#he’s a regular ol baby

[k-atsukibakugou]

girl why the fuck is my sister taking her baby to get back adjustments

[bangcakes]

.

[evilminji]

Okay... we KNOW that Justice League Dark is actually Competent at their Jobs.

Can banish most Spooks back home with out pausing to look up from their sandwich.

But you know what they HAVEN'T done? Dealt with the fuckin American Government. And all the complexe back-stabbery and "not my depart"ing that entails. The covering of asses and silencing of whistle blowers. Smearing of character. Just... the general BULLSHIT, legal and political, necessary to get those Ecto Acts consigned to the Depths of Hell where they belong.

Amity? Is fine.

Big ol Lair. Nothing nefarious getting in, few people ever bothering to go out. But like... they'd kind like THE OPTION, you know? Kids going to elite colleges. Jobs in other cities. That sorta thing! Maybe even new blood!

Stagnation feels too... Zone.

But they can't exactly FORCE the guys to focus on this one thing. And? They don't exactly... trust? Them? It's not personal. They're just not ghosts. Well, one is. But you can't ask ONE hero to handle all of that by himself! That's just unreasonable! Mr. Brand, while dashing and accomplished, has only so many hours in the day!

But what do DO???

...........well.......... Youngblood has an idea?

What if we annoyed them?

(How bout now? How bout now? How bout now? How bout now? How bout no-?)

Ooooooh~? Says the collectively gathered Ghost Regulars of Amity. Yes, that INCLUDES DANNY. They are INTRIGUED! Ghosts DO enjoy a good haunting. A light bit of Mischief, now and then. Some troublemaking! If you will~

I mean... Muses the resident Stick in the Mud, Phantom. As long as we all agree to some Ground Rules first...

Just until the finally Do Their JOBS, of course.....

The giggling is both bone chilling and filled with plotting. And so! The campaign of ghostly Minor To Moderate Inconveniences, begins! THINK FAST! *appears before Constantine, drops a LITERAL kid in his lap (as in a baby goat), in a "careful, I'm anxious!" Vest, then disappears.* The goat? Starts trying to eat his shirt. And is non magical.

It's the fifth random but slightly difficult to get rid off object or animal, dumped on him in the last two weeks. All juuuuust barely past that threshold where they're precious enough, he wouldn't feel comfortable handing um to some rando and walking away. GDI.

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

[yopossum]

JOEL SAT ON ME AND I CONSIDERED IT AN HONOR AND A PRIVILEGE

My contribution for @beefrobeefcal’s Married Joel Sits On You challenge is complete!!

Main Masterlist

Married!Joel x wife reader - M - 18+ only, weight gain talk and appreciation, drunkenness, Joel is a big ol love bug who wants to squish his perfect wife (you)

Snug

You were curled up in your old green tufted armchair, had just finished a chapter of your book, and were debating making another cup of tea when the tell-tale squeak of the front steps accompanied by heavy footsteps and drunken muttering alerted you to your husband’s return.

“Mmm, gotta… fix… ‘s not safe… gonna… gonna get hurt… not my baby…. Ah shit… where’s my…. ‘S still unlocked?”

With an aggressive jiggle of the knob, Joel came crashing into the house, stumbling over the toes of his boots and looking up bashfully.

“Hey handsome,” you smirked. “Have fun with Tommy?”

“Not ‘s much fun as I have with my beautiful wife,” he slurred, pointing a wobbling finger your direction. “Thas you, baby.”

“Thanks for the reminder, Joel,” you laughed. “You two had a bit to drink, it sounds like.” You set your book down on the coffee table alongside your empty mug and stretched your arms up to the ceiling, yawning.

“Jus’ a few, darlin’. Missed you too much, had to come home t’ ya. Need t’ see you. Alllllllll the time. Thas how much I wanna look atcha.” The booze stretched his twang out, slowed his speech, words sloshing and swinging from his lazy tongue like it was a porch rocker on a hot summer day. It wasn’t often Joel let himself relax, and it was a treat when he got loose like this.

God, you adored him.

“You hungry, babe?” you asked your bumbling hunk. “I left you a plate in the microwave in case all you two had was whiskey and peanuts.”

Joel groaned appreciatively. “Fuuuck, honey. How d’ya always know jus’ what I need? What’d I ever do t’ deserve you, hm? Funny, so damn smart, so kind, you’re gorgeous. Smell good. Perfect fuckin’ pussy…”

“Go get your dinner, Romeo,” you cut him off with a snort. With an over-the-top wink, Joel sauntered into the kitchen. You watched him go with a grin, admiring (honestly, ogling) the delicious way his jeans hugged him and the flex of his broad back under the snug green plaid shirt he favored.

A few years in, and marriage had been good to Joel. His mental health and financial stability had improved, and he seemed over all a happier person. The only drawback, to him, seemed to be the effect it had on his waistline. Regular meals, fewer hours out at the job site, more time spent enjoying life’s small pleasures. Add in plain old aging, and some body changes were inevitable. God knows you’d had plenty of them yourself.

You knew Joel was a little sensitive about his pants fitting a bit tighter, the buttons of his ancient flannels straining slightly more than they used to over the swell of his belly. But where these changes made Joel frown at his reflection when he caught himself in the mirror before a shower, or sigh when he had to punch a new hole in his single belt, they had no negative effect on you whatsoever.

To your husband’s surprise, you were ravenous for his softening body. Your hands often found their way to his pockets to palm his plump ass through the denim, to the hem of his shirt to stroke the round warm underside of his stomach, to pat and squeeze his thick thighs. When he came inside you each night (and most mornings) and tried to hover over himself your body to kiss you after finishing, you often yanked him down on top of you, relishing the crushing weight of your husband enveloping your form like the world’s sexiest, most affectionate weighted blanket.

You couldn’t get enough of him, so having more Joel to love? A blessing. And when he loped back into the living room, his plate heaped with the dinner you’d made earlier, wearing a smile wide and dopey, you were happy that the most hardworking, self-sacrificing man you’d ever known entrusted you with his comfort.

He plopped onto the sofa, a little harder than he probably meant to, and sat his plate on the end of the coffee table nearest to you.

“Looks so good, sugar, you’re amazin’. Fuckin’ girl of my dreams. And you *married me*! Wow. Wowwwww.” The tips of Joel’s ears and the rounds of his cheeks were peony pink, his eyes glassy with both drink and adoration. He took a forkful of the pasta and vegetables from his plate and opened his mouth around it with a moan. “Baby, mmmmfff, Jesus,” he mumbled through chews, eyes closing in ecstasy as he ate.

“Sober Joel is going to be mortified when I tell him about Drunk Joel’s table manners,” you snickered. You unfolded your legs and reached a foot towards the couch, poking at him in the side with your pointed toes.

“Naw,” he said with a dramatic shake of his head, swallowing his bite. You couldn’t help but track the way his Adam’s apple slid along his tan, taut throat, and despite his hazy state, he clocked it immediately. “Y’aren’t gonna tell that asshole anythin’. Jus’ our little secret, sweetheart.” He licked his lips, tongue poking into the corner to catch a spot of sauce that lingered in his mustache. “I’ll make it worth your while, promise this Joel knows ‘xactly whatcha like,” he hummed, eyes gleaming and dimple pitting deep in his rosy cheek.

“I’m not gonna fuck you when you’re drunk, Miller, if that’s what you’re getting at.” You cackled when he scowled, sticking out his lower lip in a nearly-irresistible pout.

“But what if I want to real bad, Miller?” he huffed, crossing his arms over his wide chest. “I’ll letcha have your way with me any damn day, honey, please. I’m achin’ for ya.” His eyebrows curled up in a pitiful plea, his big brown sad puppy dog eyes in full force.

You leaned forward in your chair, planting your feet on the ground. “I’ll have my way with you when you’re not plastered, I swear.” Joel dropped his head in disappointment, whining.

“Jus’ love you so much…” he murmured at the floor. “Wanna show you… take such good care ‘a me, make me feel so good… best wife of every wife, give me the best life…”

Your heart was full to burst. “Come here, you big sentimental sap,” you said, sitting back and opening your arms to your pathetically endearing enormous drunken husband.

Rather than walk, Joel slid from the couch cushions to the floor with a thud and proceeded to crawl on his hands and knees across the rug, stopping at your feet and looking up at you sheepishly through long dark lashes.

You gestured to your lap. “Up.”

Joel clambered from the ground, dropping himself solidly into the cradle of your body (eliciting a breathy OOF as he knocked the wind from your lungs) and curling up like a pillbug against your chest. The chair creaked in fruitless protest. You struggled to catch your breath and adjust your legs underneath him, but managed to encourage his head into the crook of your neck so you could nuzzle into his soft silvered curls, press kisses to the lines across his forehead. Your arms didn’t fit all the way around him, but you snuck them in at his waist and ran your thumbs back and forth along the meat of his hips.

Joel burrowed his face into the space above your collarbone, nudging his nose up against your throat and humming softly, pressing a sweet kiss to the dip there. “Thas’ real nice. Love you s‘much,” he buzzed into your warm skin. Your ribs couldn’t quite expand enough to take your regular breaths without effort, and numbness was prickling your thighs and asscheeks, but you made no effort to move.

“‘M not hurtin’ you, honey, am I?” Joel’s quiet voice was already honeying over with the pull of slumber. His breath slowed and evened, inching its way toward soft snores.

“Not at all, sleepyhead,” you assured him, whispering warmly into the smooth shell of his ear, giving it a gentle nibble before laying your cheek against the top of his head. “You’re perfect.”

[chiiyuuvv]

WHEN YOU CALL THEM BY THEIR NAME

• PAIRING — bf!riize x gn!reader

• GENRE — worried riize, seunghan is suggestive

• WORD COUNT — 482

• AUTHOR'S NOTE — request on wattpad

• TAGLIST — @moonlightdarlings , @cake1box

MASTERLIST! – JOIN THE TAGLIST!

SHOTARO ☆

After sticking your tongue at you, shotaro decided that he had no choice but to tickle you

Has you on the floor, kicking your feet with a massive smile on his face

"T-taro.. SHOTARO" stops immediately

"Is everything alright? Was i going to far?"

You sticked your tongue at him again, so he just continued ♡

EUNSEOK ☆

You were having a bad day, so eunseok decided to buy you a plushie

"Eunseok!!" You would gasp as he turns around your chair, engulfing him in a big hug

"Do you like it?" He would whisper in your ear, his voice calm and deep as he rubbed circles on your back

Doesnt mind if you call him by his actual name, thats just your way of saying you really like it

And spoils you for the rest of the night ♡

SUNGCHAN ☆

Sungchans doing his regular 'ol teasing about how short you are

Its gotten to the point where you just ignore him, until he starts poking your shoulder

"hey short-" "sungchan. Im trying to watch my show."

"Oh.." thinks hes went to far, and starts pouting beside you

But you pull him into a hug, letting him know that youre just really anxious for when sofie was going to slap chad in the face ♡

WONBIN ☆

"Do you like it?" His arms were wrapped around your waist, his head on your shoulder as he puts a necklace on you

You gasp. "Wonbin.." and he lifts himself up

"W-was it bad?? I could get you a new one o-or"

You'd have to stop him. "I love it."

"Oh." He'd say with a shy smile, looking down and wrapping you in a hug ♡

SEUNGHAN ☆

You guys were having your "loving" time

Seunghan holding you down on his lap as he starts to attack your neck with purplish bites

"Mm.. seunghan." He immediately stops, looking up at you with worried eyes

"Did i do something wrong? Did you not like it?" "Babe what are you talking about?" "You only call me hannie!!"

Then you'd have to explain that you like it, you really like it. "Oh." Then he continues ♡

SOHEE ☆

Sohee wouldnt wake up

"Hehe.. soso.. are you dead or something?"

You said his name, and he immediately shot up

"W-what happened? Am i late? Am i dreaming??"

You said his name again, shutting him up before cuddling with him ♡

ANTON ☆

You were in the bathroom when you shouted his name

Runs to you all worried and shocked because you never call him anton. Its usually babe or baby or ton or ant

"Baby are you okay?! Do you need pads or something?!" He figured you were on your period

"Do you think i could pass off as a dude?" You open the door revealing the makeup you used to show you mustache and beard

Takes a second to process before bursting out laughing "here, lemme help you." ♡

[theloveinc]

OlderDad!Bakugou who gets a haircut and his baby doesn't recognize him and he doesn't want his dad to pick him up 😭😭😭😭😭😭

Bakugou has a cry in the bathroom and you have to spend the rest of the night consoling him.

Also Hiiiiiii, miss u, hope youre gooooood

head in my hands bc of this, just thought abt bakugo growing out his hair a little bit right after baby's birth...takes him months to go and get a real haircut cuz he doesn't wanna burden you more than he already has and by the time he's okay with the thought (but only for "AN HOUR MAX," is what he says), he has a mullet thing going on and all this scruff on his chin🥺🥺🥺

so he gets home with his regular ol' haircut, maybe a little shorter just to account for ... not wanting to go again so soon, and baby's HOLLERING bloody murder as soon as they see him and refusing to be taken out of your arms, doing that thing where they're flipping their face back and forth to dodge a kiss...

it's so tragic bc not even a little cheek nuzzling helps to calm them bc bakugo's CLEAN SHAVEN and smells like aftershave instead of like dad when he tries!!!!!!

and after, you watch him kinda sulk into the bathroom, thinking like aw yeah thats a bummer but also pretty funny, too (esp bc the haircut does look good🫣🤓), AND HE DOESN'T COME OUT FOR LIKE an hour???

....until you finally have to ask him if he's okay in there and you're opening the door to him sitting on the toilet seat, arms crossed and red cheeks a little streaky with tears...

LJFKASDJFADSJK it's the cutest, most sad sight you ever did see!! ofc Bakugo tries to deny it, but the way he tears up again (after you're done assuring him he did nothing wrong) when his baby finally realizes it's him and smiles (and then how he refuses to give them up again until bedtime) has his ass. EXPOSED.

(i love and miss u more than air, earth, water, dirt + HOPE YOU'RE GOOD TOO BESTIE ILY)

[hungharrington]

 ☁ — sweet talk !

summary: you're interested in your boyfriend's history- well, more like what he used to do that made the stories about king steve in bed spread like wildfire during school. you find out for yourself. fem!reader. 2k. minors DNI

Look, you love your regular ol’ Steve. Stevie. Steeb. He’s a sweetheart through and through — holds the door for you, holds your hand, gives kisses on your cheek, in your hair.

He’s a generous lover. Knows each little thing that makes you tick and just gives and gives to you. Answers your whimpers for more with a deeper grind of his hips, holds your hand as he buries his face between your thighs. He’s a giver.

But a small part of you, just a small part, has always wondered about King Steve.

You don’t want his sneering jabs and aloof disinterest — no, that’s all very much better off left in the past.

But the stories, the stories of how he left girls’ heads spinning, of the filthy fucks at bathrooms, all teasing and cocky King Steve, panty dropper.

You’re just a little bit— alright, marginally interested. Maybe decently interested.

