD ON. LET ME SEE.

TG: yeah take the umbrella go over there and just walk to me

CG: ON IT.

===

===

TG: see you just kinda slam em straight down dude

CG: THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY RIOTOUS FUCKING JOKE OF A LIFE.

TG: dont your feet ache

===

CG: MOOT POINT. THIS MIGHT SOUND INSANE BUT I'VE ACTUALLY HAD MY STRUT PODS FOR A WHILE. ANY KIND OF PAIN THIS WOULD'VE BEEN CAUSING WOULD BE TOTALLY FILTERED OUT OF MY SPONGE BY NOW AS BACKGROUND NOISE.

TG: damn i didnt think that through

TG: my shades

CG: ALRIGHT, GET BACK UNDER THE SHITTING UMBRELLA AND THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME.

TG: look ive fucked myself over here too i dont have shit to clean these with

TG: ugh

===

TG: guess its karma

CG: HOLY FUCK. HOW DID I NEVER NOTICE THIS BEFORE?

TG: i dunno but im gonna assume having a dad thats a literal crab monster is probably a contributing factor

TG: im guessing thats not a great role model for this kinda thing

TG: just conjecture i mean

CG: YOUR ENVY IS OVERWHELMINGLY OBVIOUS DAVE. AS A DISCLAIMER, HE WOULD'VE ABSOLUTELY KICKED YOUR ASS.

TG: yeah probably

CG: THAT'S PRETTY MUCH ALL THERE IS TO SAY ON THE MATTER.

===

TG: but see bro had me stringent on feather feets

TG: i bet i could slip across a bike horn warehouse with nary a fucking toot

CG: HAHA. ASSUMING YOU DON'T MAKE A TOTAL ASS OF YOURSELF, AS PER USUAL.

CG: IF YOU WEREN'T CONSTANTLY RUNNING YOUR GASH ABOUT EVERYTHING AND BEING AN INIMITABLE CLOWN I SERIOUSLY THINK YOU COULD BE ON PAR WITH YOUR CUSTODIAN.

CG: THAT IS A MONUMENTAL "IF".

TG: well look at it this way

TG: im basically doing you all a favor by being a dumbass

TG: never gonna get caught off guard by the bozo patrol

CG: WOW. GOOD POINT.

===

TG: also screw this can i use your shirt

TG: this stupid hoodie is just smudging my lenses up

TG: i cant see dick

CG: UH

CG: SURE, I GUESS.

TG: cool

===

TG: so yeah i could be prowling around like a goddamn verbal assassin sniping convos left and right

TG: but no ive got the decency to go bunp in the night

CG: YEAH.

CG: IT'S DEFINITELY COMPOUNDED BY THE CONSTANT INANE RAMBLINGS.

CG: BUT

CG: IT'S ACTUALLY PRETTY RELAXING, Y'KNOW? IT HAS ITS OWN RHYTHM.

TG: see yeah i sound it off and

===

TG: wait really?

CG: YEAH

CG: I DON'T KNOW

CG: FUCK. HOW DO I EXPLAIN THIS WITHOUT WANTING TO CRAM MY FROND DOWN MY PROTEIN CHUTE.

===

CG: IT'S LIKE

CG: A SALVE FOR MY AGGRAVATION SPONGE.

CG: YOUR VOICE IS THE HUMAN EQUIVALENT OF ASPIRIN.

TG: uh damn karkat hold your hoofbeasts i was talking about the rhythm thing

CG: ALRIGHT, THAT'S IT. I'M TAKING US BOTH THE FUCK OUT RIGHT NOW. YOU HAVE REACHED THE BAD END OF THIS CONVERSATION.

TG: you think thatd be heroic or just

CG: IF I WAS STILL GHOSTING AROUND THE RUINS OF SGRUB'S ARCANE FRIGGIN GAME SYSTEMS, THE COMPLETE LACK OF SHIT AFOOT NOWADAYS WOULD BORE ME TO DEATH.

CG: LIKE. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME OUR THERMAL HULL LEVELLED UP, DAVE?

TG: hah

===

TG: but uh

TG: i mean we had aspirin on earth

CG: NO, NUMBNUBS.

CG: I'M SAYING YOU ARE MY ASPIRIN.

TG: oh

CG: YEAH, TAKE THAT TO THE BANK AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR 20-KARAT ASS.

===

TG: heh

TG: well get this

TG: i will literally talk at you forever for free

TG: you got lifetime priority seating for the davealogues

TG: never gotta go to the drugstore again you can just get doped up on my dulcet tones for the rest of time

TG: take that and some of this

TG: im packin punches

CG: OW, FUCK! NO! MY MIGRAINES!

