benderminki

[hollowsart]

ibuprofen? did heck all.

my sister’s Pibb Xtra and this Mtn Dew? MAGIC. POTION. OF HEADACHE BE GONE. NEAR INSTANT RELIEF.

caffeine is good for you actually

(..it’s good for headaches is what I mean)

[eupheme]

— tooth and nail

alpha!logan x mutant!f!reader

rated e - 4k

tags: dub-con (logan goes into a rut), a/b/o-lite elements (logan-only - ruts/knots/mates), breeding kink, mutual pining, two jealous dummies, size kink, fighting as foreplay, return of The Claws (claw-play?), outercourse, biting, marking, come play, rough PiV sex 

a/n: pure pwp. reader has druidic-based mutant powers (wild shape, strong connection to nature/animals, influence over vines/foliage) and is from Earth-10005.

Logan knows this feeling. He thought he’d left this part of himself behind. Left on his Earth, carved out and buried with the rest. 

Should have told you no. Should have locked himself away like he always did. Instead, he’s stuck, unable to keep his mind from wandering while his sparring partner - sweat-dewed and squirming - is pinned beneath him. 

(Or - Logan’s rut begins at a most inopportune time)

Something wasn’t right.

It’s been settling under his skin for days now.  Tiny hooked claws, digging into flesh. A syrupy urge low in his guts, his mind not quite his own.

He thought he’d left this part of himself behind. Left on his Earth, carved out and buried with the rest. 

The world he lives in now is different. There’s humans, mutants, aliens. But none like him, answering to something innate that defined him in a way that didn’t matter anymore.

It’s been a while. Almost forgot how it felt, after years of tamping down this part of him. Should have recognized sooner what it was. This rippling, simmering irritation just beneath his skin, so much stronger than usual. 

Should have locked himself away, when he realized his rut was returning.

In his years in his own Earth, the urge had lessened. Dulled by alcohol and grief. Managed by himself, in the few months this part of his nature did visit him.

But he hadn’t been able to tell you no. Hadn’t been able to resist, not when you smiled so prettily at him, practically begging him. 

And the thought of you leaving him behind at the X-Mansion, while you went off without him - to spar with Hank, instead - made him want to rip McCoy’s arms off. 

Desire swirls around him now, as he trades blows with you. Your arms snaking around his shoulders as you shoulder a well-placed hit, bringing you both down the floor.

Logan feels like a pup again, watching your breathless laugh. The clench of your thighs around his waist. The heady throb low in his guts, the pressure of his cock as it strains against his suit. 

His hips lift, separating him from you. Trying to form an excuse, while his brain is rocketing into overdrive.

Fighting back the urge to close that gap again. To peel down those tight leggings that drive him mad, bury his mouth against your pussy and make you scream. Fuck you full of him, until he’s dripping out of you for days. 

The though makes him growl, as he tries to concentrate.

Tough to fake an illness, or injury. You’d see right through him.

Or even worse, worry.

So all he had to do was finish out this session. 

Shouldn’t be too hard. 

If you can just avoid touching him… he might just make it through. 

You know you shouldn’t let yourself get distracted like this while sparring with Logan, but you can’t seem to help it.

Not when you’ve been nursing this thing inside you for months now. Something planted from another earth, settling low in your chest. Infesting like the vines that sprout from you, taking over until you’re fully ensnared.

You’ve tried to ignore it. Didn’t want to ruin a good thing between you. 

Out of everyone in the X-Mansion, you got along with Logan the best. Used to a solitary lifestyle after being raised among the druids, before you knew the truth to what you were, the mutant lineage that flowed through you.

It had paired well with his temperament. His anger and grouchy quips slipped from you like raindrops on a leaf. Something about spending time with you softening him at the edges - just a little bit.

He was still the hard man he used to be. Grizzled, with that scowl of his and the flecks of grey at his temples.

And despite your efforts - forgetting and moving on hadn’t been successful. Not at all. 

Because it’s impossible to ignore when he’s close, like this. Pressing your back to the mat, your wrist slammed against the padded floor. A knife skittering away, because even after all this time - even with his insisting - you were still reluctant to use it.

It sends your pulse racing. He’s so fucking strong - and you think that maybe, even if you had been an equal pair, that you’d still throw these matches. 

Let him win, if it gets him like this. Sweaty and pressed up against you as you struggle beneath him. A thigh jammed between yours to prevent you from slamming your heel into his calf.

You’ll think about this later. 

You always do after your sparring sessions. You hand slipping between your thighs in the shower after. Bitten-back moans as you play out more in your mind - the plunge of your fingers inside your aching cunt until you’re shuddering with the pulsing pleasure, slumping back against the cold tile. 

The fantasies always comes back to him. 

You think that maybe Logan wants it too. Have felt his gaze on you when he thinks no one is looking, but your senses have always been keen. Animal attraction, perhaps. Pheromones. Something about his smell, his touch, beckons you - though you don’t understand what it means. 

And it’s only now that you realize he’s gone still above you. Eyes blown wide, a sharp breath of air inhaled through clenched teeth. A low growl, caught in his throat. 

Holding himself back. You can see it - the way his muscles string tight. How his eyes dip, flicking over your face. Down to the part of your lips. The sweat that dews your chest. 

Close enough that you can inhale him - the smell of leather and cigar smoke blending with more - something inside you giving them a name. 

Want. Need. 

It gives you courage. 

You bridge the gap, for a just a moment. A shallow lift of your hips. Encouraging, the movement pushing your tits against his heaving chest. 

“Bad fucking idea, sweetheart.” He growls.

It’s rough, low. Ground-out as if to himself, a wounded sound slipping from his throat. 

His response has a mark forming between your eyebrows. A soft murmuring of his name.

Logan’s face dips, eyes closing as he inhales. Then, without warning, his knuckles cradle against your throat. 

Wrist flexing as two of his claws spear forward on either side of your neck. Punching through the training mats and sinking deep into the concrete beneath.

Pinning you completely under him, your hips dropping as your free hand wraps around his forearm. A tug of fear ripples through you, but he doesn’t budge.

“Logan,” You repeat, gasping, “What are you doing? What’s wrong?

This isn’t like the times you’ve sparred before. He’s never drawn his claws. You don’t heal like he does - you both know it. Never using more than a loose fist, an open palm in your sessions. 

He’s breathing heavy. Holding himself over you, his other hand still wrapped firmly around your wrist. 

“I’m gonna let you go.” It comes out ragged, through clenched teeth.

“And then I need you to leave, and lock me in after.” Only now does he look at you - his dark eyes burning, “You understand?”

His voice is so rough that it makes your skin prickle. Heat licking down your spine, stoking the embers that have settled low in your belly. 

“I don’t.” It comes out hushed.

How can you? It’s like a flip has been switched, in those few moments. Did you truly misread everything? 

His eyes haven’t left your face. There a peek of his tongue against his lips, the words coming slowly, “Don’t wanna do something you’re gonna regret.”

And for a moment, time stands still. An ache in your chest that’s so different than the one between your thighs. Finger unfurling, reaching.

Slipping up his arm, touching his cheek. He flinches, eyes fluttering shut as he holds his breath. 

“What could I regret with you?”

If it were anyone else, the question would be stupid. You should be running from the man that has you pinned to the ground, claws drawn. Another twitch and you could be dead - the middle unsheathing to pierce clean through your soft throat.

“Whatever it is, let me help you.” Your voice is gentle - coaxing -  and for a second, he leans into the touch. Palm pressing against heated skin, and you gasp, “You’re burning up, Logan.”

“You can’t help me with this.” He rasps with his eyes closed, voice strained. 

Your head shakes, “Let me try.”

A long pause lingers. The room filled with the uneven intake of breath. Logan’s words coming slowly, as his eyes open - dropping down to your throat. And then away, like he can’t bear to even look at you, “Does the word rut mean anything to you?”

It feels like something stirs again inside you. The flutter of wings, not unlike the feeling when you tap into your power. Like threads slipping your fingertips, connecting you down to the earth below. 

“Animals have ruts. Deer, elk, creatures like that.” A beat, as you begin to understand. Heat flaring in your cheeks at the implication, “But, not… not humans.”

He grunts, shifting.

It takes everything not to let your chin tip down, to look. 

“They do where I come from.” 

Pieces start to fall in place. His increased irritability around you lately. Territorial. Aggressive. 

Blending in to what you know, in your connection to nature. Those animalistic instincts that linger in your blood long after you’ve shed your beast form. 

Desire. Mating. An urge to breed. 

Oh, fuck. 

You squirm and he makes a warning sound without thinking - a rough rumble from his chest. His weight shifting on top of you, still hovering.

“How do you handle it?” 

His eyes flicker up to yours, then away again. Jaw working, a breath before he answers, “Take care of it myself. Or, I’d find someone to work through it with me.”

Even as you’re scrambling to make sense of it, you understand his insinuation. It stuns you into silence. You cannot allow that. The thought sends your heart crashing into your guts. 

Your chin tips up, defiantly.

“Let me help you.” 

Those dark eyes narrow as they snap to your face. Your words softening, as your thumb sweeps across his skin, the scruff of his cheek.

“I want to help you.”

Logan laughs, the sound ragged. Showing the points of his canines with the shake of his head. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” His voice is smoky-low. Rough as it scrapes across your skin, leaving goosebumps, “You couldn’t take me.”

Your heart feels like it’s pounding in your throat. Heat licking down your spine, and surely he can feel it - the flutter beneath the press of his knuckles. 

“I can.” It comes out breathy. Insisting. 

His tongue brushes over his lips as they part. A tilt of his head as he lowers himself. His knee pressing against the meat of your thigh, nudging. Opening your legs up further. Spreading them wider. 

“I will ruin you.” 

It’s growled in your ear. Each word coming slowly, as he lets the hard curve of his cock grind against your core. His meaning unmistakable, his voice pitching down with a ragged groan. 

“I want you to ruin you. You understand?”

And, you do. It floods through you, sending your nerve endings alight. Imagining how he would handle you, take you. The space between your thighs throbs. 

His admission - the rasp of his words and the heavy nudge of him against you makes you do something very selfish. 

And very stupid. 

You’re just able to reach your thigh holster now, with this new angle. The quick fumble of your fingers to loosen the small dagger.

The metal side of his claw pressing into your skin as your head turns. Before he can move, a flick of your wrist sends it through the air.

Your aim is slightly off, but it does the job. Seating itself in the control box by the door, a sizzle as the wires are cut.

A metallic snick as the doors lock. The lights click off, plunging the room into darkness. The ground bathed only with the stripes of sun that stretch across the floor from the row of window along the wall.

Logan lets go of your wrist, but leaves you pinned. His fist curling in the strap of your tank, knuckles pressing against your throat as he yanks you forward.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Logan snarls, “You want me to use you?”

His words make you whimper. A soft little whine that has his hips dropping further. An unconscious rut against your core, leg muscles flexing as you clench around nothing. 

You meet his second thrust, your body curving against his. Head tipping back as the seam of your leggings nudge against your clit.

“Fuck.” It almost sounds awed now, his words soft and slow, “You do, don’t you?”

Letting his full weight drop, as your hands grip onto his shoulders for purchase. You had thought you were pinned before, but he had still been using his knees, his elbows. Hovering, in an attempt to keep control.

Now, you can feel all of him, as his body maps against yours. Pulling a rough groan as his hips flex, grinding himself slowly against your core. 

“Logan, please.”

He growls. Fingers unfurling from your shirt. Ghosting down your side to fit against the curve of your hip. Biting into flesh with a bruising force, as his face buried in the crook of your neck. A hot exhale against your skin, as he pants - finding a rocking rhythm, as his body curls around yours. 

You can feel the way his muscles tense with each needy snap of his hips. The way each breath pitches into a near-silent whine, as he seeks friction. 

It’s not enough, as much as he wishes it was.

“I need-” Logan rasps, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

The hand on your hip snakes between you. Roughly tugging on the belt of his suit, until the clasp opens. All while murmuring assurances, half to himself.

“I’ll let you go. Work through it myself-”

That need he speaks of rolls off him in waves. Facial hair scraping against your cheek. The brush of his lips against your throat, just above the cool press of his claws.

“Don’t stop.” It’s easy to answer. Easy to lean into what he offers you, all those sweet promises wrapped in steel. 

The groan he makes is filthy, “Give me your hand.”

Your fingers unlatch from the vice-like hold on his suit. A broad hand wrapping around your wrist, as he tugs you where he needs you. The tips brushing heated skin, making you gasp. 

“Make a fist,” He rasps, “Fuck, that’s it.”

Lining himself up, pushing his bared cock into the circled grip of your fingers. Using you like a cheap imitation of what he craves, as his desire leaks from him. Slicking up your fingers, with each roll of his hips. 

He’s heavy in your hand. You can feel how your fingers stretch - flexing, opening, with each forward thrust. Barely able to circle around, fingers splitting when you reach his base. 

You can’t help but move with him. Hips rocking up, to match his messy rhythm. The knuckle of your thumb pressing against your seam, nudging at where you ache for him.

“I can smell you, sweetheart,” Logan moans, his nose dragging along the curve of your jaw. Lips parting so he can test his teeth against a spot under your ear, the pressure making you shiver, “Your pussy’s leaking, thinking about me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, as you whine. Squeezing his cock a little more tightly, wishing it was filling you instead just your fingers. 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” He husks, “You think you can take it?”

You want anything he’ll give you. And anything is better than the way he’s teasing you. Palm slick with his desire, your own soaking through the soft fabric of your leggings.

“I want it. Want your cock,” You breathe, “Want to fuck me, please-”

There’s a final jerk of his hips against you, his voice gruff as his thighs shift.

“Stay still then, sweetheart.”

There’s the sharp rasp of adamantium against stone as they withdraw from the floor. His knuckles easing carefully from your throat as he leans back. Eyes dropping down, considering.

Barely a heartbeat before there’s the kiss of metal against skin, as the edge of a claw hooks under your shirt. Your breath held as it slips up, between your breasts. 

A tug, and the fabric is shredding. Fibers splitting until the drag of the sharp tips, from belly to throat. Baring you, the air in the open room chilling your heated skin as you gasp.

Nipples already pebbled as his mouth descends. A needy moan loosening when he kisses at the curve of your tits, his tongue flattening across a tight peak. 

Your arms wrap around him, their duty forgotten. Distracting you as his claws shift down. Your breath catches, but then there’s the sound of them sheathing - slipping back under his skin. 

His hands finding the slice he made in the waistband, making short work of the rest himself. Ripping your leggings open - dragging your thighs over his as he leans back on his knees. 

And looking down, it’s only now that you can fully see him. The familiar, worn yellow suit that shows off how broad he is. Zipper yanked down at the crotch, his cock pulled through with his impatience.

Eyes widening, when you realize there’s more to him than you though. Hanging heavy between his thighs, pretty and flushed. A thickened bulge sitting where your fingers had split - what you had mistaken for his base. 

“Need to be inside you, sweetheart,” Logan’s hand already wrapping around his shaft, dragging the tip across your cunt, “Don’t make me waste a drop, alright?”

Fingers tugging the gusset of your panties to the side. Letting the tip slap against your clit. It glides against you, slipping against your combined arousal. Seeing how you flutter as you clench, your own need spiking.

“Logan,” You beg, “Stop teasing, please-”

He makes a rough sound. Almost a laugh, if it didn’t sound so pained. 

“Just listen to you. Begging like you’re in heat,” He grunts, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you need.”

The tip dips down, nudging at your entrance. Lining himself up, before his hips drive him forward. The sudden pressure chokes you - a bitten-back cry as your muscles string tight, thighs clamping down around his waist.

“Fuck, I’ve dreamed about this.” He growls. Spearing into you an inch at time with a long, fluid motion. Fingers biting into your thigh, holding you open as your own scrabble against the mat - searching for something to hold onto.

“Tugging down those leggings. Fucking you into the floor.”

You can barely contain the whine. Brow furrowed, as he splits you open. Your pussy making room for him until the swollen ring at his base cradles your entrance. 

Only able to inhale a short breath before he’s moving. Hands catching your legs, slipping to the joints of your knees where they press into his ribs.

Pushing your thighs back towards your chest, opening you up further, as his cock drags along your walls. He feels deeper, bigger - groaning at the way you clench so tightly around him.

Better than any of those daydreams, as he leans into you. Chasing that animalistic urge inside to bury himself fully in you, ensuring that you’ll take every drop.

Your fingers bite into his wrists. The breath pushed from you with each thrust, feeling like he’s deep in your belly, as that swell stretches at your opening.

“Thought about it too,” You admit with a gasp, as that heat inside you burns, “Wanted you, like this.”

“Yeah? I bet you did.” He grunts, as his thighs snap against your ass. Leaning over you now, eyes fixed on yours. Close enough that you can see the glaze to them, lost in his need for release. 

Before his eyes drag down. Seeing where you’re stretched around him. Another shallow nudge, urging himself deeper. His thumb pressing at your entrance, before slipping back to hook around the swell.

“Good girl like you’d take my knot too, wouldn’t you?”

His knot. Your head shakes. He barely fits at is. You can feel every ridge as he ruts into you, every thick vein, “I don’t think- Logan, that won’t fit-”

The thumb shifts up. Pleasure burning through as he rolls the pad across you clit. His brow pulled in concentration, but there’s a flesh of white teeth.

“Sure it will, baby.” It’s slick, how he touches you. His cock grinding again and again against a spot that steals your breath, “You were made to take it. We’ll make it fit.”

It makes you moan. Your fingers sliding into his hair tugging at him. He comes willingly, a soft sound as his mouth dips to press against yours. Turning hungry as your lips part. Rubbing at you as his tongue strokes against yours, deepening the kiss. 

The pleasure licks in your veins, a molten feeling building in your core. 

A rough murmur against your lips, “Tell me you want it. I’ll make you feel good, sweetheart.”

You parrot it back to him without thinking, hips chasing the press of his thumb. 

“I want it,” You keen, “Your k-knot.”

Willing to do just about anything he asks if he keeps touching you like this. If he keeps rutting against the spot that makes your arousal leak around his cock, each drive of his hips loud and messy in the quiet room. 

He groans, the hand at your thigh pinching, sure to leave bruises tomorrow. The fingers at your clit slipping up to splay across your abdomen, his palm hot again your skin. 

“Yeah?” Logan husks - pressing down, almost as if he can feel himself buried inside you, “Fuck, you’d look so good filled with my pups.”

His rhythm going sloppy, as a hand slips up to palm at your breasts, “These pretty tits nice and round. Wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you, baby.”

Some of his words are new to you, but your body still reacts to his tone. The need, the longing. An intrinsic understanding of what he wants, even if it’s impossible with your implant. It still doesn’t stop your hand from slipping down to replace his.

Of pretending, with him. 

The circles practiced, leaving him to concentrate on his own end. Soft panting cries pulling from you as the pounding of his hips drags you closer. 

He’s close, as well. Those sharp thrusts growing shallow, messy. Letting go of your thighs, letting them wrap around his waist as he drives you into the padded mats. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, lips pressing against your jaw. Tongue dipping out to drag against a spot on your neck that makes you go slack in his arms. 