So, you ask. It’s one of those games Steve likes to play sometimes at parties, the two of you begin as though you’re strangers. You’ll act coy, leaned against a wall with a low-cut shirt and a tight skirt and Steve puts on the moves.

It’s always the same stuff and it always makes you nervously giggle. A hand rested above your head against the wall so he can lean in low, whisper in your ear, something cheesy like, “I saw you from across the room and thought you looked so sexy,” that never fails to make you both break, spilling into laughter.

It’s one of the song and dances you two do, flirting like it’s your first time time meeting to keep things fresh. But tonight, when he cages you against the kitchen counter, hands planted on either side and he’s leaning in close, showering you compliments— you ask.

Your fingers tuck into his collar, keep him close, keep his lips ghosting the shell of your ear and whisper to him. “And what would King Steve say?”

You turn, just enough to see his face. The flush that climbs his cheeks as he considers it is glorious to see, but too his credit, he remains cool.

Steve’s eyes darken, rake over your expression and finds what he’s searching for. One of the hands on the counter shifts to cup your waist, dragging his thumb over the exposed skin tantalisingly.

“He would ask what colour your panties are,” Steve murmurs in your ear, voice somehow lower than before. The gravel in his tone shoots straight to your core. “And then ask you to prove it, in the bathroom.”

Before you even get a moment, his thumb dips into the waistband of your skirt, just an inch — and you suck in a breath instinctively. Steve chuckles and it has a condescending lilt to it. You’re nearly ashamed of how much it turns you on.

“So,” you reply, more breathy than intended. “Are you gonna take me to the bathroom then?”

Steve’s eyes light up and a pleased smirk plays on his lips — his hands wandering further from your waist, over your ass, toying with the edge of your skirt.

“Pretty girl like you?” He hums, the air of cockiness you know is King Steve beginning to take over. “No way, baby. I’d have you in the car.”

The way he says it, like he knows he’s already got you wrapped around his finger has heat crawling in your tummy, thighs squirming just a bit. The party is all but abandoned and you have to try your best to not look too eager on your way out. Steve’s wandering hand, which follows a line straight from your tummy down your thigh, doesn’t help in the least.

His hand is glued to your thigh, the entire drive home, the sweet caress of his thumb driving you crazy. Worse, Steve knows it — he takes his eyes off the empty road to watch your expression when he grazes closer to your hot cunt. Laughs a bit at the flutter of your lashes, the shuddering breath you take.

“Y’gonna let me fuck you properly when we back?” He asks, all smug, rolling his head in your direction. He doesn’t even give you time to respond, not that you can think of words at the moment.

“Yeah, you are, aren’t you?” He hums, his other hand draped lazily over the wheel. He squeezes your thigh, some murmur of ‘being good’ you can’t quite catch.

Despite his cool composure, you can the effect this whole act is having on him. His hips shift upwards for a moment, adjusting himself and clearing his throat. It thrills you more to know you’re both getting off on it.

You don’t make it inside once Steve kills the car’s ignition, parked in the shadow of his house. It’s dark out, a few streetlights here and there, but just light enough to see Steve. He smiles at the way you turn to him, looking for what’s happening next.

He puts his seat back just a bit, backing away from the wheel, and beckons you over. It’s an awkward clamber and when your knee knocks the gear stick and you whisper an “Ow”, only then does Steve break character for a moment.

“Shit, honey, y’alright?” He asks, pulling you into his lap, one hand travelling to your knee instantly. He gives a comforting rub. Concern knits his brows together. It hurts, but barely. You smirk and wind you arms around his neck.

“Wow, who knew King Steve was such a sweetheart.” You tease. You sink down, settling atop his thighs, and move to grind down against him but Steve’s hands are faster. His hands grip your hips, holding them tight in place, and you whine in retaliation before you think.

Steve huffs that cocky laugh, squeezes the flesh of your thighs, pawing back to grab at your ass. “Too needy, aren’t you? You’ll just have to wait, mhm.”

Then his lips are on your skin, on your neck, sucking and scraping. Steve knows all your sensitive spots, the way to play with your lobe to make you slick and whimper aloud. He’s merciless, nibbles and licks that make your tummy burn tighter and hotter — your hips move against his hold automatically, beginning to get desperate for friction.

“Stevie…” You rasp after a couple minutes. The air is just your heavy pants, Steve’s fervent motions, the sound of his hands scraping across the fabric of your clothes. His hands cup your ass, move to under your thighs, and he curls his fingers around the edge of your skirt and tugs it up just a bit.

“I know, baby.” He coos against your skin. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You groan aloud softly, all his words travelling right to your cunt with a throb. You nod instantly, hoping, praying he’ll give you more. That he’ll let you kiss him.

“Let me have a kiss,” You pout, fingers curling into his hair, ready to tug his face up. Steve smiles at your words, despite his act, but he doesn’t show it. Doesn’t even move his face out. Just mumbles, “Nuh uh, baby. Not yet.” against your neck, breath hot, just to draw it all out.

While you still have a single coherent thought, you consider this the main difference between your Steve and this King Steve. King Steve is a fucking tease.

Your hips shift again, feeling his hardness beneath you. The desperation for some relief is building but Steve’s hands are already firm, holding you in place. He pulls back this time and fuck, if it isn’t a beautiful sight.

Lips pink and sheened with spit, cheeks a tad pink, eyes half-lidded in his lazy motions.

“Baby,” he begins, an annoyed drawl to his voice. “I’m taking care of you, yeah? Wait your turn.”

And before there room for protest, he’s back on you, lips pulling out every single sound from you he can. His hands move up to grope at your boobs, his fingers pinching at your nipples to make you whimper, then massaging it into pleasure to make you sigh. Your neck must be littered in hickies by this point.

It’s heaven. It’s torture. You grip his hair tighter as he works at a spot below your ear that forces little mewls out your throat and you try to contain your hips.

As Steve’s hands work downward, tracing the crease of your thighs inwards, you shudder and lean forward into him. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, still exposing your neck, and you can’t help how good it feels, you go a bit slack. Steve notices in a moment.

“Mmm, there you go.” He hums, voice low and still coated in smugness. “That’s it, just like that, huh?”

The dirty talk is making your head spin, making your cunt throb in want, your nipples tighten. You know the moment Steve’s fingers delve under your skirt, he’ll find a wet patch of slick.

His hands, however teasing, don’t venture under your skirt — and instead, he grips your hips again. This time, he pulls you closer and down, grinding up against at the same time. The pleasure burns hot and you moan lightly, fingers clenching in Steve’s hair and you find yourself chasing another grind instantly.

Steve doesn’t let you, hips still holding you in place. He sets the pace, a slow back and forth grind that pulls filthy noises from you. “That’s it, huh baby? That’s what you need, isn’t it? Taking what I give you, so good.”

His low voice, dripping in smugness, makes it hotter. Just a little mean. You force yourself to tug your head up, wanting more friction against him.

Despite the hardness in his jeans giving him away, he’s the most collected you’ve ever seen him for the situation. Eyes half-lidded, pink lips curled into a smirk, like he’s just observing you, not even partaking.

It’s all apart of King Steve; he gets you all hot and bothered, chest heaving and nails digging into his skin, while he looks cool as a cucumber. You let out a pathetic sounding noise, hips bucking against his hold.

“Oh, baby,” he crows, all faux-sympathetic, like he’s not grinding back up at you in that moment to make you mewl. Finally, one of his hands shift, pushing the fabric of your skirt up you thighs. Steve’s eyes gleam at the sight- sticky panties that are every bit of evidence of your arousal.

“Look at you,” He murmurs. You fight back every noise building in your throat, but they melt out when his thumb comes down to rub you through your panties. It’s a soft touch, a gentle stroke that’s nowhere near enough for you. Definitely on purpose.

You whine, arching against him and try to press forward, asking silently for more, more more. To your surprise, Steve doesn’t tease you, doesn’t draw this part out. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing firm circles that he knows makes you fall apart — and your resounding moan is much louder than you’re expecting, barely managing to muffle it into his shoulder.

Steve chuckles at it, doesn’t let up his pace, adoring how your hips twitch against his touch — you want more and yet, this feels like so much. You feel delirious, feel flushed in every part of your body, feel your hole clench around nothing and whine aloud because of it.

“Too much f’you?” He asks cockily. “We haven’t even made it inside yet, baby. How are you gonna handle it then, hmm?”

How indeed.

now with a part two here.

[awxcoffeexno]

unholy

mean!loganhowlett x mutant!reader one shot

fic masterlist

summary: you work at a shady dance club that offers other services. logan is a regular but this time he decides to implement his claws.

content warnings: very very VERY 18+. MDNI. claw worship and knife play!! mentions of blood and cutting. logan is very very mean and he likes hurting reader because he knows she can take it. reader is a mutant and a sex worker. please proceed only at your own risk, this is pure degeneracy and very very nsfw. also, sex, piv, mild slapping, lots of sucking and mention of bruises (only from the sex). vaguely set in the 70's after stryker's experiment (mostly only in my head because origins logan lives in my head rent free). also cameo from blue from sucker punch as a shout-out to baby me.

word count: 4k. longest from me.

a/n: since my utterly disgusting thoughts rubbed off on a lot of other people and the last claw worship fic was quite well received, i went ahead and wrote an nsfw version. this is pure filth and his fckin claws will never not make me feel some typa way. i will not apologise.

it's sweltering in the club, the music pounding, and the air filled with rising smoke from the hand-rolled cigarettes in the patrons' ashtrays. your mind is buzzing from the overstimulation and your muscles ache from the dancing, begging for a rest.

you love every last bit of it.

a man reaches up to where you're standing and tucks ten dollars into the string of your thong. you smile at him flirtatiously and sway down onto your haunches so you can lean in and thank him properly.

you've been in the trade long enough to know that the better you thank them, the more they keep coming back for. you're in the business of sales, really; conversions are everything. this business is fast business—there's the wall street boys and the dance girls, the two most proficient sales people in the world.

the man grins at your sultry voice, rewarding you with another ten dollars and a hot kiss to your neck. this isn't a no-touch club and that might be your favourite thing about working here. men are more likely to behave when they're allowed to touch rather than when they think they're rebelling by touching.

your hair, damp from sweat, sticks to your forehead and it almost makes you sad thinking about how nicely you'd done it earlier in the night. real big and fluffy, just like blue likes it.

and just as you think about him, he appears at your pole. he runs a hand up your sticky calf to catch your attention and you slide down, knowing from his expression instantly that there's more work to do.

tina quickly takes your place on the pole and you thank her with a kiss to the cheek and five dollars from your string. it's simple courtesy, and an unwritten club rule. if you're leaving your post for higher paying activities, you thank the other girl who is covering for you with money.

"hey, babydoll," blue says in your ear over the music, sliding a hand around your bare waist. "big ol' guy's here for you. the one with the…" blue rubs his cheeks, "fluff."

"logan," you say, more to yourself than blue, and he tips your chin to him.

"ask for 200, and only let him bring you down to 180. you gotta make up the difference for last week, sugar."

200 is asking for a lot for the hour. your going rate is a hundred and that's only because you're one of blue's favourite girls and he brings you his best clients. but logan's been a regular for the better part of six months now and blue knows he can hustle him for at least 180. besides, you were sick all week last week and blue warned you he'd make you pay.

so you lean in and give him a kiss, promising him the money.

"attagirl," he smirks, tugging your mouth open with a thumb and slipping a pill in.

you smile at him gratefully and start up the stairs, the roar of the music fading into a hum. quickly spitting the pill out into your hand, you tuck it into your bra. you'll flush it down the toilet when you get to your room. blue says the pills make it easier but you hate how groggy they make you feel. in any case, you like your sessions with logan.

he's good for you, keeps you from floating off into the sky. you're fairly certain there's an old roman story about flying a little too high. or was it greek?

slipping into your little red room, you quickly wash up and change into a silk robe that you know will not last the night. not around logan. but blue keeps a steady supply of them coming so long as you bring him good money which you do.

once you've refreshed your make up and puffed on a cigarette, you press the buzzer, letting the boys downstairs know to send logan up.

his broad shoulders fill your doorframe under a minute, the warmth of his presence sending a shiver down your sweaty body. he's clad in all black formal wear that rather reminds you of a funeral.

"whiskey?" you offer, watching him sit down on the plush leather chair that most others don't even bother to notice.

logan likes it slow, taking his time to unwind and ease up before he takes his stress out on you. it's rather nice, your usual routine.

however, when he grunts a yes and you start pouring his whiskey, you notice that something's off about him today. his eyes are a little droopy when they're usually so alert. his skin paler than the usual golden tan he sports.

something's wrong and you don't like the feeling that settles in your gut at that.

you take the whiskey over to him and climb into his lap, offering him the glass.

"what happened?" you ask, your voice betraying the concern you should probably never feel for any client.

he looks at you and snarls quietly, "poison arrow."

fuck.

logan's not particularly well beloved by the kind of gentry that a place like this attracts or the people he crosses paths with regularly. this much he's told you before and he's nothing if not honest.

but a poison arrow?

fuck.

your recent knack for eloquence aside, you ask quietly, "and… are you okay?"

"m'fine. fucked my healing though," he grumbles, pulling the collar of his flannel to the side, showing you the ugly gash that stretches from his shoulder, disappearing into his shirt.

you and logan share that power, a gift really. accelerated healing. it's come in handy plenty to you and you're only a dance girl. you cannot begin to imagine how a man like him will survive without it.

he sees your cringing expression and barks out a single-syllable laugh. the sound breaks you out of your thoughts and you look at him, startled.

"look at your face, pretty girl. told'ya m'fine. it's getting better already," he says and his voice, though tinted with his usual casual condescension, is gentler than you've ever heard him. he's… reassuring… you? you think??

"now, c'mere," he downs the whiskey and uses both hands to pull you closer by the thighs.

and then his mouth is at your neck, and there's the logan you know. rough and uncaring, cruel because he knows your body can take it. knows you can take what he can never do to anyone else.

he savours the salt on your skin, running his large paws down your arms tucking your wrists behind your back. he likes you detained, pliant and ripe for the taking. his throaty groan on your skin in the dip of your now exposed collar bone makes the need curl in your core.

real need, not the kind that you summon with other clients. need that is amplified when he squeezes your wrists tighter together to make you quit squirming.

"lo–"

"shut up." he commands, licking and sucking down your neck and shoulder, and that's that. you snap your mouth shut immediately.

logan slips your robe off both your shoulders with his free hand and his teeth sink into the flesh in the nape of your neck hard enough to draw blood, making you cry out his name. he's exhausted and healing too slowly and he needs to use you as his stress ball and fuck you until he feels better.

you want to cry out, you want to beg him until he gives you what you need but you know better than to do that with him. your hips however rut into him, making him yank you back and glare at you.

"and who let you do that, princess?" he says so calmly, voice oceans deep and velvety smooth, that you don't realise for a second that it was a question. a rhetorical one.

you blush and it makes his lip curl in a patronising smile.

"oh, i'll give you what you need alright. all you gotta do is ask, sugar."

you want to remind him that he was the one that told you to shut up but that won't end well, so you oblige.

"logan, please…" you whisper, hands trying to readjust in his grip, grasping for a more comfortable position. "please let me have you."