CG: SWEEPS OF VEINCLOTTING AND NERVEFRAYING DOWN THE FUCKING GAPER. BECAUSE OF YOU.

CG: YOU ASSHOLE, THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME.

CG: AND YOU'RE LAUGHING.

TG: chuckle up it only gets worse from here

===

CG: BE HONEST WITH ME. DID FONDLING MY SHIRT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET EVEN DO ANYTHING?

TG: barely but yknow sometimes you just gotta deal the cards youre given

TG: ill just be astigmatic for a while its cool

CG: PFF… OKAY MAN.

[a-b-riddle]

Part Five

Can't stop thinking about the attempt of reconciliation and reader ain't having it. Our girl is going to be wilddddd y'all. Also goodnight. See y'all tomorrow (maybe)

You call Meredith when you get home.

You. Are. Fuming. She's not sure she can ever remember a time you using so many swear words at one time.

How fucking dare them? Immature? You're the immature one? You were the one trying your best to salvage four failing relationship meanwhile none of those assholes could be bothered to try and keep one. They had one person to manage: you.

"I wanna go out this weekend." "Wear something tight and borderline risk indecent exposure."

"You know what I always say," Meredith begins. "The best way to get over someone-"

"is to get under someone else." You finish. You weren't exactly keen on the idea of bringing someone to your bed just yet, but a little attention would do you some good. "I don't want to fuck someone just yet." You admitted. "I'm more on the getting drunk and making out."

"I didn't know we resorted back secondary school heavy petting?" She teased.

"University, Dear." You corrected. "I didn't peak until after I graduated."

"No." She argued. "You didn't put your books down long enough to realize that boys actually wanted to fuck you." You were glad she couldn't see you roll your eyes. "Saturday work for you? I have a late night Friday and won't be up for it."

"That works."

"Sorry." She apologized. "I plan on getting you absolutely smashed so I need to be ready to play the nanny. I know how you love to get drunk and run off."

It was true. You had always found it hilarious when you were drunk to just run. Quite literally run away. It got to a point during university where Meredith would handcuff you to her so you didn't stray.

"I won't run." Your sober mind promised.

"Uh huh." Meredith's tone told you that she knew that was a load of shit. "I'll text Tabs. Let her know the plan."

The next day at the shop was pretty uneventful. No more unexpected visitors. You still had them all blocked. Not caring if now they decided to offer up some bullshit apology.

Months. This had been a steady decline for six months. A text or a simply sorry won't fix this. You weren't sure anything could.

But it didn't matter. You were done and they obviously were too.

You had picked up enough take out to feed a family, but you didn't plan on making your lunch before work or cooking when you got home. The rest of the week you planned on just going through the motions until you could go out Saturday and hopefully get everything out.

You weren't paying attention as you walked down the hallway to your flat. Fishing in your purse for keys. You were at almost at your door when you saw him.

Sitting next to your door was a familiar face. A face you felt you haven't seen in forever.

“What are you doing here, Kyle?" Your voice was flat as you continued to blindly try and find your keys with one hand. Fuck. You really need to clean out your purse...

“My key wouldn’t work.” He explained. "So I’m out here.”

"I'm aware why you're not in my apartment since I changed the locks," you said, trying to keep your irritation at bay. "What I am asking is why did you come here?"

"You won't return any of our messages."

"You're all blocked, so technically I didn't really get any messages." "Besides, you don't get to complain to me about not responding to texts, Kyle Garrick." Your fingers finally wraps around them. God bless. "If you're here for your things, it'll have to wait. I have to sort through everyone's shit and I don't know whose is whose."

"We need to talk." He explains as you put the key into the lock, opening the door.

"Nah," you say scrunching your nose in that way he used to adore. "I'm good. But you can swing by tomorrow and pick up your things if you'd like." You say before trying to shut the door on him. You were stupid in thinking you could be faster than him.

Dammit.

"I know things haven't been good and I've definitely could have been better,'' he admits. "But can you at least try and let us apologize? Let us try and work it out."

"No." You answered, trying to close the door. Not caring if you had to resort to kicking his shins to get him out.

"Why not?" He countered.