“Should mate you,” He rasps. Teeth pinching down, where his tongue just was, “Bite you right here. Make you mine.”

The words tip you over the edge. A ragged gasp as your pussy clamps down around him, blood thundering in your ears. Nails catching on the panels of his suit as you cling to him, moans ripped from your throat as you pulse around him in time with your thudding heartbeat.

There’s no sharp bite of teeth. Just a muffled groan against your skin as he grasps at your hips. The sharp feeling of pressure increasing, as something thick works its way inside you. You keen as it stretches you, swelling so he can’t withdraw. 

Twin ragged moans, as you’re joined together. 

He comes with you squirming on his knot, his lips pressed against your throat. Sweet nothings murmured - “squeezing me so fucking tight, baby”, “gonna need you to take every drop, atta girl” - his cock throbbing as he spills inside you, pumping you full.

Still grinding into you. It draws your own orgasm out, with the way he’s rubbing against your walls, nothing left untouched. Overstimulation flickering at the corner of your mind, but you’re locked in place as he breeds you. 

Understanding what he meant by using you - you feel it now. Fucked out and boneless and it sends another gush of sticky need between your thighs. 

The sharp, panting breath starts to ebb. The ghost of his teeth becomes the nuzzle of his face, that strung-tight pull of his muscles turning liquid as he relaxes into your embrace. 

“Why were you so worried?”

It comes out hushed, in the now-silent room. You’re sore - will be, tomorrow. Pleasure-drunk certainly, but not quite as ruined as he promised. 

Almost to your disappointment. 

“That wasn’t too much.”

Logan laughs, the sound dripping with condescension. A flex of his hips, still knotted inside you. Cum leaking from your swollen pussy, smearing against your inner thighs.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He coos, “Ruts can last for days.”

His fingers drop, dragging through his spend. Finding your clit again, rubbing slick circles against the tight little bud. 

Intent on doing this one himself. 

“We’re only just getting started.”

[moodboard] // I had two ideas for his claws after the movie - this was the second one! This is my first time writing something like this, so keeping it a little light with the dynamics 💖 thanks for reading!

and speaking of - I have to link this amazing alpha!logan thot by the incredible @avocado-writing! please check it out! 💕

[bonkhrnyjail]

desert eagle

pairing: young joel miller x f!plus-size!reader (age unspecified, no specific physical descriptions other than plus-size and able-bodied) summary: joel gets reluctantly dragged to the strip club after a long day of work. god knows he wasn't expecting to meet someone like you... rating: explicit 18+ mdni word count: 8.8k (sorry) tags: thigh riding, oral sex, so much oral sex, ass play, 69, reader is a stripper, joel is down horrendous, JOEL MILLER LOVES BIG GIRLS, gentleman!joel, until he's not, sub!joel if you squint, joel and reader are both aggressively texan, i'm midwestern so i do not take responsibility for inaccuracies i did my best a/n: soooo this is based off of the beyoncé song desert eagle, the first time i heard it i immediately thought of this idea and i couldn't get it out of my head and i was having literal sex dreams about it so i decided to write it. this is my first time writing joel too so i'm scared :P anyways i love writing about confident beautiful fat women but i think anyone can enjoy this fic so yeahhh anyways you should listen to the beyoncé song and then read the fic or vice versa ok love you bye

Joel didn’t want to go to the strip club. 

In fact, Joel wants nothing more than to be alone tonight, and yet he finds himself uncomfortably perched on the edge of a half-crescent booth, dragged along by Tommy and some of the idiot twenty-somethings he’d met on their most recent project.  

“Loosen up, old man!” one of the cocky landscapers barked at him when he tried to decline. “A pretty pair a’ tits in your face’ll turn that frown right upside down!”

He almost did say no, almost played the foolproof dad card; unfortunately for him, Sarah had already planned to stay at her best friend’s house the next few nights, taking advantage of the last week of winter break. But he saw the premature wince forming in Tommy’s eye, waiting for the inevitable sting of Joel ruining his chances at making some semi-decent friends in this town—friends that wouldn’t land him behind bars on the weekend, anyways. So Joel surrendered with a begrudging grunt, under the terms that he could stop by home to shower and change clothes. Miraculously, he convinced the other guys to do the same.

Inside, violet and teal spotlights cast a thick fog across the large stage. It illuminates the performers whilst somehow clouding them too, their bodies winding and whirling in a periwinkle haze. Joel’s skin feels humid and suffocated beneath the clinging fabric of his flannel shirt; the glass of Jack Daniels he’d spent the last ten minutes nursing only abets the formation of dew trickling down his neck and spine. The only thing keeping him cool is the wet curls he slicked back sitting at the base of his skull, providing a momentary chill with any slight breeze. He feels claustrophobic, displaced; like his presence was altogether a clumsy wedge into somewhere he didn’t quite belong. 

Nothing another glass of whiskey couldn’t fix.

Joel excuses himself from the group without much notice. The boys are hovering over a meaty stack of ones, attempting to divvy up the bills in even increments without having to count them out individually. He strides across the room with a languid ease, scanning the room and the scattered clusters of men, appeasing his unconscious instinct to confirm safety wherever he is—and to keep tabs on the people he should keep Tommy away from. He stops short for a moment, palming his pocket to confirm his wallet and keys haven’t left his side.

“Pardon me, honey.” 

A soft, seductive drawl takes him by surprise as a hand on his lower back guides him inches to the left. It takes a moment for his vision to focus, the crisp snap of his neck to follow the voice leaving a slight dizziness in its recoil, the trailing scent of cinnamon and honey wafting beneath his nose. 

When he finally sees you, actually sees you, Joel finds himself powerless to avert his gaze. Your body is awash with exquisite peaks and valleys, velvet curves clad only by precarious strings and swatches of fabric covering mere inches of glistening skin. The clack of your heels leaves him hypnotized as you leave him in your wake. His jaw slackens and his lungs become paralyzed as he witnesses the way your body moves like water with every step; like the current that flows across the edges of your figure, rippling as you step onto the stage and coil yourself around the silver pole.

Good god.

The bones in Joel’s knees suddenly turn gelatinous, a huff of air escaping his mouth as he stumbles backward into the bar, bracing himself with flat palms against the polished marble. He steadies himself, blinking out the sting beneath his lids, trying to moisten the dryness in his eyes—a consequence of his bulging stare.

A soft giggle lilts from behind him, piercing through his trance and hammering his conscience back into the earth. Joel turns to the source to find the bartender, shaking her head with laughter as she drags the rim of a glass through a bowl of salt.

“Don’t worry, ain’t the first time I’ve seen a man nearly lose his footin’ around Paloma,” she jeers, a smirk threatening the corners of her mouth. “She’s really somethin’, that girl.”

Joel nods, clears his throat, and swallows the saliva that pools at the back of his tongue. Somethin’ was an understatement, an insult to the ethereal vision twirling before him. The fog and dusky lighting prevents him from capturing a defined image of your face, only catching glimpses of soft cheeks and plush lips as you spin and float with ease, but he’s certain you’re breathtaking.

“You want another Jack?” the bartender offers, pouring out a picture-perfect margarita, the lime hue nearly fluorescent in the lowlight.

Joel grunts in affirmation, his eyes not once straying from your direction.

“Not much of a talker, are ya?” she ribs, chuckling as she reaches for the whiskey.

“Sorry, long day,” Joel winces, suddenly painfully aware of how rude he’s been. “Is she, uh, new ‘round here?” 

“Who, Paloma? Been ‘round for about… six months or so? She’s done real well for herself, honestly blew all us away with how much she was able t’make from the jump.”

He bites down on the tip of his tongue, a sharp, electrifying pain searing through his nerves. It does nothing to fracture the beguiling spell you’ve somehow cast upon him, and Joel finds himself staring again, studying your every move, knowing nothing but need.

“Do you know if she… when she’s done here? Her shift, I mean.”

The bartender laughs exuberantly, a wide smile revealing a far-too-pristine row of pearly veneers that nearly glow under the lilac beams.

“Well, I don’t think I can tell you that, sugar,” she coos, sliding Joel’s drink across the space between them. “But you can ask her yourself! I promise, she don’t bite. Sweet as honey, that one.”

Honey. 

It still lingers in the air, thick and cloying in a way that grips like a hand wrapped around his throat, like a demanding croon singing over and over: Eyes on me. He can taste it too, a whisper of it stagnant on the back of his tongue, a lurking craving impatiently waiting to be satiated.

Joel thanks her in a low gravel, and strides back towards his table with newfound urgency nipping at his heels. He arrives at the booth with no reaction from the boys, the party too enveloped in counting their stack to be stirred by his presence. It’s only when Joel clears his throat, the force of it deep and thunderous, that the men take any notice.

“I’m gonna need me some of those.”

.   .   .   .   .

You didn’t expect the club to be busy tonight. 

In fact, you practically relied on Wednesdays being the slowest day of the week. You often used the opportunity to practice new routines, test out new outfits, try something different with your makeup; pretty much anything you didn’t particularly prefer for a crowded audience to behold.

Tonight you find yourself testing the limits of a string-bikini-esque number, the laces doubled around your torso and triple-knotted in the hope of extra security, and the triangular fabric cutouts stuck down to the curve of your breasts with double-sided tape. You climb the pole with ease, perfectly-formed calluses on your palms and heels aiding you with improved grip. 

It took just a month of pole classes for you to develop an addiction to the burn of sleek metal sliding across your skin. Something about the sting of it, alongside the quiver of your core, the aching clench of your thighs; it was a remarkable blend of pain that spilled through you like pleasure. It soon became an unholy replacement for Sunday worship—melding yourself around the pole; bathing in the sweltering beams from the spotlights; inhaling the musky scent of crumpled bills lying at your feet. It was entirely meditative, and you’d found a sort of spiritual enlightenment amongst it all.

You let your head fall back as the rod swings you around in tight circles. Normally you let your eyes close when you spin, but tonight you feel called to the fuzzy warmth that pools behind your brows when you get good and dizzy. Your surroundings bleed and curve like an Expressionist painting, and an unmoving figure lurks amongst the brush strokes, appearing and disappearing and blending until it’s a constant image: a broad, stoic, masculine body, melting into everything you can see.

The invasion peeves you. Sure, you know you should be pleased that a customer is watching, clearly interested and coming closer, but for Christ’s sake, you’ve been out for less than five minutes. At 6pm. On a Wednesday.

You carefully bring your body to a halt, slowly inching down the pole until your shoes meet the hardwood. Your vision lags far behind you, skipping like a scratched disc, and it’s enough to nearly knock you from your feet. A lightness billows through your blood and tries to whisk you away, but you sink against it, sitting on your heels and fastening your grip on the cold steel.

Lines begin to gain their sharpness again, and the figure in your peripheral starts to look less and less like a Van Gogh portrait. The man’s face is still muddled, dimly-lit and shrouded by the bill of a baseball cap. You smile at him on instinct, and you notice his chest jerk, like he was entirely unaware that he too was being observed; like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You also can’t help but notice how broad he is, even from this distance. The plaid lines of his button-up sprawl across his chest, his arms, his waist, and though the shirt clearly isn’t skin-tight, you can tell the expanse of him fills it out with ease. With a slight tilt of your head you motion for him to come closer, and your balance finally stills enough for you to trust your feet again.

The man strides across the room with a glimmer of urgency—not fast per se, but with a spirited buoyancy hot beneath his heels. He parks himself at the table nearest to you, pulling the chair from its nestled nook under the table, and makes himself comfortable, splaying his knees and crossing his arms tightly atop his chest.

God, he’s big.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before,” you lilt, descending the stairs from the platform and taking a seat on the table in front of him.

One of his hands peeks from beneath the sleeve of his flannel. It looks gruff, firm, and tightly grasps a palmful of ones, and the sheer width of his fingers make the bills look like Monopoly money. 

“Ain’t really been ‘round here before,” he shrugs, his voice exactly as deep as you expected, and steeped in what you immediately recognize as a born and raised Texan.

His eyes are noticeably shifty, ping-ponging between the floor, the stage, your shoes, his watch; anywhere that isn’t your gaze. The majority of his face is still shaded by his cap, and even this close his features remain more vague than you’d like them to be. You realize he must be new to this, and you’ve heard that drawl before; the drawl of a man who was raised to mind his manners.

You don’t make him ask.

“You want a dance, baby?”

You graze your fingers over his, and have to bite down on a grin when his chest hitches sharply against the row of buttons resting over his sternum.

“I… um… no, thank you sweetheart—”

“What’s your name?”

He clears his throat with a stifled, nervous cough.

“Joel,” he blurts, a sober assuredness possessing his voice. “Joel Miller.”

He finally meets your gaze, just as a whirling spotlight dances over his face. A split second of illumination reveals a whiskey-brown stare, dripping with warmth, glinting with a sedated hunger. You bite down on the flesh of your cheek and extend your hand to shake his.

“Paloma,” you croak, imitating his baritone husk, pausing to repeat his cadence. “Paloma Blue.”

A dimple appears amongst a veil of brown scruff, the faint edges of a charming smile peeking through the shadow from his hat. His shoulders remain rigid, hiked with an invisible thread tugging them toward the ceiling.

You really can’t read him.

“Can I do somethin’ for you, honey? You seem tense,” you question.

“I was… I was wonderin’ if you might be interested in lettin’ me buy you a drink. When you’re done workin’, f’course. Wouldn’t wanna get you in any kinda trouble.”

You find it impossible not to let out a chuckle. It’s not the first time you’ve sent a man into a flustered mess of shifting-eyes and stuttering words, though that would usually come after he got too bold and you needed to put him in his place. Joel Miller doesn’t look like those men; college-aged hooligans or machismo cowboys that are all bark and no bite. He doesn’t look like a man who gets nervous; yet here he is, fidgeting profusely with his watch, and you’re quite relieved he’s sitting down.

“Well, ain’t you a sweet one…” you drawl, half-teasing despite the truth to the statement. “I’m s’posed to work ‘til close tonight, but if you can convince my boss to let me leave early, I’m all yours.”

You don’t miss the swell of Joel’s pupils at your affirmation, a look of determination you had yet to witness on the man. The chances of getting out of your shift tonight are next to none, considering there’s merely three of you working the floor and a new hoard of howling youngsters just came tumbling through the entrance.

You point out your boss behind the bar and Joel follows with his gaze, nodding and starting towards her without a word.

You’re a bit shocked at his immediate action; not to mention the lack of the typical prying you’ve accepted as routine. He’s been extraordinarily polite; a man of few words but refreshingly direct despite the subtle shake in his voice, and the honesty alone makes your cheeks flush.

You’re far more used to taking control and providing entertainment for the countless men that frequent the club, always catering to their needs first and foremost, smothering them with flattery—or degradation, if you notice a well-timed “good boy” summons a bigger bill from their pockets. It’s work, but it’s undoubtedly started to bleed into your personal life. The lines between you and your Paloma persona have blurred these days, making you unsure of what you’re supposed to want and what you actually want. You find yourself lost in thought, gazing at the black and white tile as your legs swing underneath you, until the interruption of two dirty boots break your trance.

“Boss said you’re good to go. F’you still want to.”

How the hell did he manage that?

Your jaw hangs slightly in shock, racking your brain to make sense of what he may have done to convince her. You can’t help but be impressed by his vigor, by all of it, and a smile lifts your cheeks to the heavens as you recognize the feeling stirring in your tummy, a feeling that has laid dormant for far too long. You want him.

“I’ll go get my stuff, just hang tight.”

.   .   .   .   .

Joel stands by the exit of the club, waiting for you to grab your things. He hadn’t thought a damn thing through before he asked you out, and his voice of reason was nowhere to be found when he forked over 200 bucks to the club owner to get you out of working for the rest of the night. Any semblance of forethought vanished when he saw you, all sashayed hips and strut and so undeniably, deliciously Texan. And your face—oh—once he saw that sweet face of yours… he didn’t stand a fucking chance.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know where exactly he should take you to get a drink. Should he have asked you to dinner instead? The last thing he wants is you to think is that he’s trying to buy you for the night, or that anything is required of you just because he got you out of work. He just wants to know you, be near you, bask in your presence. He wants to treat you like a gentleman, like he was raised to, because he’s damn sure the kind of men who wind up at that club don’t give a damn about chivalry.

You emerge from the narrow hallway leading towards the exit, clad in gray sweatpants and a flowy white tee that somehow still clings to the most feminine parts of your figure. You shoot him a beaming smile, a playful glint in your eyes as you haul a small duffel bag over your shoulder.

“You’re not takin’ me anywhere too fancy I hope,” you snicker.

Joel offers one hand to hold your bag and swings the door ajar with the other, holding it for you as you pass through. The trail of your perfume—that soft, sugary scent—leaves his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he tightens his grip on the doorframe.

“You need somethin’ to eat? We could get some supper,” he suggests, offering his arm to you.

“Yeah, actually, I usually wait ‘til after my shift, considerin’ work ain’t too far off from a non-stop Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Y’get used to it after a while, but—”

“Better safe than sorry, I bet.”

You look up at him and nod with a half-grin, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

With just a single look, Joel’s stomach flutters and dick twitches at the sight of you. The glow of your face beneath the warmth of the streetlight; your soft features and the intensity of your persistent gaze is beyond mesmerizing. You’re pretty, the epitome of it, all batting lashes and pillowy lips; the very definition of divine feminine. You’re the spitting image of the hazy being that appears behind his eyelids when he touches himself and lets his mind wander; the body he craves to wake up tangled with every morning. 

He follows you to the passenger’s side of the car and opens the door for you without a thought, leaning in to his tendencies and muscle memory. You hum a sweet thank you as he extends his arm to help you into his elevated truck, but you barely need the support, your strong legs lifting you into the height of the car with ease. 

As Joel turns the key in the ignition, the scream of the roaring engine sends a full body cringe snaking down his spine.

“Sorry, uh, she’s a lil’ noisy,” he winces with an apologetic brow. “She’s fine, runs great, just—”

“A bit of a talker?” you blurt.

He smiles diffidently and nods. You’re better with words than he is, and he finds himself thankful for that—lord knows he needs all the help he can get in your presence.

Joel flicks on the radio, an old Willie Nelson tune lilting from the rear speakers. You let out a hearty grunt of approval.

“Haven’t heard this one in forever,” you slurred. “Practically grew up on this music. ‘M sure you did too, I can hear it in that drawl f’yours.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he reaches his arm around your seat, crooking his head back as he shifts the truck into reverse. 

“That bad, huh?”

“Not bad! Just strong. Just how I like it, really,” you admit, pulling your lip between your teeth, doe-eyed and eager as you catch his gaze.

God, he’s absolutely fucked.

He dials up the volume as he clears his throat and starts down the jagged road. You relax into your seat, curling one of your feet up to tuck beneath your thigh as you hum along to the radio.

He knows exactly where to take you.

.   .   .   .   .