"that just won't do. need me to help you put together full sentences too?" he grumbles, readjusting because he's clearly in pain. "say it like you want it. say you want my fat cock to fill your needy little pussy. say you want her to feel good."

logan's mouth is disgusting. the words aren't too different from what the other men that come to your room spout but on his tongue they sound particularly dirty. and apparently you like dirty because god fucking dammit… his words and his voice and his scent and his everything make your need for him desperately worse.

"please, please, just need your fat cock to fill my pussy, to stretch her out, logan." you grovel. "need my pussy to feel good, please."

"jesus fuck, princess. got quite the mouth on you." he smirks as if he wasn't the one to draw those words from your lips. "let's put it to good use."

he isn't going to let you have his cock in you to quench that need that easy. he always, always makes you work for it.

he juts his chin out, gesturing to you to get on the floor and you slip between his legs, looking up at him reverently.

you like him in your mouth anyway. you like the way he uses you just hard enough to make you cry but never hard enough to make you feel like you're drowning–unlike some people who come here, the ones that make you bury your face in blue's chest later as he lectures you about needing to toughen up.

but when he reaches our for you, his hand comes into your focus and it makes you gasp softly. the space between his knuckles, home to his claws, is bared open, dirty and covered in blood. the claws cut him open every time but heals immediately so it's never mattered before. you take his giant hand with both of yours to examine the wounds but he yanks it away. the back of his hand comes down on your right cheek in a sharp, firm slap.

"focus," he growls and you rub your cheek, eyebrows setting into a frown.

your tone is firmer than it is around him when you speak. "show it to me, logan."

he shifts in his seat, gauging you. he isn't used to hearing any form of authority in your voice. nor is he used to being taken care of. he cracks his neck, shaking it off and then leans forward.

"you wanna see?" he says, voice so low it makes your toes curl.

you swallow thickly and nod, chewing on the inside of your lip.

"then you're going to have to pay, princess."

your tummy jumps as he puts his fist in front of you. you're about to reach over to grab his hand again, leaning in close to take a better look, but out come his claws making you shuffle back in alarm. they stop at your lips, drawing a hitched breath from you.

"open your mouth, angel. it'll hurt too much if i push them in myself."

the old man has lost it.

"lo–" you start to protest but he's retracted all but his middle claw with a loud snikt, and is pushing the flat of the remaining one into your mouth.

the cold adamantium of logan’s claw presses against your tongue, the sharp edge demanding obedience. you part your lips further slowly, letting the flat of the blade slide deeper inside, grazing your tongue. the metallic taste is sharp, a reminder of the danger you’re playing with.

logan’s gaze never leaves yours, dark and unyielding. there’s no softness in his eyes, no hint of gentleness. this isn’t about comfort or care—this is about control, about reminding you who’s in charge. his other hand grips your jaw, fingers digging into your skin just hard enough to bruise, forcing you to keep your mouth open.

“good girl,” he mutters, the praise laced with a mocking edge that makes your stomach twist. his tone is condescending, amused by how easily you submit to him.

he begins to draw the claw out, then slides it back in, a slow and deliberate rhythm that forces you to focus on the sensation—the cool metal, the danger of the sharp blade so close to your skin. your breath hitches, a mix of fear and something darker curling in your gut.

“look at ya, angel,” logan sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “so eager to worship something that could slice you open without a second thought.”

it’s as if he knows exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you crave his approval despite the cruelty in his touch.

his grip on your jaw tightens as he tilts your head back further, forcing you to take the claw deeper into your mouth. “don’t bite down,” he warns, the threat clear in his tone and you realise… he can feel it. he can feel your mouth on his claw and it's stoking the fire in him.

you nod as best as you can in response to his words, your eyes locked on his, wide and pleading. the pain from his grip mingles with the strange pleasure of submission, and it’s almost unbearable. you feel like you're on fire. logan watches you struggle, a twisted smirk playing on his lips as he revels in your discomfort.

“you like this, don't cha?” he taunts, pulling the claw out just enough to let you breathe. “you like being reminded of what i could do to you if i wanted. y'like knowing that i’m the one who decides how far this goes.”

he’s right, of course. you hate how much you like it, how the power he holds over you only intensifies the burning need in your belly. it’s humiliating and exhilarating all at once, and logan's reading you like an open book.

“now, let’s see if you’re really worth the trouble,” he growls, sliding the claw out entirely, leaving your mouth empty and aching. he leans back in his chair, holding his hand out in front of you, the metal gleaming under the dim light as the other claws come out too. “kiss them. show me how much you want it.”

your heart pounds as you lean in, pressing your lips to the cool metal with reverence. the taste of them lingers on your tongue, and the weight of his gaze is almost suffocating. but you do as you’re told, kissing the blades as if they're something sacred, something you’re desperate to prove your devotion to.

logan’s smirk widens as he watches you. “that’s it, princess. make it worth my while. maybe then i’ll give you what you’re begging for.”

the claw lingers against your lips and you tilt your head slightly, pressing a softer, more deliberate kiss to the adamantium, tasting the faint tang of blood and iron bloom on your lips. the edge is sharp against your skin and you aren't surprised you've managed to cut yourself. but your body takes care of you and the wound is gone before you even lick the blood away.

your tongue flicks out, tentative at first, tracing the length of the blade. you can’t stop yourself, your need to please him overpowering every other instinct. logan’s eyes narrow as he watches you, the barest hint of approval hidden beneath the hardness of his gaze.

“that’s more like it,” he murmurs, his voice quiet… tired. “show me how much you love it. show me how much you’re willing to do to keep me happy.”

you press your tongue flat against the claw, dragging it slowly along the length, tasting the cold metal. you wrap your lips around his claw and carefully start sucking the way you would his cock, making him groan your name. you cut yourself over and over as you suck but it bothers neither of you, the pain translating directly into the wetness between your legs.

“attagirl,” logan growls.

“thank you, logan,” you whisper against the claw, your voice trembling with need. “thank you for this.”

a dark chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest. “thank me when you’ve earned it,” he replies, pulling the claw away just slightly, taunting you with its absence. your lips chase after it, a whimper escaping as you realize how much you're genuinely, truly enjoying this.

“please,” you murmur, your voice shaking. “please, logan, let me have you. let me take care of you.”

he raises an eyebrow, the cold amusement in his eyes never wavering. “take care'a me? is that what you think this is?” he presses the claw back against your lips, harder this time, making sure you feel the point against your skin. “you’re here to serve me, princess. and you’ll do it how i want, not how you think i need.”

a shudder runs through you at his words, the sharp edge digging just enough to leave a thin line of red along your lower lip. your eyes sting with tears, but you don’t dare pull away. instead, you lean into it, pressing your lips against the claw in a silent plea for mercy, for something more.

logan’s smirk deepens, his other hand coming to rest on the back of your head, pushing you forward just enough that the point of his claw cuts into your lip again. you gasp at the sting, but the sound is muffled as he presses down harder, forcing your mouth to open.

logan watches you, his expression unreadable, but his grip on the back of your head tightens, holding you in place as you continue to worship the deadly weapon in your mouth. “want to take care'a me?” he mocks, his voice rough and dark. “you think that's what i need?”

you nod as best you can with the claw in your mouth, your eyes pleading with him.

but logan isn’t done with you yet. he pulls the claw from your mouth, leaving your lips wet with a mix of blood and saliva. you gasp, trying to catch your breath, but before you can say anything, he shoves the claw against your chest, just above your heart, the point pressing into your skin.

“thank me,” he growls, his voice a low snarl. “and mean it.”

“thank you, logan,” you whisper, your voice cracking with desperation. “thank you for your claws.”

the cruel twist of his smile is all the reward you get, but it’s enough. he drags the claw down, slicing through the thin fabric of your robe, leaving a trail of red in its wake. you flinch, but you don’t pull away, your body trembling as you try to keep still under his touch.

"been good, babygirl." he relents finally, watching as your wound heals. "c'mere."

he hauls you into his lap with ease, despite his injuries. you make quick work of his buttons and throw his black shirt open. your eyes snap up to his and then back to his body.

he's covered in bullet holes. five that you can count anyway. your hands reach for them but he grabs your wrist.

"m'fine. they'll heal. two already have."

oh.

so you plant your mouth on his, kissing him deep, savouring the tobacco and musk of his breath. he tugs you closer, hooking a finger into your panties and dragging them down your smooth legs. it makes your toes curl.

the sticky mess between your legs leaves a dark patch on his trousers as he goes back to sucking soft bruises into your neck.

and then you hear his claws before you feel them, the cold metal cutting through what's left of your robe like butter, pressing into the soft skin over your scapula. you brace yourself, nails sinking into his broad shoulders and he cuts the claws in, slicing you open.

"logan, please!" you cry out but the pain is only momentary, delicious and burning hot, before your skin stitches itself back up like clockwork.

"fuck… me," he gasps and you've never heard him so affected.

he undoes his belt with a practiced hand and slides it off, tossing it off to the side and tugging his pants down. quickly, you position yourself over him, sitting down with your head rolled back, sheathing him with your warm, wet walls. he's splitting you open, stretching you the way you begged earlier.

and then he resumes cutting, slicing your back open as you move up and down on his cock. you bury your face in his neck, hiding your tears of pain and pleasure in his neck as he undoes you.

he grabs your jaw when he notices you start to lose yourself.

"no, you pay attention, bub." he snarls in your ear, kissing you roughly. pulling away when your eyes are wide open again, he slips a finger into your mouth.

the salt and blood on his skin makes your mouth water and this is beyond fucked up but you regret nothing. you suck diligently and he reaches down and wraps his mouth around your nipple, making you suck a sharp breath in. you feel his teeth sink in and it sends a shiver down your spine.

your hands in his hair, you tug sharply, making him growl and switch to your other nipple.

"logan…" you whine around his finger, thighs aching from the effort of riding him through it all.

he grunts and takes his hand away from your mouth. both hands on your waist, he starts to fuck you like a fucking fleshlight, moving you up and down on him like you weigh nothing.

you hear a snikt and a claw comes up to your face, running down the side of your cheek and making you mewl in pleasure.

you only just realise how much logan's wound you up in the hour that he's been in your room. you're hurtling towards the edge and he's barely been in you for a few minutes.

but you've wound him up too, the nerves in his body alight with pleasure.

"fuck, doll," he groans in your ear, retracting his claws and steading you with his hands again. "not going to last long tonight."

fuck. blue is going to kill you for letting Logan go so quickly.

yet you cannot seem to care.

you mewl his name and pick up speed at that, panting and gasping, and aching to please. he feels the telltale sign of your edge in the quivering of your walls and yanks you down on himself, pushing you over the cliff.

it's like fireworks and butterflies and pure fucking ecstasy.

"been a good fucking filthy girl," he whispers in your ear, knowing it'll make you react around his cock. "lettin' me cut'ya open like that."

you press your damp brow against his shoulder, riding your high weakly but your pussy does enough to bring him to his climax as well. he grunts and wraps his arms around you, holding you tight down in his lap, filling you warm and deep.

he pants softly in your ear and you look at him with a giddy smile. you reach for his hand to press a kiss to his knuckles and…

his hand is healed.

and… so is his other one.

you pull back to check the rest of him and… they're all gone. all of the bullet holes.

a sly smile spreads across your lips and you look at him with satisfaction dancing in your eyes.

"took care of you after all."

he lets out a surprised laugh, eyes softening with something you haven't seen in him before. he pulls you back into his embrace, and this softness is new. nice, but new.

"yes you did, princess."

i need to be committed and lobotomised with logan's claws. blue would love that.

love, d <3

taglist: @techwrecker, @saltwaterburns, @lilaccmilk, @clevah-girlboss

divider: @rookthornesartistry

[seventeenreasonswhy]

SVT Reacts to Watching Their S/O Please Themself 😈

18+ / NSFW / MDNI!

OT13!Seventeen x Fem!Reader

OT13 react to you asking them to watch you m*sturb*te. 🤭

Warnings/Content: smut, masturbation obvi, reader has a vagina, voyeurism, good ol' fashioned mutual coming.

Author's Note: Teehee, hot and bothered watching SVT watch reader watch them watching me watching them... anyway these wrote themselves! Lol.

S.Coups

This man is seated! He can’t wait to watch you writhe and play with yourself. He’s so enamored with your body. He can't help but slowly move closer and closer to you, wanting to see the way you touch yourself up close. “Faster, baby,” he would instruct you, talking you through your orgasm, unable to stop himself from getting more involved before too long.

Jeonghan

“Mmm, and what’s in it for me, exactly?” he’d tease you, but you know he's excited by the idea of watching you. He’d sprawl out, laying far back from you, creating quite a bit of distance to raise the tension. He likes when you perform like this, making him feel like the lone spectator of his very own private show. He’d start touching himself with you before long, and you two would cum without ever laying a finger on each other.

Joshua

Horny just at the thought of this! He’d request that you really go for it, holding nothing back. He likes when you're dirty like this. You'd come home to find that he'd bought you an expensive dress and expensive lingerie to wear so that you can slowly undress for him, too. Leave it to Joshua to make the experience even more colorful and exciting.

Jun

He would feel awkward about it at first, but then he’d get into it, slowly working himself along with you and watching your body move so easily and languidly. He loves the sounds of your soft moans while you touch yourself. He can't help but wonder if you think about him often when you do this. But he feels too shy to ask.

Hoshi

This man will watch you do anything! Haha it would be a challenge for him to keep his hands to himself, which you would have fun with commanding him to do—scolding him any time he slips up and touches you. Eventually he would just take charge, unable to stop himself. You were too sexy, and he wanted nothing more than to fuck your wet pussy with his fingers, feeling the tight way that you clench around him, every muscle in your abdomen flexing as you get closer and closer to coming.

Wonwoo

You thought you could cum just thinking of Wonwoo's eyes on you as you touched yourself. You didn't realize you'd be so nervous as he gazes at you unwaveringly, one hand up to his mouth, biting down on the nail of his thumb. “If you’re going to do it, then really do it,” he’d say to you in a low, but commanding voice, “show me how you make yourself feel good.” You go completely flush as you fuck yourself with your hand, your back arching up deliciously. You suddenly feel fingertips tracing a line on your skin, up your stomach then between your breasts, until Wonwoo captures your chin in his hand and guides your face up to his—giving you a slow, sensual kiss. You break apart eventually, but he's in your ear whispering, “Keep going.”

Woozi

This activity is a regular feature in your sex life with Jihoon. He loves when he can just sit back and lazily watch you put on a show for him! You feel so turned on when he’s paying such close attention to you, like there’s nothing more important than your pleasure. He gives a lot of verbal praise as he watches you, which is a little out of the ordinary for him. “Listen to you,” he’d say. You can't help but giggle at the way he's getting lost in the lewd sounds you make when you’re this wet for him.

The8

He’d love to watch you get started on yourself as he lays next to you, tracing his fingers all over your face and body. You two make serious eye contact as you shift on the bed, your back starting to arch as you rub your clit. He’d gently cup your cheek with his hand, “My beautiful girl,” he’d whisper, “being so naughty...” He’d tease you, helping you get even closer to your release by tracing your lower lip with his thumb, even asking you to suck on it.