“Maybe because I've already tried, Kyle?” You gave up on trying to shut him out. You were strong, but he didn't have any issues in besting you. “Because I actually tried with you. With all of you. You didn’t need to come here giving me excuses about your life being hectic because I’ve made the excuses for you.” You didn't miss how he practically flinched. He had always blamed his busy life. Family. Work. You stopped caring about whatever excuse he gave you and realized it was just that. An excuse. “I’ve been telling myself for months that everything you guys didn’t do for me wasn’t because you didn’t care about me. It was because of the stress of your deployments is the reason none of you tell me when you get back from until it’s time to fuck. I tell myself it’s because of the fucked up situation of me being with all of you that makes it awkward to meet your families. Families you all have that I now know I’m not worthy of meeting.” He wanted to correct you. You were. You were worthy. He was an idiot. “It’s not that I need your excuses to make me feel like what you did was justified. No matter what it was, it was apparently to you because you did it.”

He took a step back, processing everything you had said. He had been selfish. You were the reliable constant in his life. Someone he believed he never disappointed. Someone he couldn't disappoint no matter how many times he fucked up.

You took the opportunity to slam the door. Quickly turning the lock before he had a chance to open it back up.

God...

That felt good.

You had spent that evening collecting their thing in case Kyle did show back up tomorrow. You wouldn't make their lives easier by sorting all their shit and organizing it. Everything. One box. Let them figure it out. You almost had a mind to add a shirt that you knew didn't belong to any of them just to have them argue over it. Or least make them think there was someone else...

You were almost tempted if not for the premise that you wanted them to realize this was their fault. Their fuck up. But now that you were officially all broken up, you were free game.

[bpmiranda]

drunk calling dbf logan while you’re out with friends and all of a sudden he shows up to take you home but you’re like absolutely NOT!! your dad would never approve of you getting on ANY motorcycle and he’s like “im your daddy rn” and he picks you up and tosses you on his bike 😭

Truth Or Dare (Logan Howlett)

A/N: 18+ f!reader, underage drinking, dom!logan, daddy!logan, small amount of suggestive smut towards end

It wasn’t your intention to call him tonight, but a game of truth or dare had ensued amongst you and your friends, and at that point it was simply unavoidable. There were rules to the game, what could be done?

“Y/N? You okay?” His gruff voice came over the phone speaker and your friends giggled, squealing about how attractive he sounded and you shushed them. “Y/N?”

“Hi, Logan,” You slur, biting your lip as you imagine that you probably just woke him up and he’s shirtless in bed. Gosh, he looks so good shirtless, you think. “I have - have a - um - a question, yes.”

Logan sighs over the phone and you can’t help bursting out into giggles. “Y/N, please tell me you’re not fucking drinking at this goddamn hour.” Your friends ‘ooo’ obnoxiously, giggling as they continue passing around the bottle of blackberry rum. “Where are you?”

“Wait, what about my question?” You pout, lying back on the couch you’re sitting on and grinning. “Listen, I was truthed or dared, right? And I - so I said truth because that’s, like, the smartest choice, and they tricked me!”

On the other line, Logan is trying really hard not to laugh at how drunk you are because you’re not even 21 yet and because if your father found out you called him and he didn’t pick you up immediately, his own ass would be on the line. “Baby, where are you?” Logan asks firmly and you basically purr over the phone.

“I like when you call me that.” You slur, twirling a strand of your hair on your finger and getting it tangled. “Why don’t you call me baby all the time?” You ask as you shake your hand out to release your finger from your hair.

“You know why,” Logan says in a low voice, wondering how much of this conversation you will remember in the morning. “Tell me where you are so I can come pick you up.”

“No, I’m having fun, Logan. Come get me in the morning and we can get pancakes!” You say decidedly before you hung up.

The night carries on with drinking and talking about Logan and other guys you and your friends think are attractive. Someone passes around a bowl of popcorn while you’re attempting to set up a movie and then you hear it. The familiar low rumbling of a motorcycle and you know exactly who is outside right now. “Fuck, he found me.” You gasp and your friends’ eyes go wide.

“Who?”

“A killer?”

“Oh, my god!” One cries.

You laugh and toss some popcorn at her. “No, dummy, my dad’s friend!” You hurriedly stumble to the light switch and turn everything off. You signal them to be quiet as you place a finger over your lips and they do the same. You can hear the heavy steps of his boots and you lean against the door as if you could barricade it. There’s a sudden loud pounding on it, and your friends scream and gasp. You roll your eyes because you realize you can’t keep a bunch of drunk girls quiet. “Come on, Y/N, let’s go!” He yells and you stifle a giggle. “I will knock this door down, come on!”

“He sounds angry.”

“You should go.”

“My parents will definitely find out we were drinking if the door is knocked down when they get back.”

With no choice left, you open the door and pout up at Logan who appears angrier than you’ve ever seen him. “Logan, I would love to go with you, but my daddy would never approve of me getting on a motorcycle.” You say only for him to grab you by the arm and drag you down the walkway to his bike. “Um, ow!”