A twenty minute car ride with Joel revealed that he wanted to know as much as he could about you. He asked question after question, about your life, your hobbies, your family, and not one thing about your job, which was honestly quite refreshing. Not that you had any shame about your occupation, but most men were more fascinated about what it was like to be Paloma, and most importantly what it could mean for them at the end of the evening. Not Joel, though. It seemed as though he was almost afraid to breach the subject; out of politeness or avoidance, you weren’t sure. You crossed your fingers that it was the former.

You arrive at a little shack of a restaurant, some sort of fusion between a diner and a sports bar. It looks as though it should be empty, the exterior of it run down in a way that makes it appear frozen in time, but it isn’t. Clusters of customers sit in long-stretched booths that fill the width of the windows and the entrance is shrouded with people; some smoking, some chatting, and some seemingly waiting to get in. You scan the crowd and find that everyone visible to you appears quite innately blue collar, down to the sea of Levi’s Jeans and scuffed up boots, extra-illuminated by the cheap plastic solar lights haphazardly stuck into narrow beds of mulch.

Joel hops down from the truck before you can even say a word, and with a quick shuffle he’s arrived at the passenger door. You have to laugh at the absurdity of it, how it seems he has—cover to cover— studied a textbook of how to be a perfect gentleman. Alongside the frequency of nerves you can sense radiating from beneath his skin, you know you need to get a drink in him. 

He offers his arm as you hop down onto the pavement and swiftly rests his palm on your lower back, guiding you through the crowd of patrons with ease. A cheap, crackling doorbell sound chimes as you pass through the doorway. The hostess offers a wide and toothy smile, hollering to announce Joel's arrival, by name, towards the kitchen. She appears surprised but delighted to see him, making a point to let him know how much she has missed him with a cringeworthy attempt at a bit too much physical contact. She asks about a Sarah, and your stomach tightens with concern—you hope to god she's anything but a wife. He requests a booth, a cozy, curved table in the shaded, sheltered corner of the restaurant, and the staff oblige him immediately, one waitress clearing the tabletop of dishes and the other wiping the surface down in one clean swipe.

“Hope this is ok,” Joel says. “You’re definitely not the only one wearing sweatpants in here, if it makes you feel at ease.”

“It’s good, seems perfect,” you slip the innermost part of your bottom beneath your teeth and let your eyes do the smiling. “They sure are treatin’ you like royalty in here.”

Joel seems to relax a bit, his spine softening into the back of the cushion and legs splaying wide. He isn’t looking at you as you observe him; his eyes dart around and he musters a casual wave to anyone visibly moved by his presence. The constant, worried scrunch of his brow smooths out for a moment, just as the beams of passing headlights rake over his features, and you finally realize:

He’s fucking gorgeous.

You could see him before, sure, but you didn’t actually see him, not with the lingering luminescence of the warm white that shines through the outspread window behind you. He was steeped in shadow, but now he’s colored in, every detail and curvature entirely yours to behold.

The bend of his nose draws your attention first, strong and angular, demanding your eyes pay it mind. Your gaze follows a natural map, a sporadic trail of sun spots that dance across his cheek, conspicuous evidence of long days working outside in the relentless Austin heat. A few silver hairs are sprinkled amongst his umber scruff; a well-kempt beard and mustache sits just above the soft curve of his lips, flushed with ruddy hue.

He’s gorgeous, plain and simple. 

The waitress brings Joel a whiskey before even saying hello. Joel asks what you would like, calls you sweetheart in a low, thick growl. You order a vodka cran and try to ignore the hostess currently staring a hole into the side of your head. 

“You gonna tell me why they treat you like royalty ‘round here?” you tease.

“Not royalty—” he cuts himself off with a chuckle and a shake of his head. “They just ain’t seen me in a while. Used to bring my little girl here for breakfast every Sunday.”

“Ah,” you release with a sigh, the ball of tension sitting in your chest following behind. “Sarah?”

“Mhm,” he hums.

“Was worried she might be a wife for a second there.”

“Oh, no, I- I’m not… I wouldn’t…”

“S’alright. I’ll admit though, I’m real glad she ain’t.”

Joel’s face turns a soft shade of pink and a whisper of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. His eyes flicker, lingering on your lips, a flame dancing behind his pupils, before meeting your gaze again. You can’t control the smile that possesses your face, nor the simmering heat that blankets your chest, and you can’t recall that last time a man made you feel like this. 

Every facet of Joel’s appearance exudes an air of dominance. He dresses much like the hordes of men who approach you with their usual excessive bravado and unwarranted sense of ownership over your body, but he seems to act entirely the opposite. He seems apprehensive, wary, like he’s trying desperately to be the right kind of man around you, to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.

You decide to try what Joel orders, some sort of off-menu special order the waitress jokingly calls “The Miller Deluxe”. It isn’t long before you finish your drink, and another appears before you can even ask. You inquire more about Joel’s daughter, his life, his work; returning the line of questioning he surveyed you with in the passenger’s seat of the truck, and you find yourself mirroring his smile as he tells you all about Sarah. He rambles off a brief explanation of his business and Tommy; you immediately know who he is, a somewhat troublesome regular visitor at the club. Joel apologizes for Tommy before you even say a word about him, and your food arrives at the table before you can explain that he’s more of an occasional nuisance than anything else.

The whiskey seems to unwind the tension in Joel’s stature, and words begin to flow with much more ease than they did before you arrived. A natural, charismatic charm seeps through, sticky sweet, until it’s all but enveloped his demeanor, blanketing his palpable apprehension with an earnest geniality that radiates warmth like a fireplace. It washes over you, clinging to every inch of your skin, seeping through to your veins and igniting a flame low in your belly, a flickering heat that demands to be noticed.

You’re fairly certain he won’t be the one to cut through the guarded distance between you. Despite the unmistakable hunger in his eyes, he remains heedful, taking extra care to keep his hand from grazing yours as he reaches for the chip basket and keeping his body at least a foot away from yours. You want—desperately want—to shatter the glass partition he seems to have placed between you, to destroy the self-imposed barrier keeping his temptation at bay.

You start by sliding closer, closing the gap between your knees until they touch. That gets his attention, but he doesn’t retreat, he only meets your eyes with a look of inquiry, curiosity, and a hint of apprehension. You flash him your most doe-eyed, encouraging smile, sanctioning the proximity of your bodies, silently divulging that you want this, that you like him, that he can finally release the imprisoned breath he’s been holding beneath his sternum since he uttered his very first words to you. 

Joel swings an arm around your shoulder, resting against the wooden panel atop the booth seat, leaving a few inches between your skin and the sleeve of his flannel. He doesn’t have to tell you a thing; you oblige him immediately, leaning your shoulders back and relaxing into his forearm. You fit seamlessly into the crook of his elbow, and the warmth emanating from his body makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention.                       

The second vodka cran—the one that you nearly shotgunned—possesses your will for a split-second and you find yourself reaching for his face, whisping the pad of your thumb across his wiry scruff. Despite the rough tickle it leaves behind, you immediately crave the sensation elsewhere, certain that the drag of it across a more delicate area might just feel like heaven.

“Can I be honest?” you whisper in a low lilt, tracing the brim of his cap with lazy fingers.

Joel nods with a thick swallow, his Adam's apple jumping almost comically in his throat.

“Yeah, f’course,” he responds with a strained attempt at nonchalance.

“I don’t like this hat.”

You grip the bill of the hat, wiggling it back and forth playfully. Your actions are outrunning your thoughts by a mile now, and you’re unable to keep your hands from wandering towards Joel’s magnetism. His face transforms into a bewildered, amused grin, one brow furrowed and the other cocked toward the ceiling. 

“Mm,” he hums, a low, resonant sonance from the pit of his chest. “Why’s that?”

“I can’t see you,” you whine. “Can’t see that pretty face of yours, s’all hidden by a shadow.”

“I, um—” he whisks the hat off, running his fingers through a slicked mountain of curls. “My hair’s still wet.”

Christ. The light bathes his face, every detail revealing itself to you in absolute glory. He’s fucking beautiful, his features demanding of your undivided attention, an impossible balance between striking and soft. The flicker of need at the base of your core spreads at the speed of a wildfire, setting you ablaze with a hunger you can no longer ignore.

“Joel?”

His name spills from your throat, sliding off your tongue like a siren’s nectar. Your fingers find their way to his mane, weaving through the strands with a gentle tug. His inhale catches in his lungs, the air held prisoner as your nails trace along his temple and jaw. His eyes finally meet yours as the pad of your thumb drags across his lower lip, and it’s only then that you will his breath to freedom, a stuttering exhale pulsing with anticipation.

“I think we should get the check.”

A momentary shock quickly turns to realization, and with widened eyes and a stifled smirk he nods, wasting no time to flag down the waiter and ask for the bill. Neither of you speak; you find it almost impossible to do so, your gaze spellbound to the curve of muscle and veins that lay beneath his collar, and you swear you can see his pulse jumping beneath his skin.

You want nothing more than to feel the rush of it beneath your tongue.

Joel offers his arm to help you out of the booth, his flannel rolled to his elbows, exposing his thick and freckled forearms and a modest watch strapped to his wrist. He wastes no time whisking you towards the door, his palm flat against your lower back, waving a few rushed goodbyes to the folks he chatted with on the way in. You can feel his heat, his fervor, singeing your skin through your shirt, his fingers curled into the soft skin just above your ass. He holds the door for you as you lock eyes; you’re met with primitive opacity in his gaze, the desperation of it surging straight to your cunt.

You grasp his hand, and book it towards his truck, counting down the seconds before you lose control.

.   .   .   .   .

Joel hums with surprise as you twist the neck of his flannel into your fist, tugging him into you and colliding your lips savagely with his.

Fuck, you taste better than he could’ve possibly imagined.

He didn’t intend for the evening to end like this. In fact, he almost wanted to avoid it, wanted to take you out with the crystal-clear message of no expectation whatsoever. But he’s just a man after all, and the second your eyes started talking and hands started wandering, he knew there was no way he could resist giving you what you wanted.

His hands find their way to your hips with magnetic force, slipping under the hem of your shirt with ease and grasping at the softness that lies beneath the fabric. The strength of his hands is enough to push you flat against the passenger door as he tilts your pelvis towards him, easing your knees apart with an effortless nudge of his leg. 

You gasp into his mouth as he pulls you onto his thigh, grinding you into the thick denim. The sound of you, breathless and needy, stirs a ravenousness in his chest that Joel had thought was long laid to rest, an avidity that only you have managed to awaken. You, in all your glory, drenched in honey and cream, calling out to him to come and taste.

As he bucks your hips a second time, you whine, your hands shooting up and tangling in his hair. You tug his head back, distancing his lips from yours, and he can’t help but groan at the loss of contact. Your gaze bears into his eyes with a newfound ferocity, a determination that leaves him straining against the confines of his jeans.

“You gonna give me what I need, Joel Miller?” you speak against his mouth in a hush.

Goosebumps litter the better part of his neck and chest as his eyes struggle to keep you in focus. The sting of pain at the back of his scalp only swells his desire, a sensation so staggering that he finds his breath caught, full and tight in his lungs, escaping only through labored, silent sighs.

“M’gonna give you whatever you need baby, whatever you want,” Joel pants, slurring his words against your gluttonous smirk. 

Suddenly you’re diving beneath his jaw, dragging the heat of your mouth across the pattern he knows follows a prominent vein in his neck. Fuck, it feels euphoric, his pulse jumping against your tongue, every rush of blood to and fro delivering another wave of want straight to his cock. He gives in, letting his eyes roll back into his skull, no longer able to maintain any semblance of insouciance as he’s damn near collapsing under your spell. He can’t recall the last time he’d been touched like this. On the rare occasion he’d bring a woman home he found himself falling into routine, taking control because that’s what he sensed she would expect, fulfilling some sense of duty as a man that he never quite understood. He’d always felt a sort of magnetism toward assured women, but somehow they were never the ones who ended up in his bed, only wavering ladies who looked to him wide-eyed, waiting for instruction.

He’s quite sure he’ll never go back.

Joel drags your hips against him once again, this time increasing the friction, bearing you down on his thigh enough to feel the damp spot that’s pooled between your legs. You yelp, biting into his neck, the sting of your canines against his skin bordering on vampiric. Joel hisses, the pain once again blossoming into some sort of pleasure, twitching and crying from the head of him. 

“Babydoll—shit—” he curses, stunned as you drag your lower teeth towards his ear, undoubtedly leaving behind a sketch of crimson. “You wanna get in the truck baby? Plenty’a room in the backseat.”

You hum in agreement, your lips wrapping around his earlobe, flicking it against your tongue before giving it a feeble nip. Joel fumbles in his pocket until he manages to unlock the door with his key, wasting no time as he pulls you tight to his chest, swinging the door ajar before offering a hand to help you inside. Despite his lust-stricken haze, his gentlemanly charm seems to be beaten into the very fiber of his being. You step into the car, gracing him with a personal view of the perfect splay of your hips and ass, only revving his hunger as he follows suit.

.   .   .   .   .

You don’t allow Joel but a second before you’re caging him in between your legs, straddling his thighs against the backseat of his truck. The rough grip of his hands on your hips, grinding you down on his knee, kneading into your curves; it was enough to set you entirely ablaze. No more matchstick flickering at the pit of your stomach, every cell in your body is pulsing with need, pleading for release by the hands of Joel Miller.

You can’t help but glide with a sharp rock of your hips across his lap, desperate to return some friction to the pounding ache within your walls. Your eyes lock with his as your clothed cunt skims the sizable tent of his jeans, observing him feverishly as he groans at the sensation.

“Fuck—” he grunts, his chest heaving as you slowly drag away again. “Easy, easy baby…”

His hands find the valley of your waist with ease, slowing your pace to an achingly languid speed. With each brush of your throbbing clit against the seam of your panties, another gush of slick floods from your core. It’s filthy, obscene, soaking all the way through the thick material of your sweatpants and onto Joel’s denim. You can’t even remember the last time you were this wet. It makes you burn that much more, the way his mere presence alone was enough to turn you into a sopping mess.

“Joel—” your palms cradle the curve of his jaw, holding him still to allow you to study him in the lowlight. 

He’s so fucking beautiful, positively mesmerizing, his pupils blown wide with a raptured stare, the sharp curve of his nose like something carved from ancient marble. The pad of your thumb snakes across the pout of his lower lip, pressing down until his jaw goes slack, parting his mouth with an exhale.

Joel seems to lose himself in your gaze, his eyes not once leaving yours as you slip your thumb between his teeth and force him even wider, applying pressure to the tip of his tongue and feeling the muscle flex against your fingertips. You need his mouth, need it anywhere and everywhere and right fucking there, you need him to clean up this mess he’s made of you.

“You know how gorgeous you are, sugar?” you hum, spreading the slick from his tongue across his lower lip and down his chin. “You know I don’t do this for just anybody, right?”

“You’re the gorgeous one, baby, so goddamn gorgeous,” Joel pants, snaking his hands higher, up the bend of your waist until his palms reach the yielding skin that cloaks your ribcage. His thumbs trace the band of your bra; smooth, fluid motions that send chills crawling up your spine. “So beautiful I reckon’ it might jus’ kill me.”

You can’t help but smile at his sweetness, his accent reduced to a slurry of words, appearing to be drunk on your aura. It seems you’ve managed to reduce him down to his very core, the heat from your body melting through the hardened layers of gruff masculinity to reveal an almost desperate eagerness to please, a yearning to relinquish control.

“I can’t have you dyin’ on me, honeypie,” you allow your hands to wander, your fingertips finding their way to the uppermost button of his shirt. “I got far too many plans for that pretty little mouth of yours.”

You lean down to kiss him once again, your thumbs making quick work of the trail of remaining buttons. Your lips move sloppily against each other, the both of you unable to stifle your muffled moans, swallowing each other’s pleasure as your tongues waltz in the in-between.

“Tell me what to do, baby,” Joel croons against your cheek. “Fuck, want you s’bad, jus’ wanna make you feel good.”

Your fingers nestle into the damp mess of curls at the back of his skull. With an innocuous little tug, you guide his lips to the expanse of bare skin on your chest, his mouth settling at the heart of your sternum. You don’t even have to ask, his tongue darting past his lips, savoring the taste of you with a deliberate torpor. The graze of his scruff against your thumping heart feels better than you could have possibly imagined, sharp yet soft, ticklish enough to make your breath catch in your throat. You blanket the backs of his hands, your fingers settling in the spaces between his, maneuvering the wide expanse of his palms to splay across your breasts. You can’t believe the sheer size of his hands, enveloping your tits entirely, calluses harsh against the sensitive peaks veiled beneath the mesh of your bra. 

“Touch me here,” you sigh, unable to keep yourself rocking slowly against his thigh. “Taste me. Show me how bad you want me, pretty boy.”

Something akin to a growl claws from his throat, and you gasp as his nails hook around the seam of your bra, exposing the peaks of your breasts with a relentless tug. He wastes no time, pulling your nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking at the sensitive bud mercilessly.

“Fuck, oh fuck, that’s good baby,” you bear down into his thigh as his thumb finds your other nipple, rolling it between his forefinger. Your core surges with another wave of need, crying for attention, spilling her tears from your center and dampening the denim-clad thigh beneath her. “I need— shit— I need you lower, Joel.”

In your hungered haze, you push Joel flat against the seat of the truck, his eyes wide and wild as you climb atop him, his chest hiking and falling against your bare tits. He looks downright enraptured, licking his lips like a kid in a goddamn candy shop, fiending for a sugar high.

“You wanna taste me, sugar plum? You gon’ let me feed you?”

“Christ—” Joel curses, his hands wandering along your torso, lifting your shirt above your head and flinging it across the dash. He unclasps your bra with his free hand, sending it flying the opposite direction. “Please darlin’, need’ta taste you.”

You manage to kick off your sweats while Joel holds you steady by the hips, his eager words somehow igniting even more fervor in your movements. His thumbs knead into the give of your lower tummy, meandering beneath the waistband of your panties and twisting the elastic around his knuckles, slack-jawed and nearly possessed by the sight of your bare curves alone.  

Joel gives you a nod, cupping your ass to ease you forward as your knees find a home adjacent to his ears. He pets along the length of your thighs, damn near drooling at the sight between them.

“Don’t hold back on me now,” Joel slips a finger beneath the seam of black lace, teasing against the soft damp skin closest to where you need him the most. “M’a big boy, can handle myself.”

You gasp as he shoves the soaked cloth covering your cunt to the side, brushing your desperate clit with his knuckle as he does so. You’re bare to him now, surely glistening and ripe and ready to be devoured.

“Don’t doubt it, cowboy,” you croon, raking a hand through his curls before lowering yourself onto his eager mouth.

A rocket of white-hot pleasure shoots straight through you as Joel latches on to your clit, nestling the bud between his lips. The searing sensation is enough to make your hips twitch forward, sending your hands to scramble for purchase to keep you upright. You can’t even make a sound; the release of euphoria coursing through you stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you to choke on empty inhales until Joel finally gives your bud a moment of reprieve.

His tongue dips into the pool of your center, sending another swell of nectar from your core, coating his scruff in sweet slick. You hear him groan, muffled between your thighs, as his arms lock around your hips and push you down even further. 