Mingyu

He's too impatient for this, really, but he also loves to watch you get worked up! You’d tease him extra hard by repeatedly moaning out his name as you glide your fingers in and out of yourself, occasionally throwing him a torturous fucked-out expression, bringing your wet fingers up to your mouth and licking your own arousal off of them. He’d go insane and dive headfirst between your legs, not letting you rest for the rest of the night for being so mean.

DK

Haha, our shy prince! He would be so turned on by you, your skin glistening as you glide your fingertips along your drenched pussy, bared so openly for him. Everything you do is sexy to him, but seeing you touch yourself just for him takes it to almost unbearable heights. He can't stop himself from helping you out with his tongue—lapping at your clit before long, sucking on you and kissing your cunt as you continued to finger yourself. You swear you can feel him murmur the words "thank you" as you come all over his face...

Seungkwan

Seungkwan both loves and hates a challenge. And the tone that you asked—more like demanded—that you start your time in the bedroom that evening having him watch you... He couldn't help feeling like you were testing him. So he decides to tease you right back, staring a hole through your skull as you work yourself into a tizzy right in front of him. He doesn't dare react and give you the satisfaction of making him fall apart... But his stubborn glare gets you even hornier.

Vernon

Vernon is pleasantly surprised when he comes out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower. A towel wrapped around his waist, he sees you already stretched out naked on the bed, one arm resting above your head while the other glides softly between your legs. A smirk spreads across his face, hair still dripping from the shower, as he watches you. You shift under his gaze, his direct look making you squirm even more. "Don't stop," he says, not taking his eyes off you until you cum.

Dino

He is stunned speechless when you suggest that you masturbate for him! He loves your body, and the idea of watching you sounds like heaven. But the idea of just watching you, and nothing else? Like, not being able to touch you? He wasn't sure if he could handle that. You see the gears turning, and smile to yourself. You slide your arms around his shoulders, nuzzling your nose into his worried expression. "You wouldn't have to keep your hands totally to yourself, you know..." you whisper in his ear, and he immediately perks up.

[perotovar]

baby, i'm-a want you — (ch 3) "session three"

gif by me

pairing: javier peña/joel miller rating: E (18+) mdni word count: 4k content: flirty!javi strikes again, as does shy!joel, seriously they're dorks and it's disgusting(ly adorable), one (1) handjob, anal fingering, emotional sex, unprotected p in a, fucktons of lube, if i missed anything else lmk! dividers: @saradika-graphics beta: @qveerthe0ry ♥

series summary: javier peña has been doing this a long time. he's really good at his job. joel miller? not so much. he started doing this to get some extra cash to support his daughters. what happens when they're supposed to do a scene together? aka, the au where javier and joel are gay porn stars~

a/n: apologies for taking so long updating this sdfglkjhdfg but the babies have returned! hopefully the last part will come sooner ♥

series masterlist | main masterlist

for updates, follow @oakslibrary and turn on notifications ♥

It was a little last minute, but Joel did his best with what little wiggle room he gave himself. The closest place to the studio, that he could confidently bring Javier to without embarrassing himself, was this nice little local place. It was owned by an old couple that were close with his parents, and their kids took over. Joel was a bit of a regular, but he hadn’t been in a while.

They decided to drive separately since it was a first date – a date, Jesus Christ, help him – and Joel didn’t want to make it seem like he expected anything from Javier.

Joel got there first, and got them a table. His eyes scanned the menu he practically knew by heart, but he wasn’t reading any of it. Blood rushed in his ears and his heart thundered in his chest. He was so god damn nervous.

“Can I get you something to drink while you wait for your guest, sir?”

Joel jumped in his seat, startled, and looked at the young waitress – must be a new hire – an embarrassed flush on his cheeks. “Um, y-yeah. Thanks,” he cleared his throat and set the menu down. “Just some water, please.”

She nodded and took off toward the kitchen. Joel exhaled a heavy breath and shut his eyes, trying to calm himself down. 

“You okay?” Javier asked easily, taking his seat in the booth across from Joel.

“Christ–” Joel startled. “Gonna get a heart attack one of these days,” he mumbled to himself.

“What was that?” Javier chuckled, resting a new cigarette on his right ear.

“Nothin’,” grumbled Joel. “Uh, glad you made it.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” Javier smiled. “Have you ordered yet?” “Jus’ some water,” he mumbled, right as the waitress set his glass down on the table.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” She smiled politely.

“I’ll take a beer, sweetheart,” Javier winked. The young girl blushed and nodded jerkily, speeding off to get his drink.

Joel watched quietly, a part of him jealous, and the other amused. Javier didn’t really flirt with him much, but he guessed it made sense since Javi thought Joel hated him before a couple of hours ago. He wiped his sweaty palms onto his jean-clad thighs and sighed softly.

“S-so, um. Jus’ wanted to apologize again for, uh,” he blinked, fumbling for the right words. “Y’know–”

“Joel,” Javi chuckled. “Seriously, it’s okay. We’re good now,” he smiled gently.

Joel smiled shyly and nodded, relieved. “‘m glad to hear that.”

Javi grinned wolfishly and rested his chin on the palm of his hand as he got comfy in his seat. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous, Joel,” he teased. “Big, scary Joel is nervous because of little ol’ me?” He smirked.

Joel made a face, almost like he was going to fight it, but decided not to. That sort of reaction is what made this hard in the first place. “Well,” he started. “Yeah. You’re… You’re a real catch, Javier. And, well, I’m… me,” he shrugged awkwardly.

Javi blinked, and opened his mouth to respond, but the waitress came back before he could say anything. 

“Your beer,” she said. “Would you gentlemen like to order?”

As Joel told her what he’d be having, none of the words sunk in for Javi. He wasn’t really paying attention, too focused on a mole on the left side of Joel’s neck. He wanted to nibble on it.

“And you, sir?” Javi snapped out of it and blinked, looking down at his unopened menu. “Uhh, I’ll have the same,” he smiled politely.

When it was just the two of them again, Javi took a drink of his beer before saying, “Joel, do you think that you’re not also a catch? God,” he groaned, adjusting how he sat a little, his ass still sore from earlier. “I’m gonna be feelin’ you for days, guapo.”

Joel blushed hard, his eyes going wide. “O-oh, well, I–”

“I’ve been wanting to work with you again for a while, Joel,” he said seriously, making a point of checking the older man out shamelessly. 

Joel blinked. “You have?”

Javier snorted and took another drink off his beer. “Yeah, are you kidding me? God, the scene you filmed with Dave? I didn’t think he bottomed for anyone.”

Joel was sharing a striking resemblance to a tomato right now and Javi thought it was adorable. “Um, well,” he gulped. “M-Max said the– the viewers? They really only like seein’ me one way, so,” he shrugged.

Javi rolled his eyes, and laughed lightly. “I know how that is,” he nodded. The waitress set their plates in front of them and wished them a good meal. They gave her their thanks, and Joel started digging in, trying to keep his hands occupied. “Part of the reason I agreed to do our scene,” Javi continued. “And I’d get to do it with you.”

“How do you do that?” Joel chuckled, the tips of his ears red.

“Do what, guapo?” Javi hummed, taking his fork and stabbing it into his food to take a bite.

“That,” Joel stressed, eyes glued to Javier’s mustache as he chewed. His thoughts drifted back to when it was wrapped around his cock and he had to adjust himself under the table. “Flirt.”

Javier shrugged, as if it was the easiest response in the world. “Just comes naturally to me, I guess. ‘Sides,” he smirked, taking another drink of his beer. “It’s easy to do when you’re on the receiving end,” he winked.

“Christ, Javier,” Joel laughed nervously, covering his eyes with one of his hands. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Javi chuckled. “Force of habit.” A comfortable silence settled over the two of them as they ate their matching meals. Joel had an adorable little smile and pink cheeks as he cut the meat on his plate. “Y’know,” Javier started. “I haven’t been wined and dined in a long time. Usually just have casual hookups.”

Joel made a face at that, chewing his food thoughtfully. Each hand had a utensil, one knife and one fork, but he set them down and wiped his mouth and hands clean before he spoke. “‘m sorry to hear that. But I won’t be upset at bein’ the one to break that streak,” he said, voice low as he crossed his arms onto the table.

Javi’s face brightened before he laughed softly. “See! You can flirt just fine, guapo.”

Joel grumbled something to himself and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

An amused expression crossed Javi’s features. He set down his own fork and gulped down the last of his beer in one swig. “C’mon. Let’s get outta here, yeah?”

Joel blinked, looking up at Javi as he stood next to the table. “B-but–”

Javier gave Joel a suggestive look and licked his lips. “Let’s get out of here, Joel,” he grinned, eyes traveling down to the bulge in Joel’s jeans.

Cheeks flushed and eyes wide, Joel clumsily made his way to the register at the front and paid for their meals.

Joel grunted, moaning into Javier’s mouth as he was pressed to the door of Javier’s apartment. Javier kissed him like his life depended on it, and if you asked him, it did.

“Wanna thank you,” Javi breathed, kissing down Joel’s neck until he got to the pulse point at the base of the thick muscle. He kissed his way back up until he latched onto Joel’s jaw, nibbling and sucking on a spot where his beard refused to grow. “Mmm,” he hummed, eyes shut in bliss.

“F-fuck, Javier, I–” Joel gasped, gripping the younger man’s shirt in his rough hands. “W-what for?”

“Takin’ me out,” Javier whispered, sucking Joel’s bottom lip into his mouth as he kissed him deeper. “Fucking me better than anyone else has in months.” He grabbed Joel’s small, plump ass beneath the rough denim and squeezed. He grinded his hard cock against Joel’s, pushing a thin, but muscled thigh between Joel’s legs. “When’s the last time someone got to fuck you, huh? When’s the last time you didn’t have to be in charge?”

Joel’s entire body was on fire, blood rushing south as his cock twitched in interest. He could barely breathe let alone think of a response to such a question. He made a weak noise at the base of his throat and tried pulling back to look at Javier, but the younger man had other plans.

“‘s what I thought,” Javi grinned. Hands gripped onto Joel’s ass, he guided the older man toward his bedroom with his mouth attached to Joel’s neck. He kicked his bedroom door open and gently pushed Joel onto his back on the bed. They tripped a little, causing Joel to bounce when he landed on the bed, and they both chuckled awkwardly. They didn’t mind though, too preoccupied with the task at hand. 

This is what Javier wanted. This is what he’d been craving. A moment alone with Joel with no cameras, no scripts, no Max. Just pure instinct and shared heat. Crawling onto Joel’s lap, he grabbed the older man’s face and kissed him passionately, moaning openly into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he groaned, grinding his cock against Joel’s. “You’re so fucking hot, Joel.”

“J-Javier, please slow down,” Joel gasped. His cock was throbbing beneath the younger man and he was afraid the evening would end sooner than planned. Javier slowed his hips, and chose to kiss all over Joel’s face instead, leaving a peck here and there as Joel caught his breath. “Thank you,” he exhaled, eyes fluttering shut.

Javier smiled and sat up, running his hands over Joel’s strong torso. It was covered by a thin t-shirt, but Javier could see the outline of a strong chest and a soft tummy. He wanted to bury his face in it.

Joel’s bear paws gripped onto Javier’s thighs and squeezed, eyes fluttering open. His cheeks were flushed, but he had a twinkle in his eye that betrayed any doubt either of them may have had. “‘m ready when you are, sweetheart,” Joel smiled, rolling his hips up toward Javier’s.

Javi didn’t need to be told twice. He pushed Joel’s t-shirt up until it was bunched up under his armpits. His hands groped and squeezed at Joel’s pecs as he kissed between them, making his way down to that hairy, soft tummy. “Fuck,” he groaned, kissing and sucking along the smooth skin.

Joel’s hips bucked and his body trembled under Javi’s ministrations, unable to hold back what they were doing to him. “Sweetheart, please,” he grunted, tugging on the collar of the polo Javier was wearing. “‘m not gonna make it if you keep that up,” he chuckled breathlessly.

“Alright,” Javier smirked, leaned over to give him one more deep kiss. It stole the air from Joel’s lungs and ended quicker than he liked. He slowly stood up from the bed and rifled through the bedside table for his lube. “Do me a favor and get naked for me, will ya?” He grinned, throwing a wink Joel’s way.

Joel snorted, but did as he was told, tossing his clothes onto Javier’s bedroom floor. His cock stood proudly between his thick thighs as he watched Javier get undressed as well. Precum dribbled down the length as his cock twitched. This was nothing new for either of them; having sex, being naked in front of one another. But it was also completely different. There were no stakes, no pressures from anyone else. It felt far more vulnerable than it usually did, less technical.

Javi crawled between Joel’s legs and lifted them, exposing the older man’s hole to him. He hummed in thought at the sight and leaned over to kiss Joel languidly. “Would you be opposed to me fucking your brains out, Joel?” Javi grinned, nibbling on his jaw again.

Joel groaned in response and nodded jerkily, digging his fingers into Javier’s sides. “Please,” he grunted.

”Mm, lie back for me, guapo.”

Joel did as he was told and got comfy, feet planted on the mattress and knees spread. The first touch of Javier’s lube-covered fingertips startled him. It really had been some time since another person did this for him. But not that long since he’d done it himself. Javier’s middle finger swirled around the rim of his hole teasingly as he kissed and sucked along Joel’s neck.

”Got hair everywhere, huh?” Javi smirked, pressing his finger inside past the tight ring of muscle. Joel’s answering moan of pleasure made a chill run down Javier’s spine. “Atta boy,” he praised. It didn’t take long for his ring finger to join the middle one and start fucking into him.

”Oh, fuck,” Joel groaned, back arching off the bed. His head was pressed to the pillow, the sweat already starting to trickle down the side. He could feel the tension leaving his body as Javier’s fingers fucked him lewdly, the wet squelch filling the room. 

“Oh, I know,” Javi pouted, his tone saccharine sweet. “Been a long time since someone took care of you, huh?” Joel nodded and bit his lip, eyebrows turned down in pleasure. “But this isn’t what you want, is it?”

Joel grunted in response, the precum from his cock trickling down his stomach, and fingers gripping the sheets so tightly he was afraid he’d rip them.

”No, you want to be fucked, huh? Want a cock so deep inside that you forget your own name, right?” Javier’s mouth was just as filthy as the rest of him and it was making Joel blush all the way down to his chest. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything, baby. I’ll take care of you,” he whispered, latching onto Joel’s earlobe and nibbling softly.

Javier’s fingers continued to fuck him for a few more minutes before they were removed, a lewd suck signifying their release. Joel shut his eyes and groaned, turning his head into the pillow. Javier cupped his face and kissed him with so much more emotion than he was used to. He wasn’t sure what he did to be on the receiving end of this Javier but he wasn’t going to question it.

”Breathe for me, baby,” Javi hummed, knee-walking between Joel’s legs. His fingers curled around his cock as he covered it in lube. Joel nodded, eyes half-lidded in pleasure as he watched the younger man.

Joel’s eyes traveled down Javier’s slim torso until they landed on the thick cock between his legs. He was mesmerized by the head appearing and disappearing beneath the foreskin as Javier stroked himself, and it made him shiver.