“I’m your daddy now,” He snaps at you and your eyes well up with tears. “Get on the damn bike.” He orders and you do as he says. “Hold onto the handles.” He instructs as he sits behind you because he doesn’t trust you not to fall off in the state that you’re in.

The drive isn’t far from your friends to his house and when you are parked in his garage you start to cry softly. Logan sighs, still sitting behind you, and he gently rubs your back. “Are you - sniff - mad at me?” You ask, wiping your eyes as your head hangs sadly.

“No, baby, I’m not mad,” He says, looking at your small frame sitting in front of him as he lets the hand on your back move down to your hip. “I was just worried. Your dad’s going to be mad.” He adds with a small chuckle and you cry.

God, it shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, but he can’t help picturing you crying and sniffling like that while he’s got his cock inside you. “Logan, he’s not going to let me go to grad week with my friends if he finds out.” You sniffle, looking up and remembering you’re in his garage. “Can I sleep it off here and then you can take me back home in the morning?”

Logan’s hands are smoothing over your hips slowly, wondering if you feel him touching you or if you’re too drunk to notice. “I’m supposed to take you now. I just wanted you to eat something before we went over there cause he’s going to ground you immediately.” Logan said, his hands now softly rubbing on your thighs and you can feel his hard shaft against your ass.

“Please don’t tell.” You murmur, sitting up a little straighter so your back is pressed to his chest. Logan tenses up at your action and you look at him over your shoulder. “Please, Logan?”

Logan hums, pretending to think it over although it was never his intention to tell your dad. “How about this,” He begins, his hands sliding over the tops of your thighs as he dips his head and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. “I keep your secret,” His lips move onto your neck and you tilt your head to the side to give him more access. “If you keep ours.” His fingers are spreading your legs a little wider, digging into your soft thighs, and you tremble in his hold as his teeth graze your jaw. “Think you can do that for me, baby?”

“Yes, daddy.” You breathed out shakily as he slips a hand into your leggings, holding you against him by pressing his other hand into your belly.

“Good girl.”

I was not sure if you wanted full smut so I sprinkle some in at the end! Let me know what you thought:)

[elexaria]

dating simon riley wasn’t always easy. “i’m a bloody nutcase, eh?” he’d joke when he’d wake up in a cold sweat, taking deep breaths as his calloused thumb rasps against the soft cotton bedsheets, grounding him back to reality. “puts all my efforts to shame when i wake up like this. fuck’s sake.”

therapy is mandatory, especially given his role as lieutenant. the traumas of childhood, the torture. he thinks he’s good at dealing with his problems, thinks therapy is a waste of time. “what, it’s just a bloke sat there starin’ at me? hell, get me a piece of paper with some made up degree on it and even i could be a therapist.” he grumbles after you point out that, in fact, he’s not as good as coping with his trauma as he thinks he is.

“you need to actually give this a go, si. it’s..” you pause, biting the inside of your lip as you make breakfast. his hair is disheveled, wry strands of grey sticking up against the grain. his dark circles only exemplify just how tired he is, especially when he has his night terrors. you shake your head, sighing as you crack another egg into the frying pan. “how can i expect you to stay safe out there when you’re barely able to look after yourself when you’re home?” you sigh out as he grunts, taking a seat at the small dining table, his eyes skimming through the morning paper.

god, he’s such a stubborn bastard. it takes months to get him to at least consider finding a new therapist, to get him to actually care about his mental health. christ, if he can’t do it for himself, can’t he at least try for your sake?

and then, it’s like he has a lightbulb moment. you come home after a long day at work, only to find him sat at the dining table, writing scruffy notes in a ring bound notebook. “mission notes?” you ask curiously, keeping your eye on him as you make yourself a cup of tea. he grunts, shaking his head as he continues to write.

“it’s a diary. supposed to help with your mental health or summet.” he replies, settling his pen down to meet your gaze. you must have had a look of confusion on your face, and it makes the corners of his lips twitch up into a half-smile. “yeah, i know. a bloke like me with a diary, like i’m a bloody teenage girl.” he quips, now grinning as his fingers toy with the corners of the notebook. “writin’ about all the boys i fancy on the field.” he shoots a wink, before continuing to write some more in his notebook.

it’s actually surprising, a smile on your lips as you watch him in his own little world, actually making an effort in his mental health recovery. you come over, settling a warm cup of tea by him before pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of his head, still smiling as you make your way upstairs to give him some privacy. he comes upstairs after half an hour, chucking the diary into his bedside table drawer before sprawling out onto the bed obnoxiously with a deafening groan. you whine and complain when he purposely stretches on you, gently crushing you with his bolder-esque shoulders with a massive grin on his face.

there were still bad days, though. days where he’d hide himself in the garage to work on some of his projects. but you’re both trying, he feels his heart break when you gently knock on the door, holding a plate of snacks and a cup of tea for him, and fuck, it makes his bad day slightly better.

that evening, he curls up besides you silently on the couch, his journal and pen in hand as he clears his throat. you curiously peer down as he begins to flick through the pages of chicken scratch, gently tapping the page as he looks up at you. he clears his throat, and begins to read out the sweetest paragraph, one that makes your eyes well up with tears.