“Fuck, Joel—” you hiss, trying to keep yourself from grinding against the sharp curve of his nose, pulling yourself away slightly.

You swear you hear a hum of disapproval from between your legs as Joel chases you with his mouth, his grip tightening and his fingers digging mercilessly into the give of your thighs. His tongue is deep, drinking straight from the source of your arousal as his arms begin to rock you against his face, his nose grazing against your clit with an impossible precision; sending wave after wave of pleasure coiling up your spine. It seems dangerous, the way he’s devouring you without a single breath, but he holds you steady, bearing the weight of you onto his mouth with no hesitation.

“Baby, shit sweetheart— you gotta breathe,” you manage a fistful of his hair, pulling him off you with considerable force. 

He looks thoroughly dazed; glassy irises and pink parted lips glistening with your dew, like a man who’s been given a taste but is nowhere near satiated. His chest swells and shallows rapidly beneath your ass, each breath bringing more color to his cheeks and a myriad of pearls forming across his hairline.

“Need more,” Joel pants, his fingers weaving around the lace stretched across your hips. “Need these gone, angel.”

You oblige him with a swiftness, pulling the garment to your knees, dismounting him to allow you to slip it past your ankles. His palms cup your ass and squeeze, his thumbs spreading you open to reveal even more of yourself to him. The stretch feels good, the sensitive muscles fluttering with the shock of the exposure, sticky and soaked from the steady drip seeping from your sex.

“So pretty…” he kneads into your pliable cheeks. “Can I taste it? Please sugar, need’ta taste all of you.”

God, his desperation is like a siren song, your desire burning hot and full in your throat. You hum with approval, mounting him once more but reverse this time, a wave of goosebumps skittering across your skin in anticipation. 

He starts gentler this time, licking a languid stripe from your taint to your tailbone. His tongue splays across your skin, wide and flat, making sure not to miss a single inch. A guttural moan escapes your lungs; an uninhibited response to the forgotten feeling of heat in that region, an entirely distinctive kind of pleasure that sends your eyes spinning to the back of your skull. Your nails dig crescents into the cushions your hands are so violently clinging to, your back arching, matching in a manner to match the little moons left behind by your fingers. 

Joel groans in response to your noises, biting at the supple flesh gathered in his hands, his hunger surely spurred by the sweet sounds of your euphoria. Like a switch, his mouth turns greedy again, lapping against your puckered skin with a ferocity that makes you cry out his name. He gives you no moment of respite, jerking your hips toward him and seizing your clit with his curved tongue and pulling you into him, his nose practically fucking your cunt.

“Ohhh, that’s…” you trail off, your eyes beginning to water from the sheer intensity of it. “Christ, you’re heaven.”

At that, Joel seems to lose control, seemingly possessed by a determination to make you meet God. His palms jerk your hips back and forth, your clit never once escaping the grasp of his lips, his nose delving into your pussy with reckless abandon. Pleasure ravages the whole of you in a frenzy, wave after wave surging in your belly until you’re all but crying, quivering as you white-knuckle the headrest holding you steady. Your orgasm topples through you, your vision blasting with light as your walls clamp again and again, squeezing the length of Joel’s nose buried in your cunt.

Joel doesn’t release your clit from his mouth until you’re yelping, twitching and gasping from overstimulation. His grip softens as you fly forward to your hands and knees, your chest heaving with exhaustion, your muscles bearing through the aftershocks of your release. His lips find the backs of your thighs, trailing sweet, slow kisses across the expanse of skin. They feel like praise, almost like he’s thanking you without words; a mellifluous tempo of graciousness that you had yet to experience from him. 

Part of you wants to linger in the divinity of this moment, but from your position you find yourself face to face with the bulging mass beneath his jeans. It looks painful, the outline of his shaft straining against thick denim and a sturdy zipper. You manage to unbutton the pants with your one free hand, slipping your palm beneath the waistband effortlessly. 

“Jesus, Joel,” you chuckle, astonished by the way his cock fills your palm, heavy and thicker than you would have ever anticipated. You begin to stroke him above his boxers, softly and slowly, swirling your fingertips across the head of him as you feel him groan beneath you, dampening your fingers with his weeping tip. “Lemme help you, sugar.”

Joel grunts out his approval, his palm splayed across your ass, seemingly as a means to ground himself to this mortal plane. The callused pads on his fingertips clutch you relentlessly as you free his dick from the confines of his clothes, holding the base of him steady as you glide the tip of your tongue across his glistening slit.

His hips jerk forward at the sudden contact, sending the length of him thrusting into your open mouth. You welcome him wholly, savoring the salty musk that coats your cheeks and the sting in your jaw as you stretch to accommodate him.

“Fucking—shit—” he growls, his breaths coming in short, shallow bursts. “C’mere, god damn—”

He tugs you back onto his open mouth, burying himself into you once more with a reignited ferocity, drinking the remnants of your orgasm. You yelp, your throat flexing around his tip as he flicks your overstimulated clit, the blend of pleasure and torment accosting your nervous system. 

It’s downright mean, the mercilessness of his tongue sending you straight into overdrive. Two can play at that game.

You take him as deep as you can manage, hollowing your cheeks as you swirl your tongue around his girth. He groans into your pussy, licking you faster, pulling your lips apart with his tongue and spreading them like angel wings. You can’t help but grin, the unspoken competition between you revving with intensity with each passing second, sending the both of you toppeling into bliss, warmth spilling down your throat as you cry out against his cock. Your thighs begin to shake as you reach your peak, tears beading in your eyes as you grasp tightly onto the flexing muscles in Joel’s legs. You choke on his name as his dick falls from your lips, bearing through surge after surge of euphoria. The pleasure is so consuming that it coils itself around your windpipe and renders you mute, holding you hostage until it’s had its way with you and leaving you dizzy when it finally relents.

Your arms give out on you and you collapse, exhaustion possessing you for a moment until your consciousness returns. You feel Joel pressing soft, sweet kisses to the back of your thigh, and suddenly become aware of the fact that you’re likely crushing his dick beneath your weight. You ease off of him slowly, your legs quivering with the effort, turning to face him as he shifts himself to a seated position and fastens his jeans.

The moonlight catches the sweat beading at his hairline; the glassy whites of his eyes and the dew on his lips beaming under the cool-toned hue. He looks like art, soft lines and harsh edges painted exactly where you’d want them; masculine shadows dancing across his skin as he shifts his weight, daring you to watch them move. You’ve never been so completely mesmerized by a man. Not once in your life has a man rendered you speechless, but here you are; irreversibly hypnotized and a stranger to the English language. You’re aware of yourself—painfully aware of your staggering silence and your gawkish gaze—and you shake your head, laughing at the unbelievable effect washing over you.

Joel’s cheeks turn ruddy, his irises shifting between you and his lap as he drapes his arm across his chest, giving his own shoulder a hearty squeeze. 

“What’s funny?” he breathes, insecurity creeping in his throat.

You come to suddenly; the stark realization that you’re probably making the man nervous is enough to break you from your trance. You crawl towards him, your fingertips grazing the underside of his jaw, tilting him towards you until your lips are merely an inch apart.

“Nothin’ sugar,” you hum, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss. “You’re just one hell of a cowboy.”

[topzsun]

TO FIND YOU

── ♡ SATAN

you held no ill will towards lilith. all she had done was exist. that doesn't stop others from warping their perception of you. luckily, satan understands how you feel.

His world began with the scent of copper and scorching heat that nipped at his skin. Yours began in the arms of your mother and the fluorescent light of the hospital room. He was bathed in blood that was not his own whilst you were dressed in warm, cotton gowns. His father mourned not for his birth, but for the loss of someone of greater importance than him. Yours will kiss your chubby cheeks and hold your tiny clenched fists.

Your beginnings couldn’t be any more different. However, that will not change the antecedent of your and Satan’s existence. Lilith, a woman neither of you met, but suddenly became the forefront in your and Satan’s minds. Belphegor’s attack, your ancestry and the proceeding actions of the brothers muddy the sight behind your eyelids. Your late-night contemplations end up coinciding with Satan’s when you both catch each other in the act of making chamomile tea. You wonder what would have happened if you had never gone to the kitchen that night, never knowing of the identical internal strife Satan would be having.

He told you that after the incident, thoughts of Lilith have also begun to plague him. You take in the defeat in his tone and launch into rambles of your own because if Satan is beginning to peek over the emotional wall he has made, you will have to break it down on your own. You tell him she doesn’t threaten you, a ghost who hadn’t existed to you before this week. You know you are still you, you are just afraid of that day you will no longer be considered that by his brothers.

He listened to you quietly, sipping on his tea, and once you were done you finally took a long look at him. Satan is a gorgeous demon, beauty touched by something beyond your understanding. No human man can compare to him because humans are decorated by flaws, scars and history. Demons are above earthly qualities like that. Yet, when you take in the dimness of Satan’s emerald eyes and how he tilts his head back to rest it against the headboard you begin to see it. The weight that strains his shoulders, and the mask he meticulously puts on. You are reminded that even he can share the burden of overthinking and late-night worries with you.

He tells you of his childhood (“If I can even call it that,” He scoffs). His birth marked the end of Lilith, and when he was first brought home in Lucifer’s bleeding arms, there was no denying the role he had already been dressed into. It was a sick joke, he thinks, to have been born so similar to Lilith with golden hair and eyes the colour of dew-covered grass. He recalls to you how Beelzbebub and Belphegor could barely look him in the eyes, how Asmodeus attempted to falsely dote on him because he never really saw him but his baby sister, of how Lucifer would meet his gaze as if he’s seen a ghost.

“But I was not her. I never could be,” He tells you firmly, eyes steely as if wanting to make this fact clear to you as well. He didn’t need to. You know very well he’s Satan, a tired Satan who's sitting on your bed with you and nursing his tea like a lifeline. He is intelligent, cunning, multitalented, someone who has trouble wearing his heart on his sleeve but the diehard romantic in him wishes he could. Lilith was bluntly honest, unconditionally kind, brimmed with curiosity and tended to make herself seen wherever she went. You don’t need to list these differences for Satan to know he couldn’t be her replacement, and she could never replace the role he’s built in this house either. As if reading your mind, the blonde smiles wryly.

“I know what I am,” and as if to say “You know what you are too”, Satan taps his fingers three times on the exposed skin of your arm. His eyes are rounded in affection, and you can’t bite back your sheepish smile either.

Things will be okay.

[thelampisaflashlight]

Copia: -at the vet holding imp!Dew- Nurse, signing them in: "And what breed is your..." -squints- "...Dog?" Copia, petting Dew: "He's a lilshitdew. A very rare breed that has a knack for eating socks." Nurse: "And his name?" Copia, looking at Dew: "...Dewdles." Dew: -indignant croaking- Copia, handing him to the nurse: "...He has a very unique bark." Nurse, taking Dew from Copia: "...Why does he feel like a water tube?" Copia: "He's mostly spite and piss, so he's a little floppy."

[skele-bunny]

Thinking about Phantom being sexually spoiled by the pack..... (Phantom/Everyone)

Daddy/Mommy kink, lactation/nursing, breeding kink, tentacle vines, quint-intox, (consensual) unaware drugging underneath 💪

Dew & Phantom: Little bat loves Dew more than anything, loves being his little breeding grounds and hole. When he learns Dew loves being called daddy? And only by HIM? Goodbye. Just being absolutely pounded into in a mating press, Dew keeping their wrists pinned down and his moans just so loud and choppy. "Daddy- Daddy I'm gonna cum!" Just whining and begging as his clit is twitching so much. "Want your knot daddy, please- please!" Dew just loses his mind, shoving his knot fully in and just growling in their ear. It just feeds Dew so fucking much to hear how loud he'll get -- almost like Phantom is proud to scream daddy at the top of their lungs.

Rain & Phantom: One of Phantom's favorite kinks with Rain is nursing on him. As a water ghoul, their lactation is much more watered down and easier to squirt down his throat. He's just curled up against Rain, being finger fucked while he sucks on his nipple and kneading on his tit. His clit being frantically rubbed over and over, Rain loves making his bat cum multiple times before they even get near to the tentacle. Watching how Phantom will drift in and out of his sleep from the comfort of nursing only to jolt awake as his poor clit is pinched.

Swiss & Phantom: Swiss loves getting Phantom fucked up - even if he doesn't realize. Too many times he's spiked Phantom's drink, switched his vape out for his dab pen, even given them gummies under the guise of just regular candy. It's always the perfect amount to keep Phantom completely out of it, but still awake. Feeling as Swiss pulls his boxers down and touches him, before eventually getting him nice and wet. All the newly summon can do is whine and furrow their eyebrows, trying to understand what's happening to them. He gets so blacked out they can only remember bits and pieces - but when he wakes up, there's no evidence anything happened. But he swears he remembers Swiss fucking him over and over... But they're too shy to ask. (It's fun to stay unaware rather than expecting it.)

Mountain & Phantom: Bug likes helping Mountain, there's no doubt about it. Always getting on his hands and knees, and Mountain can't help but watch as his pants get tight right around his cunt. Always rewarded with his favorite "flowers." Phantom just giving each tentacle a kiss hello while each nude tentacle-vine makes their appearance from their respective plants. Mountain just watching as they're lifted and stripped, sweet cunt being rubbed and flicked at, grinded against before he's entered so sweetly. Both his holes getting stuffed before letting one enter his mouth and down his throat. Fun thing Phantom doesn't know, sometimes Mountain can connect to plants feelings and receptors. His cock just twitching and feeling like he's fucking Phantom the exact same way the vines are.

Aether & Phantom: Practicing their element together can lead to surprising results! Aether knows what he's doing when asking his bat "want to try mind manipulation?" Phantom just an absolute puddle in Aether's arms, listening as Aether whispers so sweetly into his ear. "Gonna fill you right up, baby bat... Doesn't that sound good? Wanna have my kits?" And his dumb little brain just makes him nod, unable to move his mouth. Laid against Aether's chest as he fucks up into them, nice and slow. His fingers continuing to press and pump more magick in. "Gonna look so cute so round and helpless, be my little penguin instead of a bat." Phantom just starts smiling, nodding more as Aether keeps manipulating his mind to think he's getting pregnant.

Cirrus/Cumulus & Phantom: Love tying their bat up, keeping a vibrator right on his clit as he begs and cries to be allowed to cum. "Mommy- Mistress- please!" His tears are flowing, hands behind his back. Being forced to open his mouth and take Cirrus' long cock in their mouth, Cumulus rubbing their clits together with the vibe still in between. They can always tell before he's about to cum, how his wings expand and thighs start shaking, little trills escaping. And in an instant they both pull away with the toy - left sobbing and squealing, wanting to kick but Cumulus keeps his ankles down. "Fuck! Please, please!!" They just coo and pet down his face. "Only good dolls get to cum."

Sunshine & Phantom: While they don't have out much, Phantom loves servicing Sunny. Settled underneath her desk while she works, being the perfect cock warmer. Even when she's relaxing and wants to watch TV, Phantom will be impaled right on her, even once she goes soft, cuddling close and keeping her nice and warm. They enjoy the closeness, and of course when it's just a bit before time to seperate, loves having them in doggy style, doing such rapid back shots that Phantom can't even lift himself to try and breathe from being pushed down into the bed.

Aurora & Phantom: Newly summons gotta stick together...! And... Slick together... Sharing a double ended dildo between, having a mini competition to see who can take more, who can last longer. Their legs intertwined and holding hands as they share moans and shove against each others cunts. Their wet and drool combining as they keep riding their toy. "Gonna cum, ya' skank?" Phantom keeps teasing, only to be snapped at with, "Not before you, fuckin' whore!" Aurora moving and pushing Phantom down with his legs up, sitting on his cunt and riding the dildo more and more. Poor bat is squealing as the bounces are now making the toy thrust in him, their clits continuing to kiss before Phantom can't take it anymore and cums - just in time as Aurora does too. Rematch!

[thrillered]

You know I Mountain Dew it for ya Pt.2 | Spencer Agnew x F!Reader |

Pt. 2: Release Day

“Okay this is ridiculous, I have nothing to wear!” You groaned, sifting through your closet. 

“You could wear anything and look good Y/N,” Angela replied, sitting cross legged on your bed, “But! If you want my advice, I think that light blue dress you have would be gorg’”

You grabbed both of her hands, “this is why I keep you around. You, my lovely Ang, are a genius.”

You grabbed the dress and a pair of white heels, walking to the bathroom and getting dressed. You touched up your makeup and stood back, looking at yourself in the mirror. The dress was form fitting, went to your mid-thigh, and had a heart shaped cut-out on your chest, revealing a modest amount of cleavage. The light blue complimented your skin and eyes, brightening your face and making you look as if you were glowing. 

You opened the bathroom door, fluffing your hair as you waited for Angela to look at you. 

“Holy Shit!” Angela screeched, seeing you all dressed up. “You look so good, Spencer’s not gonna be able to take his eyes off you!”

“Oh hush, I don’t know what you’re insinuating.” 

“There’s no insinuating anything, I heard your song, it’s 100% about him.” she continued, making note of the blush on your neck and cheeks.

“We’re gonna be late.. Why don’t we leave?” You asked, hoping to change the conversation. 

– 

Spencer stood at the bar, watching his coworkers mingle as everyone waited for you. He must have checked his watch five times in the past two minutes, beginning to worry that you weren’t going to show up. He was about to call you, clicking on your pinned messages to make the call when the crowd cheered, different voices calling your name. 

He looked up to see you greeting people near the door, giving hugs as you said your hello’s. He smiled as he watched you, happy that you came to the party. The more he looked at you the less he wanted to look away. His eyes roamed your body, taking in every inch of you. It felt like all of the air had been knocked out of him, he didn’t have the words to describe how incredible you looked. You looked like an angel, he thought, some otherworldly being made of pure beauty. 

You looked around, searching for a certain pair of green eyes. Making sure you didn’t accidentally ignore anyone you continued to greet your friends as you looked around for your best friend. Finally you found the man you were looking for, when you made eye contact with him you both smiled widely. You ran the short distance across the bar and all but jumped into his arms. 

“Hi Spencer!” You beamed, leaning back from the hug to look in his eyes, his hands sitting at your waist. “Are you excited to hear the song?”

“Incredibly so” He smiled before grabbing your hand and giving you a twirl, “You look great, this is a really good color on you.” He remarked, hoping didn’t notice his clammy hands and you couldn’t see the effect you were having on him. 

“Well aren’t you just the sweetest,” you said, flagging the bartender down to order a drink to begin the night. 

– 

The party was in full swing. You were currently nursing your second drink, feeling light and happy being around all of your favorite people. The place everyone had reserved was a karaoke bar that you all frequented. You were watching Courtney and Amanda absolutely kill their karaoke rendition of “Don’t Go Breaking my Heart”. 

When the song came to a close Courtney thanked everyone before making an announcement. “We are only two minutes away from a certain release so I want to invite Y/N up here to introduce it!.”