Javier drizzled some extra lube onto Joel’s rim before rubbing the head of his cock there teasingly. Joel grunted at the feeling, his cock twitching. Javier chuckled darkly, tapping the head of his cock against the tight rim. Joel clenched around nothing, the anticipation starting to kill him.

Joel was so caught up in the moment that he couldn’t even stop it before it happened. His hips bucked and his bent knee jerked so hard he hit Javi’s chin with it. “F-fuck, I’m so sorry–”

Javier was laughing, thankfully, but he rubbed his chin to soothe the mild burn. “You’re lucky you’re so cute, Miller,” he winked. Joel groaned and covered his face with his hands in embarrassment. He was a fucking professional porn star and he couldn’t even have normal sex. What was wrong with him?

”Shh,” Javier soothed. “C’mere,” he hummed before slowly taking Joel’s hands away from his face. Joel’s eyes were glued to the center of Javier’s chest, refusing to make eye contact. “Hey,” he smiled softly.

Joel blinked up at him and bit his lip. “‘m sorry, Javier…”

Javier grinned and leaned over, kissing Joel’s lips languidly. They stayed there for a while, Javier holding Joel’s face as he stayed between the older man’s legs. Eventually, Joel’s heart rate evened out and he could breathe steadily again. “I’m okay. Are you?” He asked softly.

Joel nodded, shutting his eyes briefly to take a deep breath. “‘m alright,” he smiled shyly.

“Good,” Javier grinned, slowly pushed inside, and the air left Joel’s lungs. The older man’s toes started to curl and his back arched off the bed. Javier smiled and laced his fingers with Joel’s, pressing them against the bed.

Hovering over him, Javier kissed him sweetly, slowly, letting Joel get used to being filled again. Joel made a weak noise into Javier’s mouth as his legs wrapped around Javier’s thin waist. “Please, move,” he breathed, eyes glossy and face flushed.

Javier nodded, latching his mouth back onto Joel’s, fucking into him slowly. Joel had expected their first time alone to be hot and fast and passionate, but he thinks he prefers this much more. Javier fucked him with so much attention and tenderness that he almost cried trying to remember the last time someone did this for him.

The pace Javier had set was deep and steady, the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin unmistakeable in the quiet room, but if anyone were to walk in on them, they would see something entirely different. “You feel so good, Joel,” Javier panted between kisses.

Joel moaned in response, squeezing Javier’s hands in his own. “So do you,” he breathed. His free hand wrapped around the younger man’s neck. He dug blunt fingernails into Javier’s back, the stretch feeling so foreign but so good that it overwhelmed him.

Javier shivered as the pleasure-pain from Joel’s fingernails shot down his spine and settled at the base. His cock twitched hard inside the older man. “Fuck, Joel,” he groaned, his balls drawing up and slapping loudly against Joel’s ass.

“‘m close, Javi,” Joel panted, face flushed and sweaty, brows furrowed in concentration.

A wide smile crossed Javier’s features. “You called me Javi,” he chuckled, picking up the pace slightly. “You want me to come inside you?”

Joel nodded quickly, the throbbing in his cock flooding all thoughts. “P-please,” he breathed weakly. 

“Only if you come with me, guapo,”  Javier groaned, letting go of Joel’s hands to grip his hips. He picked up the pace, fucking into Joel harder and faster the closer he got. Joel’s body stilled and he moaned out loud when the tip of Javi’s cock brushed against his prostate. “Ooh, did I find it?” Javier smirked. He lifted a knee and planted one foot on the mattress to get a better angle. “C’mon, baby. C’mon.”

Joel’s back arched high off the mattress as Javier continued his brutal pace. He curled his fingers around his own cock and started pumping hard, squeezing around the shaft. 

“Fuck,” Javi moaned, eyes locked on Joel’s big hand. “You’re so fucking hot, Joel. Come for me.”

Joel’s legs trembled on either side of the younger man’s hips before he stilled, coming hard all over his stomach and hand. Javier fucked him through it, his hips following the waves of Joel’s orgasm. It didn’t take long for him after that, his hips slapping against him without rhythm with his release. He came in thick ropes and with a shaky breath.

Joel moaned weakly at the feeling, his heart pounding and fluttering in his chest when Javier kissed him again. Javi kissed with so much passion.

They breathed heavily as they came down from their high, Javier’s forehead pressed to Joel’s. “Mmm,” Javier hummed, a smile on his face. “You’re amazing, Joel.”

“Look who’s talkin’,” Joel grunted, eyes shut and chest heaving. Javier laughed and pecked his cheek before pulling out carefully. They both moaned at the feeling. Javier cleaned them both up gently and pulled Joel down onto his chest, rubbing his bare back comfortingly.

”We should do this again sometime,” he said softly, a grin on his tired face. Joel hummed in response, cuddling close to him and squeezing. 

Before either of them knew it, Joel was passed out, snoring softly into Javier’s chest. Javier snorted and kissed the top of Joel’s head.

”Night, guapo.”

Joel felt… lighter. And sore.

When he opened his eyes, he groaned at how bright it was, forcing him to shut his eyes tightly. Then, once his eyes had adjusted, he noticed the painting of a field at sunset next to the window. He didn’t have that… 

He blinked, the memories from the night before came flooding back and his cock twitched under the sheets. His body felt heavy and he smiled, looking over to the side, but frowned when he saw it was empty. Where was Javier?

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Javier rumbled, voice thick with sleep. He walked into the bedroom with a mug in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was only in a pair of boxer briefs as he made his way over to the window next to the painting. Joel’s eyes were glued to every one of his movements.

“Mornin’,” Joel said softly.

Javier set the mug on the windowsill and opened it, taking a seat next to the mug. He lit up, indulging in his morning routine. “How you feelin’ this morning, guapo?” Javi smirked, breathing out a plume of smoke.

“Sore,” Joel chuckled, rubbing his eyes clear of any remaining sleep. “But… good.”

“Glad to hear it,” Javi hummed, taking a sip of his coffee. “There’s more if you want some,” he said, lifting his mug.

“I’d love some coffee,” he groaned, pulling the sheets off. Javier raised a brow and smirked appreciatively, watching Joel’s bare ass as he looked for his underwear. He shivered as the tight material snapped onto Joel’s smooth skin. 

Joel left the room briefly, and came back with his own steaming cup of coffee. He sat on the corner of the bed closest to Javier and they enjoyed their drinks in comfortable silence.

“So,” Joel started. “What now?”

“Already asking me what we are?” Javier chuckled teasingly. Joel gave him a look, both hands gripping the mug. “Okay, alright. Do we have to put a label on it yet?”

“Don’t s’pose we do, no…” Joel mumbled, taking another sip. 

“But you’d like to.”

Joel shrugged. “No, it’s alright, I just… I’ve, uh,” he gulped. “I’ve sorta had a thing for you for a couple’a years now. Jus’... Didn’t exactly picture this happenin’.”

Javier smiled, watching the journey on Joel’s face. “Is that right?”

Joel just nodded, looking down onto the carpeted floor, his toes digging in.

“You’re adorable,” Javier chuckled, setting his mug down and tossing the remaining part of his cigarette into it. He took Joel’s mug from his hand and set it down next to his own. 

“I dunno about that, I–”

“Shut up, Joel,” Javier whispered, leaning over to kiss him deeply. Joel melted, kissing back and pulling Javier to sit on his lap. Javier dug his fingers into Joel’s messy, post-sex curls and tugged a little, making the older man groan into his mouth.

“Jav,” Joel breathed between kisses.

“Mmm, new nickname,” Javier grinned, kissing and nibbling along Joel’s jaw. The hair scattered there tasted like sweat and it made Javi shiver. 

“Javi.”

Javier pulled away, a little out of breath, and eyes wild with determination. “I like you, Joel. A lot,” he paused, arms resting on Joel’s broad shoulders. “We can start here,” he hummed, kissing Joel’s cheek and slowly making his way down to his neck. “Maybe try a few things,” he kissed Joel's chest and flicked his tongue over a nipple. He pushed the older man onto his back, slowly sliding down Joel’s body. “And just see where it goes from there. Yeah?”

Joel exhaled a heavy sigh, his cock twitching with interest the lower Javier went. He made his way to Joel’s stomach and sucked a mark there. Joel watched, big hands tangled through Javier’s thick locks. “Yeah,” he sighed, the cool morning air hitting his heated cock once it was exposed again. Javier tossed his underwear to the floor and kissed along his inner thighs.

“Good,” Javier hummed, eyes locked on Joel’s as that sinful mouth wrapped around the head of his cock, that mustache framing the girth perfectly.

Joel moaned, shutting his eyes as his back arched off the bed.

[baizhuswifey]

The demon brothers as babies

So it was a regular ol day Solomon was over at HoL and the brothers were screaming and arguing a little bit more than usual which is weird cus it's usually not all seven of them arguing so Solomon gets the great idea to use a mystery spell and turn them all into something random but he does it without telling them...you were onboard because they need to shut the hell up they've been arguing for hours on end.so without warning Solomon whispers his spell and all the brothers poof away.you and Solomon gets scared for a quick second because you don't know where they are but you suddenly hear the loud cries of....baby leviathan hidden under his over sized clothes.you two originally planned to keep it secret.but after 30 minutes or so diavolo gets worried because lucifer hasn't answered his texts and thats so weird he never takes more than 40 seconds.so he heads over to HoL to see you and solomon dealing with seven very unamused babies.and somehow barbatos luke and simeon end up at HoL too with the babies. You guys knew how to turn them back but you decided that they could spend a week or two as babies so that's what they did.

Lucifer

He's a quiet baby never really crying unless there's something really wrong but he's also very specific about how he wants things.he wants his bottle cold but not too cold but he wants his bath water warm but not warm.hes just calm lil guy.forbid anything be wrong from how he wants it he's gonna scream and cry he won't stop until the problem is fixed.if you are someone he's fond of (like simeon and diavolo) he'll blow you little kisses.dont let him see any of his brothers upset he doesn't not like seeing them upset it hurts his feelings.if theres a problem you can't solve he knows what to do.one time you made baby asmo mad and he was side eyeing you the rest of the day

Mammon

He's a Velcro baby please don't put him down or he's going to cry.dont move away from him,don't let anybody else hold him (for some unknown reason he will let barbatos and Luke hold him without problem)he's relatively normal baby just don't separate yourself from him...he has separation anxiety.dont wear jewelry around him he will pull it take it and chew it.hes so cuddly tho he loves forehead kisses.but don't do too much he'll push you away. He will watch over baby belphie while he sleeps to make sure hes safe

Leviathan

He's a Velcro baby just like mammon but he will let anybody hold him.he cries more often than not.he just won't stop crying he's like full time cry baby.other than that he's the sweetest baby out of all the brothers (being rivaled with beel and asmo)he will blow you kisses and clap for you.he's really cuddly just don't move his around too frequently he's used to staying in one place for a while.he really likes bath time you have to bribe him to get out water.he and mammon do that little thing where they pat their hands together it's really cute

Satan

He's cool it's just easy to make him mad.you don't do the airplane motion when feeding him smashed fruits he will throw the whole bowl at you and kick you.he won't cry unless he's hurt.but for the life of any life form near don't make him upset babies have strength like no other. When reading book for him to sleep he wants to sit in your lap and look at pictures or flip the pages.wont wear clothes unless it has a cat on it (unfortunately you had to learn the hard way and he bit you) don't let him near baby Lucifer or he'll pull his hair and you basically have to keep them separated

Asmodeus

Bro is such a sweetheart and a cutie pie it makes you want to cry he will let anybody hold him but his favorites are simeon and solomon.do not get food on his face or anything relatively messy get on him or he will have fit like full on screaming and biting.hes a clean baby so it's not very hard to clean him up.other than he's okay with everything else.he does little dancie dance when he's happy.helps clean baby beels face after he finished eating.

Beelzebub

He is very sweet and calm just don't let him get hungry or let him near his brother's while they eat he will take their snacks,well not belphie he will spare his snacks.the only things that make him made are being separated from belphie, not feeding him and seeing belphie upset. Anything else and he doesn't really care.he cant stay in the same place he likes to move around just as long as baby belphie is with him. often stealing snacks from Levi because he knows he won't fight he'll just cry.

Belphegor

He's always sleeping but the second you move beel from him he's awake and crying.he gets cranky easy so just let him have his sleep until it's time for feeding time or bath time. other than that he just sits there staring into space or playing with beel (they have a giant ball and they like to push it to eachother back and forth) he really only lets you and Luke hold him he does not like being moved around. he likes to cuddle tho and over all he just doesn't give a damn. He likes to sit with baby Satan while you read for them

When all of them transformed back into adults they were all in your bed and Satan and mammon were on the floor, Levi was on your chest,asmo was holding your leg Lucifer and beel were nuzzled next to you and beel was above your head and when they all woke up it was super awkward

"uhhh why the hell are we all in here"

"better question weren't we just arguing and then we blacked out"

"and why am I in a footed onesie with airplane on it"

You explain to them and they get really embarrassed and hide for the rest of the day

Should I write part two with the dateables and undatables😋😋😋😋😘😘😘❤️❤️❤️anyways thanks for reaching and if you have any suggestions dm them to me

[cordeliawhohung]

“i really wanted to put in wife!reader begging price to let her have his kid to thank him for all he does for her”

i just want you to know i would’ve eaten that shit the fuck UP!!!!! Bc the amount of times I’ve thought of that exact scenario (but usually with regular John)???? 😩😩😩 I’m so obsessed with that ideA, I could spend days talking abt it *kisses your brain*

jfc like i have no desire to have kids irl right but??? put a cod man in front of me and i'm giving him a baby. it's just!!! too good of a scenario??? like??? actually no, let's talk about this. feral, unedited nsfw drabble under the cut because y'all are bad influences <3

christ, but actually imagine it with og john, good ol' captain price. always having to spend so much time away from his precious wife, leaving you home alone while he's overseas ): and every time he comes home, without fail, you're greeting him with kisses and a good home cooked meal because you just missed him so much! god, you missed him so much that you're on your knees for him! you're feral! and oh look! now you're riding him!

and god is it divine. you just missed him so so much and he just wants to do anything to make you feel good, to make up for all that lost time while he was away. imagine the look on his face when you're bouncing along his length and you tell him you stopped taking your birth control. imagine how his cock would twitch inside of you when you tell him you want to give him a baby, that you want him to make you a mom. because he's just been so good to you! working so hard to support you, you have to give him something in return ): let him give you a baby

as you're grinding down on him, you speak between moans as you tell him to just think about it. how cute you'd look wearing those maternity dresses, how adorable your child would look ): and hun, you've got his mind RACING. racing so fast that his hands grip your hips as he guides you up and down, now fucking up into you with such fervor that it's hard to keep your words straight, but that's alright because john's doing the talking for you.