“no idea where i would be without you, love. you make the darkest days of my life brighter than ever. you make life worth it.” he ends his speech , the timbre of his voice cracking with emotion as he looks at you. and right there, you know that through all the trials and tribulations you two will go through, you’re the love of simon riley’s life and he would never let you forget that.

[zweigsons]

after midnight

patrick zweig x f!reader x art donaldson smut

summary: they both want you, and you definitely know it

etc: nsfw, fingering, oral f!receiving (kind of), patrick doesn't rlly do anything he sits there and looks pretty

a/n: A BITCH IS BACK i know u all missed my writing

word count: 959

You thought fire and ice were fitting monikers for them. Patrick was holding you up and your back was pressed against his bare chest and, god, he was warm. And Art’s fingers were gliding down your torso, long and nimble and cold. 

You shivered at the touch and Patrick chuckled behind you. He mouthed a kiss onto the pulse point on your neck and your legs were jelly. “My legs hurt,” You whined as Art’s fingers played with the hem of your panties. 

“I’m holding you. And you’re kneeling on a mattress,” Patrick nipped at your ear. 

“It still hurts,” You groaned, tilting your head back to lock eyes with him. 

His smile tilted to the side as he looked at you, “You’re such a princess.” 

Art chuckled from his position. He was kneeling on the floor, fingers tracing shapes into your tummy as he looked up at you. “You really are,” He said it more kindly than Patrick, as if princess were a petname rather than a mock. 

Art’s fingers curled into the lacy waistband of your underwear and he started to tug them down your thighs. Patrick’s breathing seemed to grow heavier as he watched over your shoulder. You turned your head and whispered to him, “You have a little crush on Art?” 

His face grew hotter next to yours. “Shut up. Let him fuck you.” 

You pat his cheek, “Sure.” You cast your gaze down to Art, “Are you gonna fuck me?” 

He looked like a puppy, staring up at you with those big eyes that you could get completely lost in. “Is that what you want?” He asked as he placed a kiss on your hip. 

You swallowed a whine, “Yeah.” 

“I can do that.” He looked up at you, those blue eyes shining like they held a secret, and then he added a soft, “Princess.” 

You let out a soft moan and he focused his attention to spreading you apart and then sucking gently on your clit. You gasped and tilted your head back. As Art worked his tongue on your cunt, Patrick’s hands slipped from gripping your shoulders to keep you up and down to slip into your bra. 

“Patrick,” You whispered, snaking your hand up to cup the back of his neck. 

His fingers tweaked your nipples as he tutted. “Don’t focus on me. What’s Art doing to you, baby?” His voice was low and sweet and it made you tremble. 

You did as you were told and looked back down, just in time to see Art moving one of his hands up. His fingers gently placed with your folds and you whimpered, wanting more than that. “Art, please,” You whined, carding your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. 

“Use your words, Princess,” He mouthed around you. 

You tugged on his hair and groaned, “Put your fingers in me.” 

“Good girl,” He mumbled. 

His fingers stopped teasing and started pushing, up and into you. You groaned, nails digging into his scalp and into Patrick’s neck. 

His tongue lapped at your clit as he moved his fingers inside of you. Your legs were shaking and everything felt melty and good. Patrick’s mouth was on your neck again, sucking marks into the soft skin. 

Patrick sunk his teeth into you at the same time that Art thrust his fingers up into you and you let out a shuddering gasp. “Fuck you,” You moaned, stretching out a few of the golden ringlet’s of Art’s hair. 

“That’s the goal,” Patrick chuckled into your ear. 

“Shut up,” You hissed, rolling your hips with each movement of Art’s fingers. 

He removed his mouth from your cunt to sloppily kiss your hips and tummy as he fucked his fingers into you. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” He muttered, this time adding a small scrape of teeth to his kisses. 

You didn’t even have time to come up with a reply because he had popped up and was kissing you as he worked a third finger into you.

You felt that familiar coil build up in your belly and you scratched at his back. 