You blushed as you stepped up onto the small stage, taking the microphone Courtney was handing you. “Thank you guys for doing this for me, it means so much more than you know.” You began, looking out to the smiles, applause, and cheers from your friends. “This song was a lot of fun to write and it’s probably the piece I'm most proud of, it has a special place in my heart and I can’t wait for you guys to hear it… Warning though.. It’s kind of an earworm” You laughed, stepping off the stage as you watched the countdown on the screen.

“Five, four, three, two, one!” everyone chanted, quieting as the first few notes played through the speaker. 

“Now he’s, thinking ‘bout me, everynight oh, is it that sweet? I guess so. Say you can’t sleep? Baby I know, that’s that me, espresso”

Your heart was pounding as the people you admire the most listened to your song. Everyone was giving you smiles and encouragement as they danced along to the song. 

“Move it up, down, left, right oh, switch it up like nintendo” Spencer shook you a little hearing this line, his face lighting up at the mention of the gaming console. He thought it was so cool that you were mixing your passions like this. 

The song continued and you joined in on the dancing, singing along to the song. You danced with Angela and Chanse as the first verse played. You wanted to be with Spencer for a specific lyric so you slowly detached yourself from your small dance circle and squeezed your way to Spencers side.

“Walked in and dream came trued it for ya, soft skin and I perfumed it for ya.” You sang to him, feeling a bit looser after finishing your second drink. He nodded his head with the beat and gave you an impressed look, clearly enjoying the song. 

“I know I Mountain Dew it for ya.” You winked at Spencer, pulling him to dance with you, the alcohol giving you a slight boost of confidence as you continued singing to him, “That morning coffee brewed it for ya. One touch and I brand newed it for ya.”

Spencer couldn’t contain the heavy blush that stained his face and neck hearing that lyric. Was this song about him? He wondered, drawing comparison after comparison. Not that he was upset by it, it just surprised him, especially with how passionate the song is. 

He could barely keep up with his thoughts as you danced with and on him, clearly having the time of your life now that your friends were supporting you and loving the song. Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, only hearing the end of your sentence before you walked away from him. He watched as you went back to the bar and ordered a water before ordering another drink. 

He listened intently to the song, attempting to commit each lyric to memory on his first listen. The song faded out and the crowd cheered and whistled, shouting praises to you. You were beaming from ear to ear, your heart so full of love and thanks. 

“Again!” Ian shouted, you giggled as the DJ restarted the song. 

The rest of the night was incredible, you felt so much love from your friends and were so happy they all supported you so much. Your gratitude was overwhelming, beginning to manifest itself in the form of tears. The four seltzers also probably contributing to the emotional response. 

It was two a.m before the crowd started to disperse, saying their goodbyes and congratulations to you. The air of the bar had become thick with sweat and joy, making the late night feel refreshing as you stepped outside, Spencer’s arm around you as you wiped tears away from laughing. 

The last small group (Angela, Shayne, Courtney, Spencer, and yourself) said their goodbyes and headed to their rides, Shayne driving Courtney and Angela while Spencer offered to bring you home. 

You sat in Spencer's car, grateful he hadn’t drank because you loved these late night drives with him. “So did you like the song?” you asked, a shy smile playing on your lips as you looked at Spencer, the red of the stoplight illuminating his face, casting shadows from his strong nose and chin. 

“It’s awesome Y/N, you're very talented” He began, sending you a smile, “But, I tell you that all the time.”

“It's been out for four hours now, I wonder if any fans have listened to it.” You wondered aloud. 

“I’m sure they have and I'm even more sure they loved it. I think we have the hit of the summer right here.”

You giggled as he gassed you up, rounding the corner to your apartment complex. He parked the car before getting up to open your door and help you up. You weren’t necessarily drunk and could have done it by yourself, but you were feeling a bit toasty and didn’t mind being able to clutch onto Spencer as he guided you inside the building and into the elevator. 

The short ride up the elevator and walk to your door was filled with a comfortable silence as you laid your head on Spencer’s shoulder, save for Spencer quietly humming the chorus of your song. You couldn’t help but smile as you recognized the tune.

“I told you it was an earworm huh?” You asked as he ushered you into your apartment. 

“What? Oh, I mean, I don’t think I’ll be able to think about anything else for a while.”

“Maybe once you listen a few more times I can hear your rendition of it.” You laughed.

“Yeah whatever” Spencer laughed, “Let’s get you to bed, you had a big night tonight.”

“I’m not super tired” You protested, “Why don’t you stay for a little? I wanna see if anyones said anything about the song but I’m a little nervous to do it alone.” You admitted.

“Okay,” Spencer agreed, “Go get changed then and I’ll get you some water and such” 

You agreed and walked into your bedroom, shutting the door as you stepped out of your dress and heels. Looking through your drawers you grabbed a hoodie of Spencers he had left at your place around a month ago, and a pair of plaid pajama shorts. 

You exited your room to find Spencer sitting on your couch, your cat Dina cuddling up to his side. You just stared for a minute, enjoying how domestic it all felt. It felt like a daydream, releasing a great song and coming home with your wonderfully supportive boyf- best friend. Your wonderfully supportive best friend. 

You quickly ended that train of thought, instead choosing to plop next to Spencer, pulling your laptop from the coffee table into your lap. 

“Okay, let’s see the damage.” You began, clicking into twitter and typing your name into the search. In an instant hundreds of tweets popped up, all praising your music.

“Oh my god” 

“See I told you they would love it,” Spencer remarked, pulling you into his side as you sat with your mouth agape, in awe of the love your song was receiving already. 

You switched over to youtube, going to the most recent TNTL video to look at the comments. Again, almost all the comments were about you and the song. You were reading some of the comments before you stopped, seeing a comment you should have expected, but didn’t.

“Okay so Spencer and Y/N are dating right? I mean this song is totally about him” 

“They haven’t said anything publicly but they’re like the most popular ship next to Shourtney and they’ve been proven real.. So….” Someone replied.

You started to notice that there were a lot of comments about not even your song, just you and Spencer. These comments weren’t uncommon but usually only showed up in videos you were in together. The smosh fans had decided that you two were perfect soulmates. There were countless edits and videos about you two. 

Secretly you enjoyed them because while you won’t admit it to yourself, there’s a part of you, deep down, that knows you’re in love with your best friend. However, you would never do anything about it because you know Spencer doesn’t reciprocate those feelings, and there’s no way you would lose your best friend like that. But was it really that obvious? You knew your song had references to Spencer, you wrote it, but you didn't realize people would be so hung up on that. 

You closed the laptop before Spencer could read any of those comments. You knew he would see them eventually but you didn’t want to deal with it tonight, opting instead to enjoy his company. 

“You got quiet all of a sudden?” Spencer asked, noticing your withdrawal. 

“Just getting tired I think.” You said. It wasn’t a complete lie, you were getting tired and a half truth would work for now.

“Well I won’t keep you from your beauty rest.” Spencer laughed, moving his embrace to stand up. 

You didn’t want him to leave but you knew that you needed time to think. If the entire smosh fan base could read you like a book through one song you knew you needed to figure yourself out, and soon.

[cumulo-ghoulll]

Ghoul Pack HC 📱

When Copia introduced the ghouls and ghoulettes to ✨ technology ✨ he learnt very quickly that they needed screen time limits and parental controls.

Dew was hooked within the first 10 minutes of using his laptop and stayed on it for 3 days straight. He hissed and scratched when Copia tried to take it off him. He now has a screen time limit of 2 hours a day.

Rain, after being given access to Copia's Netflix account, locked himself in his room with Mountain, all the snacks in The Kitchen's cupboards, and binge watched Every. Single. Nature documentary they could find. They're both only allowed to watch 2 documentaries a day (providing they can find one they haven't watched yet).

Aether was, thankfully, quite sensible. For about a week. At first, he just used his phone for Google and WhatsApp. Searching up medical conditions and sending a screenshot of the description to the other doctors working in the infirmary to confirm if a patient has that illness or not. One day, he noticed one of the nurses wearing a digital watch that counted their steps. He wanted one desperately and asked how he could get one too. He was then shown how to order things offline and he bought his watch shortly after . . . as well as 87 bananas, banana toothpaste, banana socks, a banana phone case, banana shaped earrings, a matching banana necklace, banana shorts, and a plethora of other banana related items. Copia now has to personally approve of anything Aether wants to buy.

Swiss became addicted to his phone solely for the fact he could listen to music whenever wherever. This was not really a problem until he started complaining that he couldn't hear people when they were talking. Aether checked him out and found that he had partially damaged his ears from blasting music 24/7. He now has to wear kids headphones that cannot be turned up to the max. Swiss is not happy.

Cirrus, Cumulus, and Sunnie are no longer allowed to go on Amazon as they bought at least a dozen cans of silly string each and sprayed Sodo's room as payback for screeching at Aurora when she interrupted him on his laptop.

Aurora refused to use Google ever again after Copia found out she had Googled 'boobies'. He wasn't mad, she was just embarrassed. Swiss has offered to teach her how to delete her search history but she never wants to go on the internet ever again.

Phantom doesn't really know how to use technology, even after being taught by Copia. Rain did show him how to print off pictures and that is, so far, the only thing knows how to do. He is no longer allowed to go anywhere near the printers, however, as he managed to print off 103 baby bat pictures from EVERY PRINTER IN THE MINISTRY. The printer code has since been changed.

[miasmaghoul]

miasma do u have forcefem thoughts 👀

It's the tail end of his lunch break in the infirmary when Aether's phone vibrates against his thigh, a quick double buzz. He brushes sandwich crumbs from his hands and tie, licks a stray drop of basil mayo from the corner of his mouth while he pulls the device from his pocket. Aether straightens his glasses just as the screen lights up again, a pair of texts greeting him.

🦇: got a surprise for u

🦇: think ur gonna like it

Aether quirks an eyebrow. It's the middle of the night where they all are, if his math is right, and knowing Aeon that surprise could be damn near anything. He starts tapping out a response when the three dots telling him Aeon's typing pop up, and he pauses.

🦇: maybe wait til ur alone to open it

Another message follows a second later, a video file, and Aether blinks at the screen until its preview image loads. The pale visage of a slender back, decorated with thin straps of shimmering fabric, and a hand he recognizes as Aeon's resting between their shoulder blades. At first glance Aether thinks it's Aurora on the screen, dressed in one of her lovely little camisoles and arching under Aeon's touch. His dick gives an interested twitch at the idea - a pleasant surprise indeed.

But then his eyes drift upward, expecting cotton candy curls only to find long strands of ashy blonde instead, and his cock downright throbs.

"Oh, Lucifer."

Heedless of Aeon's warning, Aether smashes his thumb to the screen and shifts in his squeaky office chair while the video loads. Immediately rests his free hand over his crotch when it opens up to Aeon and Dew standing in a hotel bathroom, Aeon recording their reflection from where he stands behind the smaller ghoul. Dew's leaning over the sink in what is definitely one of Aurora's lovely little camisoles - shiny gold satin with shimmery lace across the bodice and two sets of crisscrossed straps. It hangs noticeably loose around Dew's chest, and Aether squeezes himself. Does it again when Dew leans in close to the mirror, swaying just a little while he uncaps a tube of candy red lipstick. Aeon moves the phone closer to the mirror, his other hand sliding around Dew's slight waist, and Aether thinks he's never been so jealous.

"Smile for the camera, pretty girl," Aeon coos, leaning in to nuzzle his messy bun. "Say hi to daddy."

Aether chokes when he says it, and stops breathing entirely when Dew tips his gaze towards the reflection of the phone. When he fixes Aether with a smile that lets his tongue poke through his teeth.

When he blinks and Aether catches the faintest swirls of lilac decorating his amber irises, the rush of heat to his gut is nothing short of paralyzing.

"Hi daddy."

Dew trills it in the soft, shy way that always wrecks Aether the most, makes him stupid and possessive. The little ghoul applies the lipstick with an unskilled hand, a messy swipe over lips that have clearly been sucked on for a while, and Aether wants nothing more than to to see it smeared all over his fat, heavy -

"Aether?"

A sharp rap on the door makes Aether jump in his seat, fumbling the phone and wincing when it clatters to the ground.

"Y-yes?" When did his throat get so dry? Aether takes a quick swig of his now-cold lunchtime tea. He grabs his phone and turns the screen off before he can see any more of Dew in that state. "Uh - what is it?"

"Brother Angelo is in Exam 2," one of the human nurses calls through the door. "Slammed his fingers in the chapel doors again."

"Be right there," he calls, but his eyes remain glued to the dark surface of his phone. The image of Dew's painted lips dances through his mind, and Aether can't help himself. "Just a minute."

He turns the phone back on the moment her footsteps retreat, palms his cock where it sits thick and pulsing at his hip. He's greeted by the groan-inducing sight of Dew leaning back against Aeon's bare chest, head tilted so the other ghoul can mouth at his elegant neck. Aeon hits a good spot and Dew reaches a hand back to grab at his hair, sucks air through his teeth, and Aether leaks into his boxer briefs.

Aeon unlatches after a few seconds, nuzzling Dew's jaw while he looks into the camera. The hand on the little ghoul's hip glides over his stomach, drags the fabric just high enough for Aether to get the tiniest glimpse of the purple lace covered bulge between his legs.

"Tell daddy what you came to me for, Dew," Aeon lilts, nipping at his ear. "Tell him why you're all dressed up."

Dew sighs, lifts his head just enough to look at the camera. There isn't enough quintessence in him to make him look woozy or lost - just enough to act as a confidence boost, Aether imagines. That's what Dew usually asks for when he wants to be treated like the pretty little thing he is.

The lipstick makes him look like a whore and Aether would worship the ground he walked on.

"Because I want you to fuck my pussy," Dew breathes, that wide mouth stretching into a lascivious grin. "And I want daddy to watch."

It's less than ten seconds before Aether's pulling his cock through his zipper and shooting a fat load directly into the trash can, stomach clenching and thighs twitching. It leaves him dizzy for a solid thirty seconds afterwards, the ghoul idly fidgeting with his softening length while he recovers.

He shakes himself, huffs out a disbelieving chuckle before he tucks his still sensitive dick away and stands. Hums to himself while he washes his hands in his small sink, tossing the paper towel he dries with over his mess. Aether straightens his coat and steels himself to go deal with Brother Angelo for the third time this month. He grabs his phone from the desk and turns to leave, but before he does Aether decides he needs to see one more thing. He pulls the video up one more time and -

One minute and thirteen seconds.

He'd made it barely a single minute in before needing to empty his balls. Aether can hardly believe it. Well, no, he can absolutely believe it. Dew regularly manages to dismantle him like this, it's just never been from a distance. Never been recorded. Mostly he can't believe that he has six hours left of his shift before he can watch the remaining -

Twenty five minutes?

Aether's going to give them both anything they want when they get back, he swears it.

[dewdrops-whammy-bar]

Tenth Drink Free

Chapter 1/10: Heart 1721 words

Dewdrop is a barista in a college town. He’s sworn off romance for the time being- he doesn’t have time for it. He’s an adult with a job, he doesn’t have time for dating and inevitable heartbreak. Until a hot nursing student with an ass to rival the gods walks in. Oh fuck. And he’s got puppy eyes. Oh FUCK. A story told in the space of nine coffee shop purchases and a freebie.

Behold, the quinessential (no pun intended) coffee shop au that every fanfic author writes eventually. I need hot nursing student Aether and pathetic sopping wet barista Dew to have gay t4t sex.

I don't have a set upload schedule but if you want to be added to a taglist lmk in the comments!

Read below or on AO3!

Dew cracks open his energy drink with his teeth as his other hand haphazardly pulls his apron over his head. The strap catches on the butterfly clip holding his hair back and yanks it out of place. Dew hisses in pain as it tugs on his hair and manages to catch it before it hits the floor.

“Hungover again?” Cirrus asks sympathetically as she passes with a tray of pastries. Dew grunts and shakes his head.

“Nah. Couldn’t sleep.” It’s only semi-true, he’d in fact been having a marathon of 80s horror movies. He’d awoken to Rain slinking out of his room at 11 to make coffee, leaving only thirty minutes to throw on clean clothes before he had to be at work. Luckily the little cafe tucked between a furniture store and a Mediterranean restaurant was only a fifteen minute walk from his apartment. The benefits of living in a college town, he supposes.

“I can let you off early so you can go home for a nap,” Cirrus offers. “Tuesdays are slow in the afternoons anyway.”

“That would be amazing, thanks Cir.” Dew sighs and takes a sip of his energy drink. He bends the tab of the can up, clamps it between his teeth, and pulls his hair back. Wrapping it into a loose bun, he secures it with the butterfly clip and retrieves his can from its precarious position.

“You’re gonna chip a tooth like that,” Swiss provides unhelpfully from his place at the sink. “And god knows if the dental insurance here will cover that.”

“I’ll be fine.” Dew rolls his eyes. “Focus on those muffin pans, dish boy.”

Swiss flips him a soapy middle finger, but Dew has turned and walked out of the kitchen by then. He downs about half of his red bull, stifles a burp behind his hand, and taps Aurora out at the register.

“Ohhh, thank god.” Rory sighs, dropping her customer service face. “There were two Karens half an hour ago. One right after the other. Fuckin’ exhausting.” Her bright pink lipstick is slightly smeared, evidence of her bad habit of chewing on her lips. “I need a drink…”

“It’s noon. Go steal a croissant from the kitchen instead. Thanks for putting me in the line of fire, by the way.” Dew rolls his eyes playfully. “Go smack Swiss’s ass for me.”

“Yessir!” Rory gives a two-finger salute before scurrying off into the kitchen. Dew sighs and resigns himself to the following hours of tedious interaction. A moment later, there’s a squawk from the kitchen followed by a squeal from Aurora.

A chai latte, a caramel macchiato, two vanilla lattes, two drip coffees, an Italian soda, and a needlessly complicated order that Dew can’t even begin to remember later, he’s only a quarter of the way through his shift. At least it’s a quiet day. The regulars from the local college usually come in before classes or on weekends to study.

Dew props his elbow on the counter and rests his chin in his hand, letting his mind wander. He’s been saving up for a cool guitar pedal and managed to find it on Ebay for half the price, but he is in a bidding war for it. He’d sneak a peek at the listing on his phone while the cafe was relatively quiet but he’d left it in his bag. Shit.

He straightens up, cracks his back, and begins reorganizing the supplies behind the bar. His fingers are getting twitchy from the caffeine kicking in. He curses his health insurance for not covering ADHD medication so he can actually function as a person. Or mood stabilizers. Or even therapy.

The door swings open again as Dew is cleaning the steam wand on the espresso machine. He sets the wet rag on the counter and turns to see- oh wow. His grumpy mood is instantly forgotten.

An absolute Greek god of a man stands near the doorway, scanning the drinks menu. He’s tall, built like a brick wall with just the right amount of chub, and- from what Dew can see- an ass to die for. If he were a slightly weaker man, he would vault over the counter, drop to his knees, and choke himself unconscious on that man’s dick.

He shifts his weight and bites his tongue in annoyance. Stupid fucking high libido. He doesn’t have time to be creaming his pants at work. He’s not above using his break to jerk off in the bathroom, though…

Someone clears their throat. Big Sexy (as he’s decided to call the man) stands before him, fidgeting with his fingers.