"yeah? want me to put a baby in ya? that what you want? i'll make you a mama if that's what you need."

he fucks his seed into you that night, and every other night after that while he's on leave. and he's fucking crazy about it, insisting that you try different positions because some will help it take better than others. he starts to take over the cooking too because some foods will make you more fertile than others, and he's only got three weeks of leave before he has to go back and he refuses to leave before knowing if you're for pregnant or not.

and the night before he has to leave again, when you're holding that pregnancy test in your hand with that faint little line, he's got you on your back again, cock buried deep inside of you, just for good measure <3

anyway i'm a feral whore and i'll go back in my cage again to hopefully finish writing this mafia!price bit after dinner <3 but fr i didn't think i'd find myself so obsessed with this man i blame my moots :)

[konigsblog]

any thots for t!db! price? either stepdad or regular - i just need more of this mean ol man :3

continuation from this post... (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

cw: stepcest, non-con, age gap/difference, stepfather-price, toxic-dadbod-price, forced impregnation, forced breeding, degrading, manipulation. dead dove: do not eat. MDNI 18+

you feel sick to your stomach at the disturbing news of your sudden pregnancy. your stepfather had intentionally impregnated you with the hopes of baby trapping you.

price didn't like the independence you had whilst in college. he didn't enjoy nor appreciate seeing his stepdaughter coming home with more kisses and hickeys on your bare neck, from different guys at the college parties you'd attend. the smell of alcohol lingering on your clothes, so irresponsible and vulnerable — you needed to be taught a lesson about safety, and as your controlling, manipulative stepfather, he believes that it's his place to show you the consequences of your sluttish actions.

his plan to impregnate you had worked, and the cruel and violent grin on his face was an indication of his sickening behaviour and sexual desires. of course, what did you really expect from price? did you expect him to care and dote over you, to brush your hair from your face lovingly, like a great stepfather and a caring significant other?? how idiotic... you poor thing! little do you know that you'll be forced to care for this child independently, since you want to be so independent so damn badly...

you beg and plead with him to help you take care of your newborn son, the pair of you sobbing, tired and exhausted ever since giving birth. you feel ashamed and awful leaving your son with price, knowing how he hates his father as he's ignored, yet held in his strong, brute arms, and clings to you for love and attention, as you're the only one who truly bothers. :(

you're ashamed when you think back to that moment. your stomach churns with shame and guilt when you see your mother kiss your stepfather goodbye, going away for work once again. you know how heartbroken she'd be, and how much she adores her grandchild... and despite this not being your decision and choice, you feel disgusted with yourself regardless. ;(

[venus-haze]

Pretty Tied Up (Otis Driftwood x Reader)

Summary: Or, the perils of working at Red Hot Pussy Liquors.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This takes place between House of 1000 Corpses and The Devil’s Rejects. Based on the Guns N' Roses song. Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.8k

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Armed robbery and implied kidnapping. Sexually explicit content that involves extremely dubious consent and sadism, gags, bondage, groping, and gunplay. Otis is pretty much his own warning. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Having regulars at a liquor store was a double-edged sword. You got to know some customers well enough to like them, but over time you’d notice they looked increasingly worse for wear as they came up to the checkout with their usual purchases. The exception, of course, were the Fireflys, who you always found unsettling, despite Baby’s attempts to seem affable. 

“My brother likes you,” she said one day, leaning against the counter as you rang up three bottles of vodka and two six-packs of beer.

“RJ?” you asked, glancing at her brother standing a few feet behind her.

RJ was always nice enough. Didn’t say much. Tall. Burly. Strong. Ruggedly handsome. You’d be open to going out with him.

She laughed in her usual high-pitch that always toed the line of being spine-chilling. “No silly! I’m talkin’ ‘bout Otis.”

You stared at her blankly. “Who’s Otis?”

“You know, long hair, blue eyes, scruffy ol’ beard. He came in here the other night. You must’ve made one hell of an impression. He won’t shut up about ya.”

Oh yeah. Him. Bought a bottle of whiskey and a stack of hardcore BDSM porno magazines. ‘You ever look at this stuff?’ he’d asked, eyeing you as you put a magazine with a nude, distressed-looking woman suspended by intricate ropes on the cover into a brown paper bag. When you first started working there, you could hardly stomach the sight of the rougher fare. As time went on, you found yourself hesitantly intrigued. ‘Gotta have something to do besides go to church on Sundays,’ you replied, earning a wicked grin from him. 

“That’s nice,” you said.

She snickered. “My brother’s not nice.”

“Is this everything?” you asked, hoping to move the interaction along.

“Hey RJ, you gettin’ anything else?” Baby asked over her shoulder.

He shook his head, approaching to pick up the crate you put the bottles in.

Baby handed you a wad of cash. She almost always overpaid, letting you keep the change, which was most of the reason you humored her antics in the first place. “Thanks darlin’! See ya real soon!” she said, wiggling her eyebrows, keen to something you were yet to be aware of.

Two nights later you were working the store alone. Your coworker Billy didn’t even have the decency to call and let you know he wasn’t coming in–or quit. He just didn’t show up at 9:30 when he was supposed to, and your phone call to his house was met with a busy dial tone. Asshole.

It’d been a slow night anyway, but you would have appreciated the heads up, or at least another body in the place when the front door was kicked open.

“This is a robbery! Don’t fucking move or I’ll shoot!”

Despite the bandana covering the bottom half of his face, you knew who it was right away. Long, graying hair and piercing blue eyes that were burned into your memory from his last visit to the liquor store.

You lifted your hands in the air. Your manager had told you on your first day that there was always a possibility of this happening. Better to just let them take whatever cash and booze they wanted and report it to the police once they left. ‘Don’t go playin’ hero. We got insurance.’

“Keep those hands up,” Otis said, slowly approaching the counter. “I’m gonna walk back there, and you’re gonna open the register for me.”

You nodded, eyes glued to him as he slithered around the counter like a snake, gun steadily pointed at you. 

“Go on,” he said.

With a trembling hand, you opened the register, the cash-filled drawer popping open for him. He pressed the gun to your temple, instructing you to put the cash in one of the brown paper bags by your side. You tried not to glance at him too much while you stuffed the paper bag with the money, finally pushing it toward him and sticking your hands up again.

“Alright, now turn around.”

“Wh-What?”

“I ain’t got all night.”

You glanced at the door. No way you could make a run for it, but maybe someone would walk in and be able to do something.

He followed your gaze and let out a cruel scoff. “Ain’t nobody coming through that door who can save you. I’m the closest thing to salvation you’ll ever get. Now turn the fuck around.”

With a shaky breath, you did as you were told, freezing when you felt the barrel of the gun press against the back of your head. His free hand grabbed your ass through your jeans, his strong grip almost painful as he squeezed each cheek. “Wonder how much it’d take to make you bruise?” he mumbled, almost to himself. He squeezed again, harder this time, as if he were trying to dig his fingers into your flesh. “Too much work when I can just cut into ya.”

“Don’t hurt me,” you pleaded, though hearing your own voice, you weren’t quite sure how convinced you were that you didn’t want him to do his worst. Knowing what you did about the Firefly clan, the rumblings around Ruggsville about the strange family–it would be pretty damn bad.

“C’mon now, mama. You led me to believe you liked it rough,” he said, voice gravelly and low as he slipped his hand between your legs from behind, rubbing the rough denim material and your cotton panties against your pussy, the friction hitting your clit in just the right spot for you to let out a shameful moan. Your hand flew to your mouth, the other clenched in a fist as you tried not to give him the reaction he wanted. Didn’t want to prove him right. Show him how curious you were. You didn’t even have it in you to fight back, not when you were on the edge, so achingly close until suddenly you weren’t anymore.

You nearly whined when he pulled his hand away, horrified at yourself, your reaction to his groping you. He grabbed each of your arms, roughly pulling them behind your back and tying your wrists together with something itchy and uncomfortable that dug painfully into your skin as you fruitlessly tried to free yourself from the secure knot he made. What the fuck did he use? Your eyes widened at the carpet burn-like sensation that’d begun to sting your skin. The roll of twine beneath the register. You used to secure some customers’ more sensitive purchases sometimes. 

Fingers and cloth forced their way into your mouth until you were gagged with the bandana Otis had pulled off of his face. He turned you around, looking you over with a slow, satisfactory nod. “I was having trouble getting over this mental block in my art. Started drivin’ me crazy. Y’know, they showed this nature documentary about a group ‘a lions a while back. How they protect and provide for their families, stalk their prey and go in for the kill–do you ever think about how we’re the only species where killing is taboo? For the rest of the animal kingdom, it’s just nature, part of the circle of life. There was a scene where the lion saw a gazelle from way across the savannah, and it was like nothing else existed except for its prey. It couldn’t rest until it tore that damn thing apart. That’s how I felt when I saw you.”

You shook your head frantically, your pleas of mercy muffled by your gag. Fat tears blurred your vision until he morphed into something monstrous, straight out of a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from. 

“I ain’t gonna kill ya,” he said, roughly petting your head, “not yet anyway, that’d be a waste when I’ve barely even started.” He gave you a mean grin as he grabbed a hold of your hair by the roots. “I got a lot planned for you. Those magazines gave me a lot of ideas too.”

He lowered the gun, dragging it between your breasts and further down your abdomen until he reached the waistband of your jeans. Using his other hand, he unbuttoned and unzipped them with alarming ease, pulling them down until they fell to your ankles. Your breath hitched as he pressed the barrel of the gun against your cunt, the thin fabric of your panties the only thing stopping him from being able to slide it inside of you. 

Still, the cool metal sent a shiver through you as he rubbed it against your clit, black spots creeping into your peripheral as you hyperventilated through his sadistic experiment. He was hard. That much you knew, but what frightened you, perhaps most of all, was how wet you had become since he tied you up. Your skin still screamed against the rough twine that’d been cutting into your flesh, soon to draw blood as you kept struggling.

Your hips jerked, pressing the gun barrel closer to your pussy that was eager to betray you and clench around it if he just pushed past your panties and shoved it up there. You didn’t want him to do that, not in your right mind. But no one in your situation could be considered in their right mind, could they?

“Don’t fight it,” he encouraged gruffly, blue eyes piercing through you as he watched your knees threaten to give out as you neared orgasm. “Give the devil his due, mama.”

Your hands curled into fists, nails threatening to break through the skin of your palm. Then he did it. Slipped the barrel of the gun past your soaked cotton panties. Your brain short-circuited in a rush of terror and thrill at the sensation. You came, eyelids fluttering shut, a guttural moan tearing from your throat and pushing through your gag. Your limbs felt like ghosts, incorporeal parts of you that could only offer a vague sense of feeling compared to the sensation that overwhelmed your body, pleasure and adrenaline coursing through your veins all the same.

Gun be damned, you collapsed against the checkout counter, unable to support yourself any longer. Your chest heaved, unable to catch your breath with the now saliva-soaked bandana still shoved halfway down your throat. An astounded whine escaped your lips when he brought the gun up to his nose and sniffed. “This is it, mama. This is the devil’s salvation.”

He wasn’t making any damn sense, or your brain was too fuzzy to comprehend what he was saying. All you knew about the devil was from the Bible and that stupid Dr. Satan story people regurgitated like spoiled food. If Otis was the devil, you’d believe it, though.

The sound of a car door slamming shut made your eyes widen, and you glanced over your shoulder, your muffled screams of either help or warning to however was approaching.

“Sorry about this, darlin’. We’ll have a lot more fun later,” he said, hitting you across the face with the gun, sending you to the brink of consciousness. 

The bell on the door faintly jingled, and the last thing you remember seeing was a large, familiar figure walking towards you.

“C’mon and help me get ‘er in the car,” Otis said just as you passed out. "Don't forget the cash."

[updatingranboo]

ranboo tweet... uh

["This was such a good joke and I am appalled by the fact that it has not gone absolutely bonkers viral. I mean is comedy dead? I just dont understand how a regular human being can read the word "Greans" (A combination of green and jeans) followed by an image of, well, green jeans, and not absolutely evacuate themselves in laughter.

I believe this has something to do with the fact that comedy as we know it is dying. It has become too mainstream in todays media and that is the main problem. Gone are the days where silly little guys in their silly little hop hats are able to go "knock knock" and absolutely change the world. Nowadays you have to have so many things that go into a joke for it to remotely even be funny, setup, punchline the whole ordeal. Whatever happened to just a simple Practicality joke? Whatever happened to just being able to slap someone and be the headlining act?

The world is so full of so called "comedians" these days it makes me sick. All these people do is spend hours writing and practicing their act in order to try and sway an audience to have a good time listening to their words. For SHAME! Comedy used to be just two people on a stage just slapping eachother and going "knock knock" for twenty hours. Whatever happened to the good ol days where people just laughed at whatever someone said because their brain hadnt fully developed?

This is why I believe that I am going to start performing my comedy acts to a bunch of babies. An absolute hoard of newborns. I will make my jokes to them and they will laugh for they truly understand what humor should be. I will go to a hospital in that little room they have where it is very easy to switch said babies and cause a bit of a ruckus, but instead of doing that (very funny joke) I will simply perform for them and relish in their cheers and guffaws.

It is sad that one has to turn to performing to just babies in order for the world to understand the complexity of ones said humor, but alas if its what I must do its what I must do. Maybe one day we will revert back to absolute comedy anarchy, where the chicken has not yet crossed the road, but until then I will continue to strive and push forward in this dark age of comedy.

Maybe a complete reset of what we find funny is in order, maybe we have lost what humor once was for us. We obviously have considering my VERY FUNNY TWEET does not have a bazillion likes and has not spun off at least 30 million movie deals. (Please note that this joke is satire, and Ranboo stands in solidarity with the SAG-AFTRA strikes. Support actors and writers. -A message from Ranboo)

I spent time and effort making this tweet, I saw the green jeans in front of my eyes (which are very squishy) and my neurons fired and made this absolute gem of a joke. I was excited to share it with the world, I tweeted it nearly right after I saw it, excited to see what new adventures this tweet could bring me. I went to bed all cozy smiling like a child on christmas eve night, excited for the morning. When I woke I turned to check my phone instantly, my eyes racing to see the like total. What would it be? 500k? A million? I was surprised that my dms hadnt blown up with a personal message from every billionaire going "let me give you all of my money I can never make anything as good as your "Greans" tweet" but It must have been a glitch.

I was appalled to see that my tweet had only 30K??? 30K for the pinnacle of all of human achievement? A slap in the face of innovation is what it felt like. Like when that thomas edison guy ate a stolen lightbulb or something idk what he did really but I remember the person who made that lightbulb which he ate probably felt really sad and I felt really sad so I felt a deep connection with that person.

I quickly fell into a great depression, this is what all of my life had lead up to: one sad tweet. I didnt see the outside for years because of this tweet. I thought to myself "why would they do this?", "Isnt humanity supposed to be kind, supportive, and have a sense of humor when it comes to differently colored jean jokes?" (dcjj as I call them), and "Man I should probably have a burger" (I did) (very yummy) but as I ate my burger all I could taste were my TEARS as I chomped into it from the top down. It felt like I couldnt do anything right. Until thats when it hit me.

Im not the problem, EVERYONE ELSE IS! My humor isnt "bad" or "unfunny" or "makes me want to find a microwave and cause it to malfunction so I either become the hulk or die" (Please do not try this. -Another Ranboo message) It has to be that simply I am so far ahead in the world when it comes to comedy that my time has simply just not yet come! My jokes will be funny to a different generation, which will be frowned upon at first but I will quickly be welcomed with open arms, and told that I am an innovator, a true scholar of all that is funny.