“You think she’s gonna cum?” Patrick asked as he nipped at your ear. 

Art pulled back and smirked, “Look at her face. Definitely. Are you gonna cum for us, princess?” It almost felt stupid, the way he had latched onto that particular petname, but all you could do was nod and let out a noise that was half between a gasp and a moan. 

One of Patrick’s hands dropped from holding you (which only made the fact that he was holding you up with one hand even hotter) and reached around to rub your clit along with the thrusts of Art’s fingers. “So, so good,” He mumbled, licking where your jaw connected to your ear. 

Art pushed his fingers into you once more and that was enough to have that coil in your tummy unravel. You groaned, slumping your head down into the crook of Art’s neck as the waves of your orgasm washed through you. “That’s it, just like that,” He crooned sweetly, kissing the top of your head. 

Patrick finally let you go and you all but crumpled. “Is that all you got in you?” Patrick asked, leaning over you and scrunching up his nose. 

You scoffed, “Fuck off. Go jerk each other off in a cold shower.” You pushed his face away as he laughed against your palm. 

On the other hand, Art was licking your cum off of his fingers, and if you weren’t already fucked out, you would probably be up and ready to go again. 

“Go to sleep, Patrick and I will take turns with a ‘cold shower,’” Art said, leaning down and kissing your forehead. 

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” 

[vvampirelust]

thinking about ice hockey player!abby

warnings: smut, 18+, dom!abby, sub!reader, strap on sex, spanking, quite rough sex, mentions of alcohol consumption, not proof read

that girl would get veryyyy possessive

she’s the star player, hell practically the star of campus. (frat!abby??) having been the captain back on her old high school team, she’s earned a name for herself.

so of course she’s gonna adore you in her jersey. surprising her post-game as you celebrate her victory, snug in her blue hockey hoodie #13 adorning the back. abby picks you up when you finally get to see her, kissing you with force, adrenaline still pumping through her veins. “did you see that?!” she’s asking excitedly, and there’s nothing you love more than seeing the passionate shine in her eyes as she recalls her last goal. you join her and the team for a celebratory beer in the parking lot, reminiscing and cheering loudly about the best moments.

“nice hoodie, babe,” abby calls from behind you as you both walk back to your car. abby, the few steps latter was enjoying the view with a smirk on her lips. you match her smile, twirling once in front of her, pulling a laugh from her throat, “you like? found it under my bed, wonder who left it there,” you shrug, a lightness to your voice. abby catches up to you, strong arms hugging you to her chest, faux gasp leaving her lips, “we’ll never know,” she breaks off into a chuckle and you can’t help but join her, shoving her with a roll of your eyes.

back home, you had abby pressed against the inside of her door. her dad away on a conference in seattle meant you and abby have been playing wife in her beach house for the past week. she set a challenge to fuck you anywhere and everywhere possible. who would complain? “baby. baby,” you’re both lost in the kids you’re sharing. the flat of your palms find her chest, pushing her softly against the door. “wait here two minutes, take your clothes off and i’ll meet you in the bedroom,” you speak lowly, flashing her the eyes as a coy smile spreads on your lips.

abby audibly groans, “fuck, go. now.” she orders, not wanting to wait any longer.

approximately 1 minute and 29 seconds later, abby finds you in nothing but her jersey, sprawled across the kingsized bed like a pornstar. she bites her lip as she takes you in, you’re so slutty, she thinks, she loves it. she makes a note to tease you for it at some point. “look at you, pretty girl,” she admires, those icy eyes never leaving your body, even as she walks around the side of the bed, “that all for me?” abby asks, breaking her gaze to bend over. just the sound of that specific drawer opening has your thighs rubbing together. her question fell on deaf ears, you too busy staring at your smokeshow of a girlfriend. she had done what you’d said, a pile of clothes on the stairs waiting to be tripped over in the morning. but god, the sight was worth it. your eyes trail the curve of her ass as she was rummaging, you’re near drooling over the way her back muscles shift beneath her tanned skin. abby smirks when she stands to face you again, busying herself with buckling the strap. abby clears her throat;

“baby.” your eyes find hers, “focus.”

head bobbing in a nod, you swallow the whimper threatening to escape. “i asked, if this was all for me? hm? you look so sexy in my hoodie babe,” abby crawls over where you are pushed up on your elbows, caging your body with hers. “you played so well out there tonight, anderson. thought you deserved it,” you tell her sweetly, inviting her in with open legs. abby chuckles, moving one big hand to cup the inside of your knee, ever so slowly sliding up your inner thigh. “gettin’ pussy for a good game, do i?” she’s smug, taking hold of what’s hers. you, now unbearably horny starts nodding, “yeah!”