“Oh, are you ready to order?” Dew asks, hoping to any higher powers above and/or below that he hadn’t been staring.

“Yeah. Can I get a… actually, what do you recommend?” Big Sexy asks, cocking his head adorably. Dew feels hypnotized by his dark blue eyes. “This is my first time here, I’ve been meaning to check it out for a while but kept forgetting.” He shrugs apologetically.

“Oh- yeah,” Dew stammers a bit. “I, uh, my go-to is a cold brew with hazelnut syrup and about half of one of those creamer cups.” He points at the side counter where a small shelf holds straws, sugar packets, and other extras. “You could add more cream if you want, I just like it a little bitter.”

I wonder what his cream tastes like, his horny brain supplies helpfully. Dew gives that part of his brain a mental smack and turns his attention back to Big Sexy.

“Alright, I’ll have that. Medium, please.” Big Sexy reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. Dew enters the order into the register, glad to pull his eyes away from Big Sexy’s.

“That’s $4.25.” Dew grabs a clear cup from a stack and jots down the order as Big Sexy swipes his card. “And can I get a name for the order?”

“Oh- Aether. A-E-T-H-E-R.” Big Sexy- Aether replies, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Aether…” Dew mumbles to himself as he scribbles down the name. “Sick name. Your parents must’ve been cool.”

“Actually, I uh- I named myself. Had a weird phase when I was 15 and it kind of… stuck.” Aether seems a little embarrassed by this, rubbing the back of his neck.

Dew pauses for a moment to consider this information. Aether could just be a nickname, or… well, Dew had renamed himself at 13. There could be a possibility that Aether was trans, just like him, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Instead he turns to begin making the drink.

“I’ll have it for you in a minute,” he tells Aether, physically restraining himself from sneaking another glance at those pretty blue eyes. That would have been weird, and he really doesn’t want to scare this guy off.

Dew finishes making the coffee almost on autopilot. He wants to ask questions- was he a student at the local college? If yes, what did he study? Did he have a private dorm room? Would he be willing to fuck Dew until-

Good lord, get your shit together. Dew thinks, giving his head a shake. Your break’s in half an hour. You can fantasize then.

He slides the finished drink across the counter with a little creamer cup on top. “Aether? Here ya go.” He didn’t really need to call out the order name since there wasn’t anyone else waiting, but he liked saying it. Aether. Ay-ther. It was a cool name.

“Thanks, uh…” Aether’s eyes dart down to Dew’s nametag. “Dew. That’s, ah- that’s a cool name too.”

“Thanks. Picked it out myself.” Dew rarely genuinely smiles at customers, but the grin he gives Aether is 100% real. “You’ll never guess what it’s short for.”

“Hmm… Dewey? Dwight?” Aether cocks his head again, not unlike a puppy. Dew shakes his head.

“Nope.” Dew turns back to the machines, picking up his discarded cleaning rag. “You can keep trying, I doubt you’ll get it.”

“Guess I’ll have to keep coming back.” Aether chuckles. “Do you guys have a punch card by any chance?”

Dew sputters, left reeling by the comment. God, he’s pathetic. The mere suggestion that Aether might be coming back makes his heart flutter like a teen with their first crush. Oh fuck, was this a crush? He’s too old to be having those.

“Um- yeah, let me get one for you.” Dew turns back to the register to hopefully hide any blush he had and retrieves a punch card from the drawer under the counter. He remembers to grab the hole puncher too and clicks a hole in the first space on the card. It was a heart today, of all shapes. “Here.”

“Thanks so much.” Aether gives Dew a smile and poor Dew can do nothing but stare at his stupid, gorgeous puppy eyes. “I’ll make sure to come back.”

“Y-yeah, see you soon then.” Dew manages to say with a nod. He watches Aether leave- Good lord, that ass is a sight to behold- and decides to take his break early. He taps Swiss in and makes for the back door of the kitchen.

Leaning against the wall next to the dumpster, he lights up a cigarette and takes a long drag. His head tips back against the brick wall as he exhales the smoke. God… pull it together. You are twenty-four. You have a job and hobbies. You absolutely CANNOT be having a puppy crush on a CUSTOMER. Especially one you’ve only interacted with for five minutes. This is pathetic. Finish your cig and go do your job so you can get paid and be a functioning adult.

Dew does just that- smokes his cigarette down to the filter, stubs it out on the wall, tosses the butt into the dumpster, pops a mint in his mouth, and re-enters the kitchen. 

The rest of his shift goes… fine, he guesses. He downs another red bull, banters with Swiss, gets scolded by Cumulus for “using kitchen equipment unsafely” (closing an oven with his hip), and manages to interact with customers without accumulating an HR report.

On his walk home, the darkening autumn sky is remarkably close to a certain shade of blue. Dew grits his teeth and turns his gaze to the sidewalk.

kudos and comments on ao3 would make my day!

[jiminiecrickets]

HONEY WILD & MANNA-DEW. JJK / M!READER

summary. werewolves are dirty, savage, brutal beasts, jungkook thinks. after nursing a particularly pathetic one back to full health and realising just how attractive he is... well, vampires have never been known to evade what they want.

wc. 3.8k

tags. smut | vampire!jk, werewolf!reader, dom bottom!jk, sub top!reader, reader is generally described as "strong", jk calls r. mutt/dog/pup/puppy (slight degradation), praise (r. receiving), slight dumbification (? r.)

notes. written for and with nick :) you know who you are. thank you for everything !! <33

"fancy seeing you here, darling."

"i'm not your darling," jungkook replies immediately, his expression souring. he throws back his glass of whiskey, setting the empty glass down on the dark counter. he spins around on his stool, leaning his elbows back against the counter as he stares coolly up at you, his eyes hard with annoyance. "excuse me, please. i think it's time to go home."

when he shifts, a shock runs through you, and it's automatic when you cage him in, arms shielding him from the outside world. your face is inches away from his, drawn into a frown. "you told me to come here. really gonna leave me alone without buyin' me a drink? that seems like the nice thing to do."

"i did tell you," he says airily, his gaze raking over your figure. the tight shirt you've donned under a jacket emphasises the raw strength werewolves are known for. "i've just changed my mind. you look better when the lights are off."

he smirks, eyes glittering coldly up at you, and he pushes your arm out of the way to stand. he's stunning in an all-black ensemble, his buttoned shirt with its rolled sleeves held together by a single brave button over his belt. he tucks his hands into the pockets of his perfectly-pressed trousers and cocks his head, gaze unwavering as your jaw ticks. "come, puppy. you'll walk me home."

as he turns on his heel, weaving with supernatural ease through the thick crowds like a ghost, you shut your eyes tightly, dragging a hand down your face with a groan.

fuck. you should head the opposite way; every instinct in you is screaming it.

he hums softly as you join his side, strolling down the neon-lit city streets. he'd never stopped walking – he knows the hold he has on you. "good dog. if only you listened so well all the time."

 you step in front of him. he glances up expectantly, placing his hand on his hip. "yes, mutt? what is it?"

"come on, darling. you can drop the façade. you aren't fooling anyone – everyone can tell you like this – like us." a smirk tugs at your lips. "say, when we get to your house... how far in would you like to go in? living room, kitchen? maybe even just the foyer?"

"quiet," he hisses. "this means nothing! we are nothing! you're a rabid dog who knows nothing except fucking and fighting!"

"really? you seemed to quite like how rabid i was last night."

he scowls, his glare deepening. his eyes flash, for the briefest moment, a dark, swirling, razing red. he leans in. "you owe your life to me, mutt. you're in no position to be mouthing off at me." he reaches up, seizing your jaw, and in a quarter of a second you find yourself pinned against a brick wall, the wind knocked out of your lungs. he presses his body flush against yours – you can feel the uncanny rise and fall of his chest, the plane of his stomach, the sturdy thighs against yours.

"what, pup? don't want to talk now?" he tilts his head, shifting his thigh between yours almost unnoticeably. you certainly do, and he smirks when your breath hitches. he leans in, baring his fangs and nipping at your neck. he whispers into your skin, "be a good boy, darling. you don't have your pack here to look good for – just look good for me. can you do that?"

your throat bobs and he tracks the motion with his sharp eyes. he waits patiently, fingers digging tighter into your skin, and you wince, inclining your head such a tiny degree that anyone lesser would miss it entirely.

jungkook hums and pulls away, releasing you. you loose a soft, shuddering breath, rubbing your jaw where his nails dug crescents into your skin. heat bubbles low in your stomach.

he smiles, sharp and fanged, and turns away. he beckons over his shoulder with a short whistle. "heel, mutt. seems like we still need to do a lot of training – better start right away."

—

"come."

it's so fucking humiliating. your entire face is aflame as you shuffle forward, your hands clenched at your sides, trembling slightly with the pain of your nails digging into your palms. your cock stands at attention, dark and heavy, and jungkook hums, taking it into his hand. your eyes squeeze tight in a futile attempt to ignore the way he twists his wrist so expertly – and he does it all with a demure smile, knees crossed neatly as he perches at the end of the bed.

the bed. big enough to fit both of you comfortably. a dangerous sort of hope blooms in your chest. maybe he'll finally let you touch him.

"that's my good boy," he coos, stroking you to a quick beat as he watches your every move. no twitch or flinch goes unnoticed. you're trying so hard, and lust warms his chest where his heart should beat. "let's try this again. sit."

you kneel at his feet, your head bowed. your hands close into fists on top of your bare thighs as he kisses the top of your head, stroking the place where your ears would be, had tonight been a full moon. it wasn't – not for one more day. you found yourself growing antsy, staring at open green parks and forested areas with more longing than usual.

you shudder as he digs his fingers into your scalp, massaging deeply. you swallow a moan, but it comes out half-choked as a white shudder zings down your spine. you barely suppress a whimper when he strokes your hair, petting you as if he loved you. you can feel your thoughts struggle – you make a valiant effort, concentrating on forming clear and logical sentences in your head.

and then he scratches you behind the ear. everything melts. you whine softly, pushing into his hand as you grip his legs. as soon as his hand halts, your brain catches up, and you yank away, defaulting to a proper sit.

he sighs, and the sound makes your heart leap in distress. "puppy..."

"no," you blurt out, an embarrassing shake to your voice. "no, please, i'll be good – i will! don't start again, please don't start again..."

he smells so good. like sweet, sharp wildberries. you like wildberries.

"very well," he breathes. "off."

you reach for his shirt, unbuttoning it with shaky hands. he watches you carefully and you swallow as you lock eyes with him, pushing the cloth over the lines of his shoulders. you tuck it out of his belt and sit back on your heels, folding the garment neatly into a square and setting it aside. you gaze expectantly up at him.

"good pup," he whispers, before rising to his feet. you will yourself to keep your eyes on his and not on the cute bulge five inches from your face. "off."

you suck in a deep breath as you unbuckle his belt deftly. you've done this enough times by now to do it in one motion. gently, you drag the cold black zipper down, hovering your hands over his skin as you tug his trousers down his long legs. the black cloth falls. he's not wearing any underwear. your mouth feels dry.

"you're doing so well. bed," he murmurs, stepping back until the backs of his knees touch the foot of the mattress. you crawl over him, hovering steadily as you stare down at him with rapture and painful anticipation. your cock hangs heavy between your thighs, right between his legs, but he ignores it, propping himself up on an elbow. the other hand trails between his thighs.

"ah, fuck..." he whispers as he slides a finger into his already-loved ass, soon adding a second. he begins to finger himself, soft breaths and gasps falling from those perfect rosy lips. he notices the darkening hunger in your eyes. "stay," he orders firmly, his voice breathy but not unsteady. "stay."

you can't breathe. you've tried this thrice before and all three times you failed to get further than this. it wasn't fair. he kept changing the order of his commands.

his widens his legs, hooking his ankles around the backs of your knees. his back arches as he moans, lashes fluttering shut as his expression goes lax with pleasure.

the lube makes things wet and filthy. your arms shake, crumbling under the pressure of the sight of him touching himself. nothing you do keeps the addicting sound of his moans out of your head.

"fu-uck," he drawls, inserting a third finger. his whole body shudders, his thighs pressed firmly against the sides of yours. he opens his eyes, gazing up at you with eyes of cut rubies, flashing in the semi-darkness. both of you are night-dwellers, creatures of the dark and cold night. you can see every pulse and twist in excruciating detail.

jungkook moans your name in a breath, his fingers sliding easily against his walls. nothing fills him up as well as you do, but he'd rather die than admit it to you. he shifts in his fancy bedsheets – oh, how deliciously wrong it feels to taint them like this – and wraps his slender fingers around his leaking cock, stroking himself slowly in time with his quicker fingers.

you watch, paralysed. your cock throbs at the sight of his pretty ass clenching around his fingers, and your hips rock involuntarily. it leaks precum embarrassingly steadily, pooling on a spot on his bedsheets.

jungkook smirks, moans soft and airy like pants for air. "stay," he says warningly when you begin to fidget, restless as you admire the curves and planes of his body. his thighs tighten around yours, keeping you steady. your fingers flex.

you can practically smell his lust. his cock throbs in his palm, wet and slick from his prior games. a spurt of precum dribbles down his shaft and he swiftly sweeps it up, smearing it along his length with a greedy moan.

fists clenching in the sheets, you close your eyes stiffly, thinking of anything but him. anything except him and his pretty smirks and lithe body and tight little—

"open your eyes," he commands, and they fly open. "want to touch?"

"yes," you rasp, your throat bobbing harshly. "yes, oh, fuck – yes, i do..."

"mm, well, you can't," he teases. "hah – you look so fucking pathetic, did you know that? so big and strong, and yet reduced to near tears because of someone like me. you must be ashamed of yourself, mutt."

your hips jerk at the title. a tiny keen escapes your lips. jungkook laughs, his hands quickening as his voice grows softer, airier. "ooh, that was almost a restart right there. oh, darling, your pretty cock's all swollen and needy – you look the best like this, trembling for me as if you're a young pup all over again."

all you can do is whine, your cock throbbing hotly with need. fuck, you can feel it all the way up your spine – the need to be inside of him, the need to show him how good you are, the need to prove that you're his. all and entirely his.

"it's okay, puppy. you're doing so well," jungkook breathes, watching with satisfaction as a droplet of sweat rolls down your heaving chest. your expression is starved and dark, brows furrowed with an almost beastly intensity.

you're just so cute. he can't help but want to shower you in praise. he shouldn't – you're just an unruly mutt, uncontrollable and savage when the full moon comes around. he's leagues above you on the food chain.

he shouldn't even be entertaining you like this – not when your kind are known for their quick-to-love natures. if he goes a step too far, you'll be all over him, all the time. all over his black clothes and antique vases. wolves are notoriously hard to shake off once they've developed a liking for someone.

he slides his fingers out of himself with a soft moan, reaching for your dripping cock. you flinch when he slides his palm over the tip, breathing growing shaky.

"i see why they call you monsters," he whispers with a smirk. he tugs his lower lip between his teeth, a single white fang bright white against the dark pink of his lips. "you want to claim me with this, mm?"

you nearly buckle under the fog filling your skull, his touch cold and burning. he hums, relaxing in the comfortable weight of your heat, radiating from your skin as if there's a star in the place of a soul. fucking a vampire in the filthiest ways could never begin to challenge how good it feels to simply be near you, engulfed in the blazing heat of your embrace.

him, with his icy skin and fanged sneers... you, with your cocky smirks and frequent, flirty touches. it's a match made in hell and escaping it seems awfully counterintuitive.

"please," you whine, bucking into his fist stiffly. "want... w-want you – baby, please—"

"i'm not your baby," jungkook reminds you with a sharp flick of his wrist. his thumb runs along the pulsing veins he knows are most sensitive. "i'm not your darling, not your baby. i never can and never will be. do you understand, mutt?"

you nod feebly, grunting as he squeezes the base of your cock in warning. "i un-understand..."

"better." he guides the head of your cock to his ass and your breath hitches as your tip rubs against his wet hole, sending shocks of heat up your nerves. "go slowly. i want to feel all of you."

his face pinches as you thrust in shallowly, the inches sinking in with ease. your slick cock glides against his soft walls, pulsing tightly against them. he gasps as you nudge that spot inside him, swollen and tender with his playing. "fuck, puppy, right there!"

your cock twitches at the breathy keen of his moans. you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, gently thrusting in until he's taken all of you. your balls press against his ass and he shudders, ass clenching like a vice around you.

you can't help it. you whimper his name, thrusting faster, and he grunts in surprise. his eyes fly open.

"f-fuck—! did i tell you to go faster?" he demands. "dumb mutt! do you want to do this all again?"

"no," you groan, your hips stilling. you shift over him, powerful thighs tense and trembling beneath his. "n-no..."

he grabs your jaw and tilts your head up, forcing you to look him in the eye. arousal burns low in his belly at the sight of complete and utter want dominating your expression: lips parted, throat bobbing constantly, eyes glazed and dark. your tongue darts out and runs over your lower lip, leaving a pretty sheen in its wake.

"good," he says eventually, and shifts his hand. it goes from clawing at your jaw to cupping your cheek, thumb swiping over your lips. you tilt your head and take his thumb between your lips, sucking gently as you stare up at him. those pretty eyes of yours are hazy and shimmery, as if you're on the verge of tears.

holy hell. jungkook releases a slow, steadying breath. having a man like you in the palm of his hand isn't doing anything for his superiority complex – you're really something else.

"move," he commands, his glare piercing you like a bullet through jelly. "what are you waiting for?"

you drop your head, shaking it with a gasp as he clenches around you. "i – i can't..."

"you can't?" he repeats, scoffing. "what's wrong with you, mutt? i give you an opportunity to please me, but you can't?"

a soft, embarrassed whine leaves your throat. your fingers itch to touch him – to hold him, to caress him, to worship him. all that pale, graceful, flawless skin, and not a single mark of your love. sure, it'll vanish in minutes, but you can fool yourself into thinking that it'll remain for weeks under his prim and proper black clothes.

"i can't," you whimper. "i'll... 'm gonna come..."

a short silence passes between you. then: he barks a laugh, sharp and derisive. "really? you're that excited from being told what to do? oh, my poor puppy... you're so adorable. i just wanna sink my teeth into you," he coos, his arm snaking around your shoulders. the other hand slithers over your ribs, down your side, across your back. he squeezes your ass, pulling you deep into him. he grins as you throb inside of him, cock leaking profusely. "go on, then. touch me, pup."

in an instant, your hands are on him, learning him in ways so devoted it surges affection in the hollow of his chest. they run down his stomach and thighs, then back up again, cupping his chest around his upper ribs. you grip him like a toy, gently bouncing him on your twitching cock, and he moans, high and breathy, tugging you closer into the crook of his neck.

he really does smell sweet. you can't tell if it's his cologne or his shampoo, or if he just smells like that all of the time, but it's heavy, it's heady, and you can feel yourself getting drunk off of his scent. you tug him down onto your cock, grinding into his ass, and he grunts, grip tightening on your shoulders.