And so I wait for that day. I wait for the day that people look back on my Greans tweet and realize, that without a doubt that it is the funniest thing that they have ever seen. The problem is not with my joke, the problem is with the world, and thats what makes humanity beautiful, is that it evolves, it changes, it doesnt stick to its mindset that a tweet that has the word "Greans" followed by a pair of green jeans doesnt get a BAZILLION LIKES! I wait for that day, and for those of you who are with me, I hope you wait patiently as well. Stay strong."]

[sunlightmurdock]

AETERNA | One

PROLOGUE | MASTERLIST

SYNOPSIS: TROUBLE COMES TO TOWN.

WARNINGS: smoking; the fic takes place in the 70s and so 70s era things will happen; smoking weed; mentions of sw as a joke; this fic has mature themes and is intended for adults, minors pls dni. spooky stuff. word count: 6312.

The summer in Atwood, Georgia, began as all summers in Atwood always had. Slow. Creeping in through the remaining breezes, blooms and spring showers. Fitting itself into the days so unsuspectingly. It never feels like it’s really summer until the sweat is already beading down your back and the girls’ skirts are an inch shorter than they were a year before.

There’s a spot around the back of Creekside Pines Retirement Village, covered by the shade of those namesake pines, where the girls who work there go to smoke. The Pines has been around longer than any of the residents currently in it; the Church started it decades ago and they made sure to keep it going.

Tucked under the shade of those thick, green pine trees, the branches provide a respite from the approaching early summer sun and also from your dirtbag boss, Conrad Wheelan.

Olive and you, you and Olive. Since Conrad hired you last September, the two of you have become quite the dynamic duo. Candy-striped partners in crime, experts at avoiding old guy sponge bath time. Smokers of cheap, gas station cigarettes. Gossipers of a truly impressive standard.

You’re sitting on opposite sides of the brick walls that bracket the stairs to the back door, your foot beside her hip and hers beside yours, your knees bent and a Marlboro between your index and middle.

“But anyway, I think she’s just jealous. He broke up with her for a reason.” Her face is veiled for a moment by tendrils of swirling cigarette smoke before the midday sun beams once again on her freckled face. She’s talking about a boy she has been fooling around with. He’s older, and he called off his engagement two months ago.

His ex really has it out for Olive. She’s a pretty little nurse at the local hospital. Her daddy went after the poor guy with a gun when the engagement broke. The ex went after Olive in the middle of Herb’s Wholefoods, shoved her right into the display of tinned peaches. But hey, your Mom got six dented tins for the price of one. Silver linings and all that jazz.

Your break was over twenty minutes ago, but the AC is broken and you’ve spent the morning choking on the smell of Eau de Old Lady — the smell of magnolias in bloom and Marlboros on fire are a much welcome change in pace.

Besides, your best friend is in crisis. She’s got a bruise the size of a not-tinned, regular ol’ peach in the middle of her back, a shattered ego, and apparently a new step-kid on the way.

“So, what’s he going to do about it?” You ask her, your face towards the sun, cigarette ash on the wall beside you.

“The baby? — I don’t know. She didn’t even want the kid until he told her he was leaving, now she’s suddenly Mother Theresa.” Olive says with a wistful sigh. Her older boyfriend got that girl in trouble and ran for the hills, but apparently he treats Olive like a princess. Your mother says she’s trouble, but you like her.

Girls like Olive will always pick the wrong kind of man. It’s that kind of No Man’s Land where human nature and fate come to make out — and that’s not Olive’s fault — she’s just at their will; like a puppet. Or a hamster on a wheel.

“You know, I think you’d make a pretty boss step-mommy.” You tell her, cocking your head the way that you do when you know you’re dancing right along her nerve endings. A smile creeps across your coral- glossed lips, revealing the coral-glossed ring they have left around the butt of the cigarette.

“Oh, bite me. You know I’d rather swap places with Hughie Marshall than get stuck raising her kid.” Olive scoffs out, flicking at the cigarette with a red painted nail and bending her bruised knees. That’s quite a thing to say around here.

You didn’t know Hughie, before. Not really. His dad was the principal of your high school, but you knew him after Hughie was already back.

Apparently before his accident, Hughie was a real stud. All-American with dark hair and a bright future. Then he stepped on a landmine in Cambodia; he wasn’t even supposed to be there by the official military statement. But he was.

He doesn’t leave the house anymore. His brain’s all mashed together and he’s got a metal plate in the left side of his head. One arm and no right foot, but worse than that — no jaw. Folks say it was taken clean off in the blast. They sent him out to California for a whole bunch of surgeries, but he still looks like a guy who has been pieced back together.

But Olive’s only kidding about wanting to be in his place. No one wants to be in Hughie’s place, especially not Hughie.

Her joke isn’t the kind of thing that needs to be laughed at, your polite exhale of amusement mixes with the soft rustle of leaves, a fleeting moment of rebellion against Dictator Wheelan and his reign of terror. Each smoky exhale carries whispers of things that would make your mothers shiver, but such is the way for two girls on the cusp of freedom.

In this hidden sanctuary, on the cusp of the woods, the two of you are a united front against the elderly residents of The Pines. Rather than the bell that signaled the end of your freedom in your school days, nowadays it’s the sound of heavy leather shoes on the linoleum that signal the end of your stolen respite.

“Shit.”

“Shit.” The two of you agree, stubbing out your cigarettes and leaping up from the walls, throwing the butts into the mess of fallen foliage at the side of the building.

And at once, Conrad swings open the fire escape door and finds the two of you standing there in your candy-striped aprons, white stockings and pristinely white shoes. Like butter wouldn’t fucking melt.

He’s a towering man, maybe six foot five in his prime, but he hunches a bit from his constant slouching at his desk. He was a red- head once, but now his hair has thinned to the point of scarcity, and he’s usually got a razor rash on his neck from shaving a bit too hastily in the mornings. He knows damn well that the two of you were out here slacking.

“Ladies,” He tries, his smile tight-lipped and half frozen, like a salesman who couldn’t quite make himself look human enough to get the job. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Halbert and Mrs. Knight could use some help in the dining room.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Wheelan.” Olive hits him back with a smile that comes much more naturally, and a cool shrug of her shoulders. She’s a real girl-next-door type. It’s why the wrong kind of guy likes her so much. You’re halfway certain that her killer smile and her long legs are the only reason that Conrad hasn’t fired her yet.

“Yes, sir.” You follow suit.

He allows the both of you to dip around him and just like that, you’re locked back in with the living dead. Old folks who seem just as confused as you about how they’re still hanging on. Oh, that’s mean, really — they aren’t so bad. They’re nice to you. You listen to them.

“I like it when you wear your hair like that,” Mrs. Knight tells you, sitting back uncomfortably. Her green eyes study you, her fingers curled around a shivering china teacup. “Much better than when it's down.”

You’ve learned by now that most of the compliments in this place come with a backhand. Your chin propped up on your palm, you answer her with an amused smile.

“Maybe you could do my hair like yours one day, June,” You suggest, stacking together the remnants of her lunch so that it’ll be easier to porter back to the kitchen. She used to own her own salon down on Mayfair Lane, your mother got her first haircut from June Knight. You shoot a look across the room at Arnie Knight, who is watching you care for his wife. “Teach me how to land a guy like Arnie.”

“Oh, honey — you know my Arnie’s one of a kind.” She giggles. Your mouth twists back into a grin. He sure is. He stormed the beaches in Normandy and still found it in himself to father seven kids once he made it back. In his day, Arnie sounds like he was a stud.

There aren’t too many studs left in Atwood these days. Those boys are either wandering hallowed halls, meat-heads that will be here forever or settled six feet under. Anyone more than four years older than you is either a war hero, or they’re like Hughie Marshall.

The ones that still wake up in Cole County aren’t the kind of boys you’ll be sharing your golden years with, anyway. No, you’ve got much bigger plans for your retirement.

Napa Valley, a sprawling house with burnt orange tile overlooking a vineyard withthat your silver-fox husband who tends to you while you enjoy the fruits of his labour and spend your afternoons tipsy, waiting for the party to start that evening. Far, far from the shade of the trees that line Marsh’s Creek, beside Creekside Pines Retirement Village.

That’s one day, though. For today, the excitement stretches as far as letting Billy Cline pick you up in his true blue 1965 Chevy short bed pickup. Just like most of the guys your age that are in this town, you’ve known Billy for a long time. Your mother still thinks of him as the sweet little boy with blonde curls and overalls.

He still wears overalls, but his blonde curls are now straighter, slicked back with a generous helping of pomade. He came right from work, the auto shop in town, to pick you up.

You change shamelessly in the passenger seat of his truck as he speeds along the old road out towards the Cole County airport, shoving your uniform into your bag and wriggling into the clothing you had smuggled past your mother.

“I’m not driving you home wearing that,” Billy chortles, eyes wide and already shaking his head as you pull the knitted halter neck over your chest, your lips pursed in concentration as you fasten the tie behind your neck. “I’ll stop at the Post Office and you can walk from there.”

Exhaling and kicking the bag into the footwell, you tug open the glovebox and start to root for the sunglasses you left in here last time.

“What? You don’t dig the orange?”

You know full well that Billy’s concerns about your outfit don’t start or end with the burnt orange color of your hot pants. He scoffs loudly beside you to agree as your fingers stumble across the little plastic baggie at the back of his glovebox.

“I don’t dig that your old man threatened to slash my tires last time he saw me rollin’ with you.”

That makes you laugh. You pluck the green from the glovebox and melt back into the blue suede seats Billy had spent all of last summer fixing up.

“Fred wouldn’t hurt you.” Your father talks a big talk sometimes, maybe that’s where you can get it from, but he likes Billy and he’s not the kind of father that spends his time worrying about which boy you’re messing around with. “Might trick you into doing some yard work for him, though.”

Straight, empty road for miles ahead, Bill turns his head and looks at the bag caught between your index and middle fingers, dangling toward him like the forbidden fruit itself.

“Great, so I’ll take you home high as a kite and dressed like a hooker and he’ll invite me to water his gardenias.” He hums, reaching out and snatching the bag from you. He still has every intention of lighting up, but he knows there’s a pothole about a mile ahead and the last time he let you roll up along this road wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Come on, Bill — now,” Your white canvas sneakers are still discarded in the footwell, you kick your bare feet up onto the dash. “That’s no way to talk to your best chance at ever getting laid, is it?”

There’s a fondness in the way he rolls those steely-blue eyes at you. There’s no real destination at the end of this long, empty stretch of road. There are one of four possible spots for the two of you to pick from.

Just far enough from Conrad Wheelan, and your father’s gardenias, and the Cole County sheriff's department for the two of you to crawl into the bed of the truck, light up and wait for time to pass.

It’s no way to spend summer, really. But this is the last May that your afternoons will look like this. Next May, you’ll be thinking about Olive and Billy from the Paramount Pictures backlot. Maybe Warner Brothers, you’re not in a position to be too picky.

As a kid, you had sworn that you would pack your things and head for the hills the day that you turned eighteen. Things hadn’t worked out quite that way, but now, you’ll be sitting in the Malibu sunshine before you turn twenty-three.

“Who the fuck is that?”

You drop the bag onto the bench and follow Billy’s eyes towards the rearviewrear view mirror, fully prepared to see your Uncle Paul’s police cruiser coming up behind you. Instead, you’re met with the picture of a very small heavy hauler. Cherry-red, coming over the hill like hell on wheels. It’s illegal to drive that fast, even out here. Especially in something that big.

The house that you pass on the left has two young kids who live there, and the Whistler family let those kids play in that unfenced yard all day long. A big, red truck coming along this country road that fast… bye, bye Whistler family.

“Fuckin’ maniacs.” Billy mutters, frowning and shaking his head. It almost makes you smile. William Cline, slipping back into the weepy little boy he had once been, a stickler for the rules back then. But you don’t have time to smile.

Your knees push up onto the suede, your palm flattening against the back window, sticking to the glass with a squeak as you slide it open. That cherry red truck is a lot clearer without the filter of dust and dirt between you, and a lot less small now that it’s getting closer.

“Probably late for a delivery or something. It’s gonna try to pass you.” You realise, resting your arms over the back of the bench. Billy almost forgets why that’s important as he glances across at the way those burnt orange shorts flex around your ass.

He swallows, checks the rear-view mirror and remembers the sharp bend coming up. There aren’t any signs and it kind of comes out of nowhere, and if this jerk tries to overtake him on it, his truck is going to wind up in a ditch.

He eases his foot onto the break and considers just stopping all together, biting the inside of his cheek. Out of towners. The truck grows bigger and bigger, the engine rumbling like a growl, until it’s close enough that you can see the man behind the wheel. His hair is longish and feathery, jet-black and his face is half covered by a pair of green lensed sunglasses.

By his side is a kid, already looking at you. She has long blonde hair tied back in two braids, and a strange look on her face. Like she is excited to see you. She sits forwards in her seat and cocks her head sharply to the side, her eyes tracking you as the truck whizzes by. The sharp motion makes you pull back swiftly from the window.

Her head twists to follow until she’s out of your view and you’re blinking at the painted trailer being hauled by the truck. Maverick’s Cabinet of Mysteries. A circus. Red and white stripes and a big, shining yellow font.

“Did you see that kid?” The words spill from your lips as you brace one hand against the dashboard, watching the rest of the truck whizzes by, trying to blink that awful, jerky, movement of her neck from your mind.

“What? — No, I saw that jackass almost take my side view mirror with him.” Billy huffs out angrily, putting his foot back on the gas the second that giant trailer is past him.

It’s not the only one. Right behind the first, is another truck that appears identical. You don’t get a look at the driver, just the red and white stripes and Maverick’s Cabinet of Mysteries in that shiny red and gold font.

“Who even goes to the frickin’ circus anymore?” Billy’s care for his truck spills out in bitterness as he steadies the wheel and watches the second truck be succeeded by a third. All three of them, red and gold and white death traps, growling as they speed along the road ahead of you.

The cold feeling from the first truck has passed by, now you’re at the mercy of the sun being at its highest point, casting out heat like a blanket, warming the cab of the truck like a greenhouse.

Twisting in your seat, your lips twitch as you find that the three cargo trucks aren’t unaccompanied. Behind them is a string of vehicles, lead by a pretty far-out Chevy camper with rad burnt orange racer stripes along the side.

You look back at Billy over your shoulder. “We could.”

It’s not like there is much else to do around this place. Beats the regular Friday tune of heading down to the Empire movie theatre by Lane Street and sipping at a sugary, fizzing coke while watching a Western.

As the camper draws closer, your gaze locks on to the two people sitting in the front. A dark haired woman, her lips red and round, sucking on a lollipop with her bare feet kicked up onto the dash. Her sunglasses hide her eyes, but you know she’s looking at you.

It’s almost at the speed limit, not quite at the same terrifying speed as the trucks ahead but still warranting a ticket. In the driver’s seat is a real stone fox, broad and tanned with sunkissed brown caramel-curls and a real Burt-Reynolds-in-100-Rifles kind of moustache.