“yeah, sweetheart?” she mocks the high pitch of your voice, lazily nodding along with you. “fuck me, you’re so wet,” thick fingers push between your folds, “want it bad, don’t you baby?” abby grins, looking down at the mess between your legs. “please, abby.” you pull her hair to gain access to her mouth, been deprived too long of the feeling of her lips on yours. her tongue invades your warm mouth, throaty groan following suit, which you swallow happily. the kiss ends with a wet smack, abby’s heavy breaths now mingling with your own. “i know, i know. i’m gonna fuck you, don’t worry. and you’re gonna keep that hoodie on, okay?”

“please baby, please fuck m-“ you can barely finish your sentence before she’s using those strong arms to flip you onto all fours, abby’s jersey hitching around your waist. you can feel the weight of her pretty pink strap against your thigh, ass wiggling in anticipation. abby responds with a surprisingly hard spank, jolting you onto your elbows as a yelp passes your lips. “abby, baby, please!” you feel the warmth of her free hand sliding up your spine, hiking her hoodie up, allowing her to see the arch of your back along with the word ‘Anderson’ boldly written in white along your shoulders. “fuck,” she moans.

a strong hand grasps your hip, you can hear abby spit behind you followed by her panting heavily. you whimper when you feel her tip splitting your slick folds, wasting no time as she begins to thrust inside of you. pushing deeper with each small rut of her hips, relishing in your little “uh, uh, uhs” abby does this until she bottoms out, your cunt stuffed and throbbing. “that’s it, you always take me so well baby.” abby grips your hips tight.

she fucks you with the same aggression she portrayed on the rink earlier that night. your chest flush against the mattress, your loud moans still echoing through the bedroom, even with your face smushed into the pillows, leaving a wet patch of drool and tears in your wake. using your hips to set the pace, she pulls you back on her cock, profanities slipping past her lips . “such a slut for me, fucking look at this pussy, squeezing so tight,” she moans so prettily, her clit rubbing against the strap just right. she stares at her surname as she gets off, the pace of her thrusts quickening, hurtling towards her climax. the sound of her moans shoot straight to your lower stomach, clenching tighter around her. “my fucking best girl, baby. just needed my lucky charm tonight,” abby huffs out, stuttering, “couldn’t have done it without you.”

abby cums with a cry, curling over your back, arms wrapping under your shoulders. her hips don’t falter for a second, riding out her high while pushing you to your own. at the last moment, her fingers thread in your hair, tugging your head back so she could hear you clearly. she wanted to hear you scream for her, just like you did when she won her game.

“abs i’m- oh my god, abby!” you follow right behind her, practically mewling like a bitch in heat. you cum hard, creaming on your girlfriends cock, she fucks you through it. even as it means hurtling herself into overstimulation, whimpering in your ear until she feels your body beginning to tremble beneath her. abby pants, pushing herself up with a grunt. palms spreading your cheeks, she watches the way your cunt tries clinging to her cock as she slowly pulls out. you’re a whimpering mess, “abby,” you mourn the stretch. “m’right here,” she tells you breathlessly, her thumb running down your folds, circling your gaping hole, collecting the creamy cum leaking from you. her teeth find purchase within her bottom lip once again, taking a last look at the hoodie bunched around your top half. and at her name decorating it.

[seventeenpins]

nightly

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader word count: 1k summary: Joel is a mistake you just keep making. content/warnings: no specified Joel era so take your pick, dirty talk, literally all just smut, big dick, daddy kink, breeding kink, dubcon undertones, Joel is an asshole a/n: I have been struggling to focus on writing for a minute now, but the horny gods smiled upon me and let me get this together. Praise be to @ozarkthedog for always letting me run my godforsaken ideas past you. Love you lots 💕

You can feel the wet spot on the bed against your back. Joel has you folded like a pretzel, backs of your knees resting on his sun-freckled shoulders, wrists pinned above your head and ass suspended in the air as he drills into you. A single curl bounces at his temple, separate from the rest of his hair that's plastered with sweat to his forehead.

If you make the same mistake five days in a row, can you really still call it a mistake?

He's far too old for you, and a little too mean for you, but damned if he isn't the best lay you've ever had.

Eight inches, uncut, a dick so fucking fat you can barely wrap your hand around it. You can hardly believe he's buried balls deep in you right now. That your body can even take it.

"C'mon, honey, that's it-" Joel's voice is a growl, punctuated by heavy panting, "This pretty lil gash is fuckin' droolin' baby, my own personal slip 'n slide-"

"You're a crass old man," you whine.