"you fill me up so well," he moans, wrapping his thighs around your waist as you fuck into him. "fuck, a-ah – you're such a good boy for me, huh? such an eager boy, so – mnh! – so obedient for me... make me come first and you'll be rewarded, okay? i-i'll reward you so well, fuck, my good boy—"

he squeaks as your hips quicken, slamming into him desperately. he cries out in pleasure, nails digging into the bulk of your shoulders as you smother him with your body, your face buried in his neck as he moans and cries. the wet smack of your cock against his ass each time you bury yourself hilt-deep inside of him is dangerously obscene, white-hot and buzzing his nerves.

"what—! what are you—" he can't bring himself to chastise you. your thick tip punches past his swollen prostate on each thrust and he mewls, slanting his mouth against yours hotly. he moans as you overpower him, your tongue diving into his mouth as his fingers tangle in the baby hairs at the back of your neck. his fangs nick your lip until blood and you groan, long and low and greedy.

he widens his shaky legs, his heels digging into the small of your back as he yanks you hard into him. you groan, deep and pleased, and slide an arm under his spine. your hips rock hungrily against his ass until the bedframe shakes.

"sorry, 'm sorry," you mumble, over and over again, warm breaths puffing against jungkook's collarbone. your head spins. the faraway guilt lays heavy over your mind like a blanket and the pleasure fires threads of heat through your whole body, aching and greedy. arousal pulses low in your belly. "'m so sorry, f-feels too good, you feel so good—"

"y-you stupid mutt!" he cries, his leaking cock bouncing on his belly. he slaps your side weakly, knuckling the raised trio of scars that cross your chest and stomach. you grab his wrists and pin them above his head, palms flat against the soft, pale insides of his wrists. you're dizzy with it, the way he sucks you in and refuses to let go. "s-slow down, nngh, i-i'm—!"

he seizes up, sides tightening as his cock spurts. his ass clenches and swallows you whole, his staccato cries and moans burning permanently into your brain. with one last thrust, you empty yourself inside him with a drawled whine, pulling his body flush to yours. he's so cold – it soothes your sweat-slick skin and you rock yourself against him, mind numb to everything but the white-hot pleasure concentrating in a tangled mess at the base of your cock, swollen and hot and dragging forcefully against his vice-like hole. it stretches for you, pink and hungry.

jungkook groans breathlessly, the mess on his stomach dripping down his sides. it soils his bedsheets. he tilts his head towards yours, his breath cold against the shell of your ear. you shudder, still filling him up, and he admires the way your muscle flexes under your skin with each panting breath.

eventually, he leans back against his pillows, his muscles aching pleasurably. his thighs loosen around your hips and you slowly pull out until just the tip, feeling cum drip out of him, and lazily push back in, fucking your cum deep into his ass. he moans, holding you chest-to-chest.

"wh... what was that?" he croaks, his voice strained from the volume of his cries. "fuck, puppy, you were doing so well..."

"n-no! i was good!" you bury yourself in his neck, breathing in his scent to calm your thudding heart. "you came first, i did what you told me to do! i was good, i promise."

"i told you to be gentle," he groans, slapping your chest. "bad dog."

"you take that back," you whine. "'m not bad!"

"no."

"take it back," you demand. he arches an eyebrow. you wilt. "please..."

"fine," he relents, "but only if you do something for me."

you perk up, eyes bright with interest. hell... how you can be so energetic after such a thorough fuck, he has no idea. "yes?"

he pushes lightly on your hips, pulling your cock out, and rolls over onto his stomach. he props his cheek on the backs of his hands, gazing up at you through heavy-lidded eyes over his perfect shoulder.

he smirks, wiggling his hips. "fuck me like this, mutt. you can be as rough as you like, but there's one rule."

"a rule?" your stare is trapped on his ass and the way his hole leaks your cum. it scratches a deep, animal itch inside you.

"mhm." he arches his back slightly and grins at the soft gasp you let out. "you can't touch me."

you glance up, wide-eyed. it's criminal how innocent you look. "w-what?"

"you heard me, puppy. no touching. if you can make me come without touching me, and without losing it yourself... well, i can think of a few fun things you can choose from."

"yes," you agree instantly, eyes pinned on the way his ass presses against your cock. you place it between his ass and he rocks his hips, grinding against it as he pins it to your stomach. "fucking hell, yes."

"good." his eyes glitter, somewhere between malice and mischief. he grins playfully and traces his fangs with the tip of his tongue, tasting your blood. he hums as you eagerly push back in, groaning at the slick feeling of his soft insides. "no need to rush, love. you don't want to fill yourself up with the entrées, do you? we'll be here all night long..."

[ashthewaterghoul]

What would all the Ghouls dress up like for Halloween?

For starters I think they all theme their costumes…

Like they don’t necessarily always co-ordinate, but they all come up with a theme and stick to it.

Bc why tf not, they’re doing slutty costumes this year.

Rain - Slutty nun (he had to fight Swiss for the costume)

Aether - Sexy nurse

Aurora - Karen Smith’s iconic “I’m a mouse, duh!” outfit from Mean Girls

Swiss - Copia (calls himself a “slutty cardinal” but he’s literally just wearing one of Copia’s old cassocks & birettas)

Cumulus - TV weather girl in the most revealing dress she could find

Mountain - Puts lingerie on and calls himself a vixen

Phantom - Sexy Zookeeper (but calls themself a “bat keeper”)

Cirrus - Forgot about a costume because she usually helps everyone with their’s, so she gets her Prequelle uniform, modifies it so it’s booty shorts, and leaves the shirt open, calls herself a “Slutty keyboardist”

Sunshine - Baywatch lifeguard in the tiniest swim suit she’s allowed to wear in public.

I forgot about Dew so he’s here

[iamthecomet]

"I wish you would write a fic where Dewdrop is keeping Aether company during a stormy night in the infirmary and maybe helps him welcome a new life on earth"

The second I saw this one I knew I needed to write it. Sorry it took me so long. 2k (I got carried away, I'm SORRY) of Dewther fluff, and slice of life intimacy. No smut, not even a hint of it. Non-graphic scene of a sibling having a very normal and healthy birth (it's pretty glossed over, but it does happen and Dew and Aeth are in the room). Dew being good in a pinch. Dew's immaculate bedside manner (not sarcasm). Aether and Dew being so fucking in love it's sickening. This one is all sweet guys, I don't know what to tell you.

Dew hasn’t left Aether’s side since the tour ended. He stepped off the bus and glued himself to the bigger ghoul. Pressing his face into Aether’s broad chest and inhaling deep. Tucking himself under his arm and letting Aether lead him back into the Abbey. Held close. 

That was a couple weeks ago. Dew isn’t quite as physically attached as he was for the first few days–but he’s still always in sight or earshot. Dragging Aether into his bed every night, wrapping himself around him. They shower together, and if they don’t–Dew isn’t far. Sitting in the adjoining bedroom with a book. One eye on the bathroom door–cracked just enough. 

Chores haven’t started back up for the band ghouls yet. They’re on a break. So Dew takes the opportunity to follow Aether everywhere. Not that Aether minds. He’s not used to having a little shadow–but it’s kind of nice. Nice to be able to turn and talk to Dew when he wants. Nice to not spend long, endless, nights in the infirmary alone and in silence anymore. The abbey feels full again. And Dew is here, and warm, and always present.

Most nights, Dew sits himself at the nurse station while Aether makes his rounds. He fucks around on his phone, or reads a book, or flirts with whatever sibling drew the short straw and got stuck with the night shift. Aether watches him as he moves from room to room. Their eyes meeting over dimly lit hallways.  Lips quirking up as they see each other. Still here. Within touching distance. 

Tonight, Dew’s alone at the nurses desk. There’s a blizzard raging outside and Aether’s usual sibling had called in sick. Probably not really sick. Just reluctant to uncurl from a nice warm bed on a very stormy night. Aether doesn’t mind. Night shifts tend to be boring anyway. Emergencies are rare, and most of their beds now are filled with humans suffering from the flu or some resperatory thing that’s been going around. Both viruses unable to make the jump from human to ghoul, so Dew, unlike the human that was supposed to be here, is safe. His bedside manner leaves a little to be desired. But Aether doesn’t really care about that. All he needs is someone to put pills in cups and measure medicine and hand him something when he’s asked. 

Dew does all of it without complaint. He’s more squeamish than Aether. Proclaiming, without any sort of filter, that he isn’t going to empty any bedpans, Aeth. That’s fucking gross.

Aether doesn’t have the heart to tell him that there aren’t any bedpans in play right now. It’s quiet now–rounds are done. Dew’s settled in behind the nurses station with a book. Booted feet propped up on the desk, leaning just a little too far back in the chair. Aether watches him–can’t help it. Eyes drawn to the way Dew’s lips move a little as he reads, the way they always do when he’s fully engrossed. 

Aether watches the little furrow appear between his brow. He’ll smooth it away with his thumb later, when he finally gets out of here and takes Dew to bed. Pulling that overwarm body against his and pressing his cool fingers to all of the places Dew finds stuck. A clenched jaw, a creased brow, tense shoulders. 

Aether stands at the end of the infirmary hallway and watches him turn page after page. He should do something else. His job isn’t to watch Dewdrop. The abbey counts on him, needs him. His work is important. But he hasn’t been able to do this for months. And Dew has been attentive ever since he got home. Always aware, always watching–the way Aether is now. Cataloging all the little things about him that he missed. 

Dew turns the page again and looks up, meeting Aether’s eyes. Aether can’t hear his chuckle for the distance and the noise of a thousand medical machines around him but he sees it, and the eyeroll that accompanies it. 

“What?” Dew asks, loud enough to be heard but still classifying as a whisper. 

“Nothing.” 

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” 

“Can’t a guy just look?” 

He expects another smartass remark, but what he gets is a little more color on Dew’s cheeks, another eye roll. Eyes darting back down into the book to avoid really looking at Aether–to avoid having to admit that he likes it when Aether looks. 

Aether turns back to his job–spell not broken just interrupted. He stands in front of the big window that overlooks the wide back yard of the abbey and looks out as he counts pills into paper cups labeled with names and times.  The hill that slopes down to the lake. The forest at the far edge. If it was light out he’d be able to see the ridge of Mountain’s favorite greenhouse, and the maze even further off. As it is–all he sees is white. The snow falling in big fluffy flakes–faster than seems possible. Piling high on the grass. Burying the abbey under a blanket of white they won’t be free of until late spring. 

Their easy calm is broken when the infirmary door slams open. Two harried looking siblings burst in, one of them heavily pregnant. There’s sweat beading on her forehead–her habit gone, or forgotten. Auburn hair sticking to her skin in damp clumps. The other sibling holds onto her, supports her weight as best they can as they rush into the infirmary and right up to the nurses desk and a stunned Dewdrop. 

Dew puts his book down. “Uh–Aeth?” 

Aether is already there, coming up behind them to slot against the sister’s other side. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes wild and pain filled. He knows this sister–she’s been coming to him for all of her check-ups throughout her pregnancy, no issues, entirely healthy. And, Aether calculates a week early. Nothing to worry about. He puts his hand on the small of her back. 

“How far apart, Isla?”

“Five minutes just like you said,” Isla winces as another contraction hits and she bares down on the nurses station. Dew looks ready to flee. Eyes darting between Aether and the two siblings. 

“Good,” Aether says, calm, low. He pulls Isla and her friend away from the nurses desk and leads them into a room just off of it–empty and freshly cleaned. He gives Isla instructions to change into a hospital gown, and leaves her in her friend’s capable hands while he darts back into the main lobby. Dew’s got his book in his hand again–and his coat slung over his arm. 

“I’ll be in my room when you’re done–”

“I need your help,” Aether says without argument. Gathering things he needs from the nurses station by the arm full. He’s delivered plenty of babies alone–but it’s ill advised. And Dew is right here–he’s not getting out of this. 

“Oh hell no, this is way above my pay grade.” 

“There is no pay grade. Put on some gloves and help me,” Aether pauses, fully looks at Dew. There’s fear in his dilated pupils, in the rushed shallow breaths expanding his chest. Aether pins him with his gaze–allows himself this moment. “Please.” 

Dew sighs, he grimaces. Uncomfortable but unable to say no to Aether–not when he really does need him. He tosses his book down on the desk. “Promise I’m not going to like, accidentally kill a baby or something?” 

“You will not be going anywhere near any babies.” Aether promises, and Dew groans, but snaps on a pair of gloves and follows Aether into the room. Trailing behind him nervously. Isla is on the bed when they get there. Her friend, who introduces themself as Rae, standing up by her head. Their hand carding over Isla’s forehead, brushing sweaty hair away from her temples. Their fingers are laced together. 

Aether talks them through everything he does. Every touch, every movement. It’s as for Isla and Rae as it is for Dew who is still radiationg panic despite having pulled himself together enough that the humans in the room don’t notice. 

Dew, contrary to his own beliefs about hismelf, is good under pressure. Aether won’t tell him this–not yet anyway–but there is no one else he’d rather have with him. Not even the siblings who have training are as level-headed as he is when he needs to be. 

When Aether asks for something, it’s in his hand before the word is all the way out of his mouth. Dew’s warm fingers brushing his. 

As most birth’s go–it’s an arduous process. The snow piles up outside. Isla’s contractions get closer and closer together. Hours pass. Dew gets his shit together. He follows Aether’s orders. Not nearly as squeamish as he pretends to be. Keeping a close eye on Isla’s process as Aether flits around for IV’s and blood pressure machines, and a thousand other things. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Isla says late in the game–minutes before Aether is going to tell her to start pushing. He’s exhausted his back hurts. Rae consoles her, pets her hair and tells her that of course she can. She shakes her head, vehement. 

“No. I can’t. I can’t be a mom. What am I doing?” 

Aether opens his mouth, not sure what’s going to come out, trying to find the right words despite his exhaustion. Dew places a warm hand on Isla’s knee and cuts him off. 

“Sure you can,” Dew says, soft, sure. “You’re doing this. This is fucking brutal. Being a mom can’t be worse than this.” 

And though Aether knows that isn’t true–Dew probably does too–it seems to take some of the edge off. Maybe just from the surprise of Dew actually butting in. But Isla looks at him, pain morphing her face, she laughs, bitter and relieved at the same time. 

“Yeah. This does suck a lot.” 

“See,” Dew squeezes her knee. “Just a few more minutes and this part will be over and then it’s the good part. You’ve got this. No backing out now.” 

Aether doesn’t know where those words come from. Dew who hates all children–ghoul and human alike. Who a few hours ago was about to tuck tail and run–to be out of Aether’s sight line for the first time in weeks just because this was about to happen near him. Saying shit like this? Encouragement? Enthusiasm. 

Determination settles over Isla’s face, she nods at Dew once. Sharp. And then turns her eyes to Aether. “I’m ready to get to the good part.” 

It’s quick after that. And before long Aether is handing Isla a screaming baby. It’s another hour before he can take a small break. The baby cleaned and swaddled, snuggled up with it’s mother. Rae resting fitfully in the chair while Isla stares at her baby. Aether leaves them to it and walks out into the lobby to find the sun rising. Pink hues casting over the floor. Blizzard over. The world outside the windows snow bright and fresh. He finds Dew at the nurses station, book in hand again, nose firmly in it. Brow creased. 

Aether kisses him right between where his horns would be and Dew looks up and over at him. Looking exhausted. Eyes fighting to stay open.

 “Hey,” he rasps, saving his place in the book and setting it on the desk. Aether brushes an errand strand of hair behind Dew’s ear. 

“Go back to your room. I’ll meet you there as soon as I switch with Omega.” 

Dew shakes his head. He leans his head against Aether’s bicep. “I’m good. I’ll wait.” 

“You’re going to have to detach from me at some point you know?” 

“Yeah. But not yet,” Dew shrugs. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” 

“Leech.” 

“Mmhm,” Dew nods. Eyes fluttering as he leans into Aether’s body. They’re quiet for a moment, the quiet only broken by a ragged cough from a room down the hall. 

“Thanks for staying–for helping,” Aether says softly. “I know that isn’t your thing but you really–”

“It wasn’t that bad.” 

“You going to tell me where all that sappy shit in there came from?” Aether teases, then sobers. “You were incredible, really.” 

Dew tips his head and opens his eyes, looking up at Aether with adoration that threatens to knock the breath from his lungs. He shrugs. “I mean. Just kind of thought of it like tour. Get the hard part over with. Get to the good part.” 

“This is the good part?” Aether cocks an eyebrow.  “You’re the good part.”

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen

TW: NSFW, angst, possessive language, verbal violence, BDSM mention

In nothing but a towel, Ludlow strides to answer the door. You, still naked, shriek and run for the bedroom, certain there’s about to be a bit of a fucking disturbance.

“Morning, Dr. Bitch! Didn’t know you made housecalls?” Tom’s pseudo-jovial tone is nothing less than gloating. 

You stumble back out of the bedroom, at least covered by your threadbare blue paisley robe, to find Dr. Julian Mercer on your threshold bearing a massive bouquet of deep red lilies. The tension between the two men is palpable as an electrical storm, and a lump of dread lodges in your throat. The last thing you want is these two getting into a fight.

When Julian turns his sharp gaze to you, you can’t help but feel guilty, even though you’ve done nothing wrong. Gone is the sweet, caring doctor, something entirely more primal in his place. This is a man who perceives an interloper has touched what’s his.

“I see I’ve come at a bad time,” he says, a flash of his bottom teeth visible as he clenches his jaw.

“Nah. We were just having some breakfast. Want to join us?”

Julian takes in the remnants of the pancakes on the table, as though he can almost see exactly what you two had been up to. Well…your disheveled, half-dressed state probably said enough on its own. 

Instead of answering Tom, Julian’s eyes roll up from the messy table and lock onto your own. “Did you fuck him?” 

You are completely taken aback by the invasive, growled question, suddenly nervous and shifting on your feet. For a moment, with Julian’s intense gaze trained on you, you forget that Tom is between the two of you and that you’re safe. But, if Tom wasn’t here…you shiver at the prospect. 

Julian looks like he’s going to go full Jason Vorhees on your ass. You open your mouth to speak, but Tom cuts you off. “Don’t think that’s any of your business, Dr. Bitch, but if you must know..” 

“Tom,” you say quietly, encouraging him to shut the fuck up and stay out of this. 

Instead of pouncing across the room and sinking his teeth into your carotid, Julian sighs, his face drooping just like the sad flowers at his side, and shakes his head. “I understand.” 

Why do you always end up feeling like an asshole at the end of these debacles? Maybe it’s because you are the asshole. By the way Julian looks right now, it certainly seems like it. 

“Oh, poor thing.” Tom rubs salt in the wound. “Cry me a river.” He turns to you. “Are you really gonna fall for this crap?” 

“Tom…” You try again, but it falls on deaf ears.

“There, there, Dr. Bitch Boy, you’ll surely find someone else who is dumb enough to let you tie them up and hurt them. Consensually! Mustn’t forget the fine fucking print…” 

“You know,” Julian says, twirling the bouquet stem in his long fingers, dripping dew on the doorstep. “It’s a safe, rewarding practice between two mature adults. But, I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that, Officer Ludlow.” 