They’re driving with the windows down, cooled by the breeze in their hair like they aren’t icy enough already. Her sunglasses are round and plastic-framed, with orange lenses. So cool— so California. And him too.

Even with his more standard gold-framed caravans, his barely buttoned blue short sleeve and the equally caramel coloured dusting of chest hair spilling out, he looks like a movie star.

You’re barely aware of Billy crushing your idea beside you. “Me? — Nah. Sorry, sister, no way — lame, lame, lame.”

Doesn’t matter, you’ll be going with or without him if Mr. Movie Star is going to be there.

His white camper with the orange stripes gets close enough for you to realise that it’s not just her looking at you, he is too. It’s a little narcissistic to assume that it’s for any reason other than the way you’re already staring at them, but the thought of the two of them liking what they see — thinking maybe you could look like them — makes your coral lips stretch.

Up close, you can hear the blaring sound of their radio. A guitar riff that you remember from somewhere deep in the back of your mind, something you know you’ve heard many times before but just can’t place.

You follow them, magnetized by the draw of their eyes, planting a palm right between Billy's greased overall thighs and leaning across the bench to keep staring through the rolled-down driver’s side window.

The raven-haired woman pushes the lollipop into the hollow of her cheek and tells him something. You can’t hear it over the sound of their radio blaring out. He responds with a just-can’t-help-it kind of grinning chuckle, turning his head to look across at you.

The door was open, and the wind appeared.

The candles blew, and then disappeared.

The curtains flew, and then he appeared.

Sayin’ “Don’t be afraid.”

On all fours, looking at him like he’s the new guy at the zoo.

Come on, baby (and she had no fear).

And she ran to him (then they started to fly).

They looked backward and said goodbye (she had become like they are).

Heat gathered across your skin, that knitted late summer sunset coloured halter stretched tight across your chest, scandalous by the standards of Atwood — downright foxy if you ventured further west.

Your hair has been freed from the tidy updo that Conrad Wheelan prefers it to be in while you’re working, but not quite tamed after that. Wild and free, as the wind whips through it.

As if to try to contain your grin, you sink your teeth into the coral of your bottom lip, beaming at him anyway. Then, you lift the hand that isn’t settled between Billy’s thighs, and wiggle your fingers at him in greeting.

“What the hell are you doin’? — I can’t even see the road!” Billy complains.

Mr. Movie Star couldn’t have heard him, but he shoots a look at the complaining driver anyway. Then, his attention is yours again. Still smiling that amused smile, he lifts a tanned arm from its perch against the open window ledge, and throws up a loose peace sign across the stretch of road between you. His passenger laughs around her lollipop.

”Sayin’ hello. It’s polite.” You tell him back.

Between his obnoxious music, the wind whipping between the cars, and the equally polite indoor voice you had spoken in, there’s no way that Mr. Movie Star could have possibly heard you. He laughs like he had.

With that, the camper passes by. It takes the song and the blaring guitar with it, the rhythmic picking carrying across the flat stretches of road. It’s got tinted windows all around the sides and back. A real pussy wagon, you bet. Mr. Movie Star has probably seen a lot of action in the back of that van. Queue the wistful sigh from you. If you could just stop from grinning.

“Get off. C’mon, put your seatbelt on or something.”

“He was really something, don’t ya think?” You say, still grinning dumbly as you retreat back to the designated passenger’s spot, tracking the camper along the old stretch of Airport Road.

“Yeah, yeah — mellow out before you ruin my seats.” Billy grumbles, frowning at his side-view mirror. Six more vehicles to go; none of them drive quite as wild as those first couple of big trucks.

“How long d’you think they’re in town for?” You prop one elbow against the side of the door and plant your chin atop your palm, staring after the camper as you kick your feet across Billy’s lap. “You think it’s like an all- summer deal or just a couple of weekends?”

Billy shoots a steely look across the cab.

Sure, he was kind of a weedy kid. Small for his age, with a mom who was rarely more than a stone’s throw away. He’s not bad looking. Stick thin with a long, straight nose but pretty blue eyes. There’s usually motor oil in his blonde hair these days.

Either way, he hadn’t always exactly been the pick of the litter but with the war and stuff, he’s not such a bad option these days.

And still, you’ve had him benched in the friend zone since freshman year. Both of you know that it’ll just take an especially dry season for you to finally do him, and you are good company, he likes having you around.

He doesn’t like the douchebag with the ‘stache moving in on the closest thing he has to a girlfriend.

“They might stop by The Pines — you know, like those folks from the fair did, that one time.” you’re really talking to yourself at this point.

Billy looks across, unimpressed as he’s overtaken by a 1959 Ford F-100, painted a faded shade of light green.

Three people are crammed into the cab, and as it slips in front of you, you find that the bed of the truck is also occupied.

Two girls and one hell of a guy. He’s sitting with his back to the cab, shirtless and golden all over with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a hand of cards held to his chest.

The two girls are wearing little tanks and coloured hot pants, conferring with each other while he watches, cool as ice.

He’s grinning, a smooth talker even when you can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s not money that he’s talking those poor girls out of either, that’s why one of them proudly has his t-shirt balled up in her lap.

“Mrs. Cavendish would have a cow if—“ your rambling trails and your smile spreads as Golden Boy looks up from his poker game and finds you watching. “Whoa. Where are they finding these dudes?”

“Probably jail,” Billy mumbles, begrudging the topless wonder in the back of the truck. “Or a register of some kind, if you catch my drift.”

Golden Boy’s lips stretch thin around his hand-rolled cigarette, his grin dimpling his cheeks. Totally jiving with the way you’re staring at him, stretching his already broad shoulders like a peacock would with its feathers.

He’s a sandy kind of blonde and maybe even more of a movie-star looker than his buddy had been.

He tips his chin and graces you with a nod of acknowledgement. Then, he looks down at the hand of cards and closes his lips around the cigarette, inhaling deeply.

With a cool shrug, he cocks an eyebrow and seems to dare his two lady companions to put their money where their mouths are.

Billy glances down at the bag of green still on the bench between the two of you, practically starting a mental countdown until the two of you are out by the Falls, high as kites. Far from tanned, muscled carnie folk.

The trucks and cars pass by and head for the horizon, and Billy’s blue Chevy hugs the curves of winding country roads all the way out past Route Thirteen. Past Airport Road, there’s no sign of your two new objects of affection — given the heat of the late afternoon, you’re starting to wonder if all of them were a mirage or something.

That’s what the boys who come back from war tell you they saw out there. Apparitions in the jungle, like ghosts, but nice. Tommy Holdman says he thought he had died out there, laying flat on his back after he lost his leg, and all he could see was miles and miles of coastline. A perfect, pretty beach. His own idea of heaven.

Yours, apparently, is something far different.

The Falls isn’t really a waterfall. It’s maybe a ten- foot slow incline in the river bend. It’s shitty enough to not draw too many visitors, unlike the much more popular swimming spot out where the old quarry is. That place would be packed on an afternoon like this.

Your spot is on the far end of the county, nestled a while back off the road but not too far into the woods. It’s a spot to cool off without having to commit to really swimming, and it’s the only spot you know where the fuzz wouldn’t come poking around at the smell of skunk.

No one comes out here, not even the cops.

The afternoon is all yours, right through into the evening. It didn’t take Billy long to get over his mood, he’s grinning when he drops you off, right by your front door.

There’s no way he would make you walk all the way from the Post Office, not really. Everyone’s heard those stories of girls going missing in small towns like this, and through all of her faults, Betty Cline had raised a pretty stand-up young man.

“See ya Tuesday, I’ll call you!” You wave to him as you jog up the front steps onto the porch of your parents’ home.

He waves back from the driver’s side of his truck, and drives home to his mother’s roast chicken the same way he always does. She still packs his lunches too.

Fred looks up from Hawaii Five-O, in all of its multicoloured, static-fuzz glory as the screen door rattles to an abrupt shut. He flinches as the heavier, wood front door slams behind it.

“Look at that, she is alive.” He calls from the living room, for your ears more than anyone else’s.

“Hi, Papa Bear. You worrying about me again?” You coo, kicking your shoes off by the door and strolling across the hardwood, bracing yourself on the doorframe as you swing widely into the parlour, where Fred sits in his recliner, staring at his prized possession — the color TV set he bought after the new year.

“Worryin’ about you is like worryin’ the fox might hurt itself on its way out of the coop.”

You don’t much mind the image of yourself, the sly fox, prowling around town and making all of those chicken-shit boys cry for help. Your mouth almost twitches at the thought as you plonk yourself down on the carpeted floor and turn your attention towards Steve McGarrett saving the day.

Clearly at some point after you have nestled onto the carpet with your back to him, Fred clocks the outfit you have wandered home in.

“Now, where’d the hell did you even buy somethin’ like that?” You can hear the wrinkled frown on his aging face. He’s only in his fifties now, but with deep wrinkles and freckles from years working outside.

“Church-sale, I think.” You answer back, wondering if your mother is still up. She goes to bed early on weeknights so that she can be up early for her work at the grocery store in the mornings.

Fred lost his sense of smell when he worked in the mines in his late teens — he couldn’t tell the difference if you smelled like Mary-Jane or magnolias.

“You were with that kid from the auto shop again?” Fred puffs on cigarettes like a chimney. It turns the white ceilings brown occasionally, but your Mom has always been ready with a tin of cloud-coloured paint to fix that.

“Uh-huh. You know Billy.”

“Yeah.” He decides. There are worse boys you could be running around with than that teary-eyed fella.

“Saw a bunch of vans out by Airport Road today. Setting up a circus somewhere near here.” You tell him absently, both of you watching the television set as you pick at the carpet.

“Heard somethin’ about that. Gus O’Malley’s renting his south pasture out for something like that, I think.”

“I was thinking I could maybe borrow the car Saturday. Take Georgie.”

Georgie is an accident; an anniversary celebration turned rambunctious fifth grader with a knack for messing with your stuff while you’re at work. But he’s a cute kid, you’ll give him that. The little booger is fun to be around sometimes.

With Georgie around, there’s something to do other than head out of town and drink or smoke or spend the money that’s supposed to get you to California. If you take Georgie, Fred usually sponsors the trip.

“This Saturday?”

“Yeah. Figured they’d be running by then.” You lean your palms back into the rug, worn velvet under them. It doesn’t bother you that Fred barely turns his head from the television — before that, it had been the sports highlights in the paper.

“If you’re going to get him all hopped up on sugar, do me a favor and drop him off at Grandma’s on the way back.” Fred chortles, mostly to himself, as he brings a half-warm Budweiser to his mouth.

You smile at that, remembering the days Fred threatened to do the same to you. You grab at the knee of his faded blue jeans to push yourself up from the ground.

“Thought I might drop him off by the interstate, set him free. Like God intended.” You tell the house, headed for the hallway with the end goal being your bedroom on the second floor of the humble blue craftsman.

“I-59, not I-75. Can’t have him finding his way home.” Fred calls as you take the first step out onto the stairs, your fingers trailing your work bag, discarded onto the chipped wooden post that ends the railing.

“Now where in God’s name did you find those shorts?” Oh, she’s awake. Your mother’s voice is behind you, and if you had to guess you would imagine that her head is poking around the doorway into the kitchen and gawking at your fashion choices. She is.

“You went out wearing those?”

You stand, frozen on the stairs for a second, stuck in a moment of consideration. Fred’s pretending not to hear all this, he prefers not to get involved. Joan’s not so forgiving.

Turning around will mean a certain lecture.

“Gotta be up early, I won’t wear ‘em again.” You decide, hastening up the stairs before she can call you on your lie. Your bare feet hit the landing and slip a bit on the loose runner your dad swears he’s going to remember to buy underlay for one of these days.

As you steady, the door to your right creeks open and Georgie stumbles out of his cowboy-covered bedroom, rubbing uncaringly at his eye socket.

“Hey.” He yawns, heading for the bathroom, his hand-me-down pyjamas hanging down over the tops of his feet as he shuffles for the bathroom.

“Hey. Wanna do something with me Saturday?” You ask him, already headed for your own room. He stops and turns his head, eyes no longer heavy with sleep but wide open with curiosity.

“Yeah. What?”

“It’s a surprise.” You decide, twisting the handle and letting the door creak open wide as muscle-memory guides your hand to the lightswitch and illuminates your bedroom. It’s not really a surprise, but he won’t go back to bed if you tell him now. “Night, Georgie.”

“Goodnight!” He calls back, closing the bathroom door almost all the way. The light bulb’s still out and he’s still scared of the dark.

You close your bedroom door, shutting all of them out and immediately reaching for the ties of your halter top. They fall loose and you shimmy out of the fabric, then the shorts.

Flowered paper on the walls, hardwood floors, this room is filled with the remnants of the little girl you once were in here. The shag rug and the Janis Joplin print above the bed are evidence of the newer, cooler woman who now occupies the space. The two of you coexist in this little space just fine most days.

Next comes the quest for a shirt to sleep in — sleeping in the nude doesn’t work when you have a Mom like Joan. She means well, you’re grateful for her. She’s the first person you’ll thank when you get your first award. Even though she still comes in without knocking.

Shirt acquired, you hear Georgie’s door click shut down the hallway as you scan the room for the book you discarded last night.

The window in your room faces miles of fields. In the far distance, you’ve never really noticed that you can see the O’Malley farm. Well, kind of. Ahead of that, there’s a small dusting of forest that hinders your view.

Your search for the book comes to a brief stop as you turn towards the open window and look out over the view. More specifically, of the red and white glint of weatherproof canvas that comes to a sharp point, dazzled with lightbulbs.

“Did you see what your daughter came home in?” Joan asks, shaking her head from her seat at the sewing machine. It whirs impolitely over the conversation, seeing blue thread through the hole in the knee of Georgie’s blue jeans.

“Sure did.” Fred drops his beer into the trash with a clang and rolls his shoulders back. He turns towards her, already expecting the worried frown he sees.

“People’ll talk.”

“Let ‘em,” Fred shrugs. He considers another Budweiser, but knows he’s got to be up early to get to the factory in the morning. “She’s a smart girl, she’s not out causing any trouble.”

Joan stops the machine and hums in consideration.

“Besides, I’m sure it’s a right of passage — wearing stuff that makes your folks’ blood pressure go crazy.”

She smiles, pushing up from the chair. Her socks pad across the green and yellow linoleum until she reaches her husband, her head tucking into the crook of his neck.

“You’re right. But I don’t like those shorts.” Joan decides as her husband takes her into his arms, smoky smelling and familiar.

Behind them, the morning’s paper sits discarded with only the sports section disrupted. Printed in an appropriately black ink, is the freckled face of Audrey Weiss. Her large-round glasses are still sitting on the bridge of her nose, her shoulders are angled and she’s beaming, looking front and centre. Above her portrait, the word MISSING is in the same shade of mourning-appropriate black ink.

That was a school photo. It’s old, her bangs have grown out already. Her round glasses are all torn up now, shattered and mangled — about 200 yards from her broken body, which is yet to be discovered in an empty stretch of red-dirt land off of a highway in southern Arizona.

NEXT CHAPTER

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