"I sure am, honey," he agrees with a grin, "But don't think I can't feel the way you soak me whenever I talk crass, sweetheart."

"I hate you."

He laughs, and a bead of sweat rolls down his temple and along the curve of his nose, splashing onto your cheek. Unthinkingly, you dart your tongue out to catch some of the sweat. Joel's grin turns to a smirk.

"Hate me all you like. You're the one who's come over every night this fuckin' week. Monday through Friday, baby. Hate me so much you can't get enough of daddy's big dick, huh?"

"Fuck you, you're such an asshole-"

This jab is even less effective, punctuated with a moan and a whimper.

"Sure, sweetheart, I am. But don't pretend like we don't both know--you don't have to come here at all."

He grinds against you, coarse hair rubbing against your mound as if to further his point. Pressure hits your clit just right and it's bliss. You have to fully restrain yourself to stop from howling, and even then, you let out a ragged moan.

Joel clamps a hand over your mouth and looks you dead in the eyes.

"I love those pretty sounds, baby, but remember I got neighbors? Thought you said you'd die before anyone finds out about us."

You try to roll your eyes, but he thrusts again and you're caught in another moan. The glide of his body against your clit, especially when he's stretching you out so exquisitely? It's overwhelming. You try to stay quiet, you really do.

It's not your fault though, not when Joel's fucking you silly.

Now, though, he's frustrated.

"Quiet now, settle-"

"I'm not a fucking dog, Joel, I- ahhh-" you mumble and moan between his fingers, barely muffled at all.

"Oh really? Not a fucking dog? Wanna tell me then why you're tryna get bred like a bitch in heat?"

He smacks your cheek, drawing out another pathetic whine that only seems to cement his point.

He sneers. "Those pretty lil noises you're makin' for me? That don't sound like a good girl. That sounds to me like a nasty fuckin' slut who can't help but keep her legs spread so her daddy can fill her up good. Huh? C'mon baby. Tell me to cum inside."

"Fuck you Joel."

Suddenly, cruelly, he stops. Ceases any movement. Relaxes the grip on your wrists.

Panic overtakes you.

"What the fuck-?"

"Sorry sweetheart," he shakes his head, "You don't want this? You can see yourself out."

"No, I-"

You notice he's still sheathed inside you. You feel him do something, flexing his dick inside of you. Frankly, it's cheating.

"Please don't stop."

"What was that, honey?"

"Joooeeel-"

"Quit your whinin', use your words."

"Please fuck me."

"That ain't it, you know whatcha gotta say."

He starts rocking his hips gently, a slippery glide. It's not enough to stimulate. Just enough to make you want more. Need more.

The way you clench around him tells on yourself more starkly than your words ever could.

He's grinning again. "That's it, baby. You ready to admit what you need?"

"Come on, Joel."

"Cum where?"

You sigh. But you know you aren't gonna hold out any longer. He's pressing his thumb just above your clit and the glide of the motion is so fucking delicious it's hard not to buck against it.

Rut against it.

A bitch in heat.

"Fuck me, daddy-" you whine.

"You sound real pretty beggin'. Nearly got it honey. One more try?"

"Cum inside me."

"Mmmmm-" Joel groans, and the grip on your wrists tightens again. "Music to my ears, honey. Tell me where you want it?"

"Inside me, cum inside-"

"You want me to cum inside this lovely lil' pussy?"

"Please Joel-"

"That right?"

"Please cum in me, fill me up, fuck it deep-"

With that, his composure breaks and any restraint he had crumbles. Folds you deeper, fucks you deeper, pins you down and jackhammers into you.

You couldn't move, even if you wanted to, and that knowledge somehow heightens everything. It's blindingly bright, dizzyingly addictive. You barely notice the way Joel's lavishing you with praise, each deep thrust punctuated with good girl, good girl, good fucking girl-

When you cum, you feel the way his balls tighten as if in response, tipping over the edge mere moments after you. It could be romantic, finding yourselves cumming together, if there was any romance between you.

As you start to fade back down, you're able to pay attention again.

"That's it," he's praising you, and you realise his cock is still pulsing. You make to start moving, but he growls and holds you still. "That's right, sweetheart. Gotta let me fill you all the way up. Gonna make sure it takes."

Clarity starts to overtake you and you know that you've made a big fucking mistake. By the time you've come back to yourself, though, your pussy's flooded and pulsing oh so nicely, and Joel's pulling out of you. He moves into the other room and you hear him turn on the shower.

"You can let yourself out," he calls to you. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Your panties are sticky the whole way home.