Tom chuckles. “Oh, wouldn’t I? Some of us can tie a woman up and make her scream without inflicting pain.” 

Julian looks, immediately, to your wrists, where sure enough there are still discolored leather marks marring your skin. He stares at you like you just kicked his puppy except the puppy is actually him. You wish you could be a bitch for once and not care, but you’re just a softy like always, staring back with what you hope reads as an apology written on your face. 

Julian looks back at Tom, expression changing drastically into something dark. “There are marks on her pretty skin.” 

“Uh huh,” Tom agrees. 

Julian, the fucking idiot, steps up to Tom, and you instinctually nudge yourself between them. You know how this ends, although you’ve never been on the receiving end of a testosterone tug of war; you’ve seen plenty of friends and relatives go through it. You put a spread palm on Julian’s chest, and look up at him. “Julian..” 

You can feel Tom’s wayward grin behind you. 

“You should be careful, y/n. This ogre is going to hurt you. You should stick with someone who actually knows what he’s doing.”

“I think we did just fine,” snipes Tom. “And we’re going to do it again too! Thanks for stopping by!” That is when Tom bodily lifts you out of the way to slam the door in Julian’s face.

A second later you hear your poor neighbor peeking out. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s just fine, ma’am, so sorry,” you hear Julian answer. “Here. I want you to have these.”

In your mind’s eye, you can just see Julian, chivalrous and well mannered, handing Mrs. Thompson the beautiful bouquet.

“Oh! What a nice young man you are!”

If only Mrs. Thompson knew. 

“Tom, I’d rather not have Julian know about this…” you gesture between the two of you. 

He leans on the doorframe, probably to shut off your rational brain again because that’s what happens, and cocks his eyebrow. “You’re just planning on keeping me a dirty little secret?” 

“What? No. That’s not what I mean. I just don’t want him to know the details.” You cross your arms over your chest without really meaning to, and you know he picks up on the hostility. “Jesus, you just like, shouted everything right down the hall.”

You look at your wrists, the faint red marks. You can’t help but think on what Tom said with such taunting venom. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“What?” He asks, head tilting. “No.” 

“You said..” you take a minute to collect yourself. “You said that he would have to find someone else dumb enough to let him tie them up.” 

Tom skips right past your point, eyes narrowing. “You let him tie you up?” 

“Once? Sort of? But he freaked me out, so I asked him to stop. And he did.”

The look on Tom’s face is pure fury. “That little fucker could have done anything to you!”

The fact that Tom seems to think you are incapable of taking care of yourself only adds gas to your own burner.

“Look. I know you don’t like him, but he’s not a criminal because of what he likes, ok? Something…happened to him. He can’t fucking help it.”

“Yeah, I bet. Baby, I see this all the time in my job. These assholes are master manipulators, and they always have a fucking excuse. Oh my nanny touched me so I do terrible things. Bad shit happens to all of us. It doesn’t give anyone a fucking pass to hurt other people. You are so sweet and pretty and good…God. You are just the sort of soft little treat these guys live to gobble up.”

“I’m not a child, Tom. I obviously know there are bad men.” You’d certainly met your fair share of them. “You’re treating me like I’m an idiot. Julian stopped when I asked him too.” 

“And what if he doesn’t the next time? What if he keeps going? What if he hurts you?” He sounds like all those things would affect him more than they would you. 

Your knee jerk response spills from your lips before you can even think about it. “I don’t need you to protect me.” Even if this is exactly what you want, what you’ve always wanted, deep down. 

“Well that’s too bad, sweetheart, because I’m gonna. I’m not going to let anyone ever hurt you.” It’s not fair, the flood of warmth this inspires. From your head to your toes, and it feels so good you know you can’t trust it. Because when he inevitably breaks this promise, like all men do–it will destroy you. 

The moment shatters slightly when he can’t help but add, “Especially not Doctor Dumbass. What do you even see in him?” 

A part of you is so annoyed you’re even having this conversation, you can’t help but needle him. “Tall, handsome, single doctor who actually has manners. Silly me.” 

By the way Tom’s eyes narrow, you know the arrow hit home–and you kind of hate yourself for it. “It’s all a mask, honey. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. It’s a mistake to trust that guy.”

For a moment it jars you, that Tom is basically implying you’re going to sleep with him and Julian at the same time and potentially hurt them both, which means he thinks that lowly of you—he’s also saying, again, that you are too dumb to see through Julian’s “mask”. It makes anger flare inside of you, hot and bright. “Then I guess that's my mistake to live with.”  

You don’t really notice he’s inching toward you until you have to crane your neck a little bit to look up at him. The message in his dark eyes reads consuming, angry, possessive. A thrill perks every hair on your body. “Then I guess I’ll just have to convince you not to make mistakes.” 

“And how are you going to do that?” You ask, rolling your eyes, more than a little annoyed at this overt sideshow of the ol masculine who’s dick is bigger. 

He tucks a loc of hair behind your ear. “By fucking you so often you forget Dr. Bitch exists.” 

You don’t absolutely hate the sound of that, too-empty cunt giving a painful throb, toes scrunching up as that wickedly warm sensation travels from face, clavicle, chest, and then down your entire body, soaking you in lust. In this moment, you remember why you can’t fucking stand Tom Ludlow: because he is everything you need, everything you want, all wrapped up in a tall, laviscious package delivered right at your doorstep. 

A part of you wants to tell him that you don’t want anyone else but him–and a part of you would literally rather die than hand him your heart on a platter like that.

Worse yet, you’re afraid he can practically see the conflict warring in you. He sees too much, with those hawk-sharp obsidian orbs, cutting into you without mercy. He moves closer still, caging you against the wall with his corded arms on either side of you, his muscled torso that may as well be a brick wall, for all the luck you would have pushing past it. “How many times I gotta tell you, baby?” he says, his voice low, steel cased in velvet. “That I want you to be mine?”

He should be menacing, but this beast of a man leaning over you just fills you with need. You don’t know where you get the courage or the cheek to answer, except maybe it’s your lady parts finally getting their say, “You like to talk a lot, Tom Ludlow. Maybe you’d better show me?”  

He drops to his knees in front of you, kneeling at your feet, looking up almost reverently like you’re some sort of diamond encrusted statue of his chosen faith. He listens so well, silent as a mime, pressing his face into the thin robe over your rib cage, nuzzling and inhaling. Taking you in as if he means to memorize the smell of you. 

Deft fingers unwrap the tie at your waist, and he presses the lapels of your robe open with flat palms, guiding his warm skin along your own—the tender, soft stretch of your stomach. You shiver pleasantly when his grip lands to cup the curve of your waist and he kisses your bare skin, soft and wet and sigh worthy. 

Suddenly all you want in the world, is to lay this man out in your bed, and maybe never leave it. Why did Julian have to pop your perfect little bubble you’d so happily been in together? You try to move, wanting to take his hand and lead him to your bedroom, but he pins you against the wall with one of those big hands over your belly. 

“Tom…”

You kind of hate this, in the light of day, how he can still turn you into a needy, whiny bundle of nerves and weakened flesh, with zero self-respect. Every inch of your treacherous skin sings out that you do belong to him.  

“I know, sweetheart,” he says against the dip of your hip, and somehow this does soothe you. “But I’m about to get to the best part…” He tickles the curls of your mound with the tip of his nose, before nuzzling in to lick your aching slit. Your knees nearly buckle; if not for his strong hands on you, you absolutely would have melted into a puddle on the floor. 

“Fuck. Wait…”

“Nuh-uh,” he grumbles against you, tasting you again. “Take it like a good girl, y/n. I didn’t get to finish my breakfast.” 

He savors your taste for only a moment before becoming the man starved, pressing his face into the valley of your cunt and drinking from you like you’re the last spring of water in a dry desert. He pins you to the wall with bruising force as you and your pussy sob on his mouth, holding your lower half steady, lifting you almost off your toes, while your upper half claws and thrashes and pulls and probably leaves ugly marks in his tawny skin.

You try to say something, but it comes out as gibberish, a jumble of yesyesnonopleasejesusfuck. Too quickly, you near that release of clenched muscle, the symphony of your undoing, and he needs to slow down or—

He latches onto your clit with his mouth and sucks, tearing something more than an orgasm out of you. Something that makes you see crackling black stars, makes drool run down your face, makes a scream that will remind your neighbor of night terrors. 

Your legs do give out, but it doesn’t matter, because he lifts you in his arms and impales you against the wall, just in time to catch the last fluttering spasms of your release. He gives you no chance to recover, thrusting into you with his mouth latched to yours, devouring you with furious kisses and ruining you with his unrelenting cock. He does not stop until you cum again, almost against your will, or at least, in spite of yourself. It is as though he knows things about your body that you never fathomed possible on your own, knows just how to angle his hips to hit your gspot every single time. You’ve never been able to cum with just penetration alone, but his girth and curve and wicked skill combined make his cock a forceful weapon built for your cunt’s destruction. 

You cling to his broad shoulders like a limpet as he carries you into your bohemian nest of a bedroom, falling down amongst the colorful pillows, still inside you. Here on the soft mattress he takes you slowly, looking into your eyes and every time you try to close them, desperate for some reprieve from the intensity of it all, he demands your full attention again with his big hand on the side of your face. “I want you to know exactly who’s fucking you so good,” he tells you without a shred of humility, hooking your leg over his hip with a hand on your thigh, so that he can go even deeper. 

“As if I could forget,” you pant, the first real sentence you’ve managed since the start of this maelstrom. 

This makes him smile down at you, though there is a sharp edge to it. “Good. Because you’re mine now, baby girl. Don’t you ever forget it.” He does not even think about pursuing his own release until you’ve given it up one more time, with his filthy mouth working magic on your nipples and his hand between your legs plucking at you clit while he fills you. Only once you cum on his cock again does he let himself go right with you, and you see how close to the edge the entire time he’d been. 

Breathless in the afterglow, you lay in his arms as he traces the curve of your shoulder with his fingertips, lifting the fine hairs all over your body. It makes you shudder against him for the umpteenth time, burying your face deeper into his shoulder. The divot in his shoulder, that feels like it was made just for you. He smiles down at you, smug, yet somehow also soft, his lips on your forehead making a slow warmth lick through you from head to toe. 

“You’re tickling me,” you teasingly complain as he makes the gooseflesh rise again. 

“Just you wait.”

JesusfuckingchristIcannoteven…

Maybe you say it aloud, because he rolls over you with a wolfish smile, sweeping your hair out of your face as he sits up over you on his elbows. “Tom…” you pant, worried that he, in fact, is going to rock your world all over again. You don’t think you’ll survive it.

“I wear you out, sweet girl?”

You giggle underneath him, hooking your leg over his. “For now.”

“Good.” Again, that warm smile that makes you feel like you have fireworks lighting off through your veins. “You gonna think about me tonight?”

You wonder if he’s worried about you going to work–with Julian.

“Every time I try to sit down.” He loves this answer, his smile widening to an all out toothsome grin. Men. 

You don’t even know how you’re going to make it through your shift, because you’re fairly sure you’re never going to walk right again. 

He kisses you in one of those sloppy, wet, noisy, toe cramping kisses that he loves to give, and then lays his sweaty head on your chest. “What was Kansas like?” 

You giggle, running your fingers through his short, damp hair, loving the little shiver that you get from the feel of his strands on your sensitive fingertips. “Lots of farm fields and more cows than people.” 

He shakes you with his laugh. “And? Anything you liked about it?”  

You think back for a moment, to all the painful bruised memories of your childhood. “Our neighbor had a sunflower field. They were beautiful. We loved to climb her fence and run through it in the evening, get lost in the wonderful earthy smell.” You close your eyes, remember your sister's rare happy faces, remember falling in a giggling heap when you’d crash into each other, blinded by the tall maze of thick stems. 

He smooths a thumb over your cheekbone. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you, y/n.”

“Ah, that’s not true,” you tease. “There are a million other me’s.” 

His fingers dig into your side momentarily without warning, making you squeal and writhe. “Are they ticklish, though?” He muses.

“Stop it.” You bring his hand to your mouth and kiss his palm. “I have to take a shower.” 

“What a coincidence, me too.”

“Are you going to behave yourself?” You ask him, grinning at the faux innocence in his eyes. 

“Scout’s honor.” 

You’re very right about the whole ‘not walking the same’ thing. Tom insists he has to carry you into the bathroom for your safety because of how wobbly you are when you stand. It fills you with rejuvenated heat, the way he lifts you like you’re a small, precious thing and lays a juicy kiss on your forehead. 

“Bath or shower?” He asks, turning on your tap while you lean on the sink. “Probably shower, right? Fucking like rabbits on top of a bath is a recipe for disaster.” 

“Are you trying to impress me?” You ask him, unashamed of your eyes being consistently glued to the bare, lean muscles of his back and ass. You are only half talking about his knowledge of female hygiene. 

“A little.” 

“It’s working.” 

“Goody.” He grins at you over his shoulder, testing the water on his wrist as if he’s about to bathe a skittish cat. “I think I have it at a temp you’ll like.” 

He leads you into the shower with a steady arm around your waist, making sure that you step in and out without faltering, tugging you firmly against him while the warm water heats your conjoined bodies. He’s half hard again, pressed against your back, and it makes you giggle. “Jesus Christ, I don’t even think my teenage boyfriend had this much stamina.”

“Your teenage boyfriend ain’t got nothin on me,” he teases, kissing your temple. 

“No, Sam certainly doesn’t hold a candle to you, Tom.” 

He insists on washing your hair for you, and his big fingers are absolute heaven for the scalp. You even groan a few times in pleasure as he massages and lathers. “That is cosmic,” you tell him, resting your weight on his chest. Once again, you wonder what would inspire any woman to cheat on this delectable man behind you. 

“Want me to do the rest?” He asks while he smooths the soapy water out of your ends. 

“You first,” you tell him, maneuvering around so that you can wash him. 

“How can I refuse?” He asks, leaning down to kiss you. 

You grab a couple pumps of your sensitive skin body wash, not wanting him to break out in case of allergies, and start on his chest. You haven’t really gotten a chance to feel his body, yet. Sure, you’ve seen enough to last you many nights and then some, but touching is a different story; he’s planes of mahogany, slick, rocky lake floor, one long sensory buffet for your fingers to touch and squeeze and rub. 

His hands on each side of your waist tighten as you get lower, and once you’re at his hips his cock is standing hard and proud. You can’t help but grip the length in your fist and get him nice and lathered, tease him with soft touches that make his breath hitch and heighten. “Does that feel good?” You ask him, staring up through your eyelashes at his heady expression. 

“Amazing,” he grits, cock pumping into your hand a little bit of its own accord. “Think it’s my turn, though.” 

Terrorize Tom Ludlow, expect to get it back times ten. That’s what you’re starting to learn as he runs frictionless fingers over your nipples, makes you twitch and squirm and whine. The soapy lather adds an extra sensation to his touch, something that has you needy and wanting again in no time at all. You arch against him when he follows the path of running water down your stomach, over the mound of your cunt. “Does that feel good?” He mimics, grinning against your soaked hairline. 

“Fuuuck,” is all you can answer at the moment, your every nerve ending a slave to his hands. This man is going to be the death of you.  

“Your filthy fucking mouth,” he teases, and you can feel him grinning against you, the imp of satan that he is. It’s completely not fair, and you reach for him again, pumping him in time to his magical fingers sliding against your slit. 

“Oh,” he groans, bracing himself against the wall, caging you in, and you feel some satisfaction that at least you are not the only one going to pieces again. He catches your mouth in a sultry wet kiss, his thick fingers circling your clit. He’s slowing down, and you make a sound like an angry kitten against his lips. 

“What’s wrong baby?”

“You…are an evil man.”

“Me?” He is still grinning, but it's strained at the edges now. 

“Diabolical.”

“Mmm.”

“A menace.” 

He laughs, a grating sound that ends in another moan as you stroke his impressive length from root to tip, his girth utterly filling your hand, circling the contours of his glans with your thumb. You’re not sure if it’s really ten inches–all you know that he is your perfect fit. However, a part of you is grateful you’re not doing that right now–even just hands is almost more than you can stand. 

He lets out a shaky sigh, his forehead pressed to the top of your head as you touch each other in rhythm. He’s sped up to meet you again, almost as though he can’t help but move in time with you, the way you both seem to have a knack for finding the right timing together. There is something special in that, you know. Something cosmic, something terrifying if you think about it too much. So you’re not going to think about it now. You’re just going to feel, and let this man have his way with you for the umpteenth time in the past twenty four hours. You really have lost track. 

“I need you to cum for me, beautiful,” he says—not want, but need. Needs you to cum for him. Like he needs to breathe air and eat food and wear sunscreen. 

Both of you falter a little, teetering on the edge of orgasm, but it doesn’t matter because even the simplest touch, stroke, rub has you both spasming in the other’s hand. He spills over your belly, and the water washes it off your skin in pearly rills. You collapse against him, smiling, chafed and sore and aching but never happier. “Wait,” you say quietly. “Thought you said you’d behave? Scouts honor?”

He laughs. “I wasn’t in the Boy Scouts.” 

[belle--ofthebrawl]

i humbly request dewther medical au pls

Aether's been on-call for about...sixty-five hours, he thinks. He's downed countless styrofoam cups of bitter, lukewarm coffee and the words on his screen are starting dance again.

"Delivery for Doctor Sexy." Comes a flat, monotone voice from the doorway. He looks up to see his number one favorite nurse scowling at him and holding out a flat, hospital issue pillow.

"You're to report to the nap room." Dew says. "I'm prescribing you a rest period of about seven hours but I have strict orders to leave you alone if you're still down by hour eight unless a fucking seventeen car pile up comes in."

"Are you authorized to use force, Ma'am?" He asks, near drunk in his sleeplessness.

The pillow hits him square in the face.

[thelampisaflashlight]

Swiss, walking into the common room: "Aeth, quick question-" Dew, screaming distantly: "OH MY GOD! OH MY FUCKING GOD!" Swiss, glancing down the hallway, then back at Aether: "You're a doctor, so you'd know better than me..." Aether, getting up from his chair: "Which hole? How big? And how mad will Dew be at you specifically once I solve the problem?" Swiss: "How did you know..." Aether, grabbing some gloves and the first aid kit from the kitchen: "Because I'm a NURSE; I have a sixth sense for this bullshit now." -pausing- "Seriously though, how mad?" Swiss, nodding, poking his fingers together: "So the remote for the vibrator died, and it went it deeper than expected so I couldn't reach it..." Aether, sighing, calling down the hallway to Dew: "I'm coming, buddy, don't worry!" Dew, hysterical: "WELL FINISH UP AND COME HELP ME, DAMMIT!!!" Aether: "That's not what I meant-" Swiss, shouting: "I'm sorry, baby, I'll make it up to you!" Dew: "I'M GONNA CHOP YOUR DICK OFF, YOU-" Aurora, eating her breakfast in the kitchen: "...This is a weird fucking pack I've found myself in." -thinks for a moment, gets up with her cereal- "I should go see what happens..."