TWENTY-SOMETHING. Caribbean ‘ting. I love Lars Lindstrom and Lars Lindstrom loves me! Doctor Strange Freak. So down for GraceRocky. Another silly billy RyGos enthusiast. I write what I want, when I want. No AI over here, just pure insanity.
thank u for the love… !! I am writing some more lars stuff cause he’s roasting in my brain. excited to share soon enough!! have to say I am #nervous but I love writing so let’s do it
in this tiny car, arms brushing up against each other, lars reaches over and he kisses you; oh god he kisses you. his breath exposes his indulgence—he’s been eating the cherry pie that you made for the lindstroms as a nicety. his fingers are frost bitten under your ear, and his mustache tickles your lip just right. it’s just enough for you to let out a small giggle, and lars pulls away ever so slightly—needing more, but curious of your amusement.
there’s a crease between his brows as he explores your visage. “is this okay?”
more than. the words aren’t home right now so you manage a wimpy nod. a pleased okay slips from lars’ lips as he leans over the middle console, thumbing your chin—already warm and a little damp from the water you’ve been drinking.
“what makes you wanna kiss me like this?” your voice is barely a whisper.
lars hesitates. there’s one thing on his mind.
“‘cause I like you and I think you’re pretty.”
“you think i’m pretty?”
lars’ mouth curls up into a sweetie smile, eyes twinkling as he nods. he seems so sure of himself, spilling made-up truths out his mouth like he might actually mean them.
luke wants to share a part of himself with you, and you’re more than willing to take all of him.
luke glanton/gender-neutral reader. 2.3K. (18+) smoking, reckless biking, public sex. blowjobs, masturbation, kissing, tattoo-licking, some tongue stuff. handsome luke’s a dirty sweetheart.
you usually hear the groan of luke’s bike before you see him.
his cheeks apple when he sees you, smiling sweet and sugary like he’s seeing you for the first time. only luke could find something about you to smile about as you leave your apartment.
“you’re loud,” you moan. “where we going?”
the thrum of luke’s bike is enough to throw your nerves out of whack and make you grip onto him from excitement, knowing how far he’ll want to push the limits of his bike and your bodies. your nails dig into the muscle on his side. he arches his back gradually, pushing your nails further, enjoying the sting.
“i’ll take you anywhere you want,” he slurs, shedding the ash of his cigarette over his boot.
“somewhere special?”
“special to you?”
you refute with a hum.
“to you,” you point, poking his pec, burrowing yourself into him. “where do you go to get your mind off things?”
luke smiles to himself before taking a last drag of his cigarette. he puts it out on the thigh of his bleach-splattered pants and hoists you onto his bike wordlessly.
it’s not meant to be a long ride, but luke makes it so, taking every corner and turn to show himself right off. he doesn’t need to, but he likes how your grip tightens on his forearms when he squeezes through spaces not meant for two bodies and a bike. it’s like you need him more than you let on, and he’s quick to assure you he won’t do anything too stupid.
once luke’s done burning out his tires into asphalt, he parks under a streetlight to get a good look at you. your shirt’s bunched up near your chest and wrinkled from pressing yourself into him. your eyes light up like fire, and luke licks his lips at his reflection in them.
fuck, you love it.
and so does luke. he twists his body to lean in to you, lips barely brushing yours, breath fanning hot and dry over your lips.
“you fucking love it.”
you can’t help it—a chill runs down your spine. he gives you zero time to process before he’s kickstarting, revving once, two, three, and turning away from you, hiding his smile. luke’s soon speeding out of the parking lot and into the midnight with you clinging to his waist.
lights pop and flash and fade in your peripheral. daylight withers quickly and the night air begs to kiss yours and luke’s skin cool. luke’s bike thrums in your veins and whatever luke’s been drinking tonight rips off of him. it undulates in rhythm to your heart, thumping gently on his back, and you think for a moment that you might be right where you need to be.
it’s not the first time he’s taken you for a night ride; you note the way his silhouette coalesces with the dark and take it with you to bed, forcing him into your dreams—an obliged guardian, perhaps, or maybe just some fucked up version of him that scares you into loving him. either way, you love the way his shadow clings to yours, smushed together by metal and cracked leather, even between the heavy layers of cotton. you whisper sweet-nothings over his exposed bicep knowing well he can’t hear them through his helmet, yet the whispers turn to kisses to suckles, and you lick the edges of ink on his salt beaten skin, basking in the way goosebumps warm and rise on him.
he pulls into a hidden stretch of garden not soon after—one you never knew existed in this tight little town. it’s almost trashed, save for a patch of overgrown wildflowers and a comically short streetlight that luke parks under. again. it’s almost like he wants to see your every angle and between each crevice. he takes his sweet time to make sure no part of you goes unnoticed.
and you let him indulge. what’s more interesting right now is this realm he’s brought you to. it’s sort of otherworldly. liminal. it’s hard not to question why he chose this place of every place, but once you’re quiet, you can see it. the lights flicker in a weird, cryptic way. the ground gives a little when you stand in one place too long, and you think you might sink into the earth, let it eat you. you can feel that he brought you here for a good reason. when the realization fully settles, you soften and let go of your judgment.
you don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been sitting on this bike, but you know for sure that your ass hurts. it moves you to the broken gravel that support’s luke’s shifting stance.
you stretch and he watches as you squeal to yourself. “you see something you like?”
luke whips out a second cigarette from his pocket and tucks it between his lips. no—behind his ear. he’s fidgety yet still so confident in his composure, just watching you watch him watch you watching everything else.
he nods up to you. “c’mere.”
finally luke kisses you once he has his steady hold on you. he always kisses you like it’s the last time he ever might, so thoroughly and utterly full. you feel every millimeter of his lips and every sliver of his skin on your own. he’s never afraid to deepen your kisses; your tongues have learned so easily how to slide against each other and which posture the other curves to.
sure he can start it, but you can finish it, too.
you grasp onto his jaw to turn his head away from you, and luke lets out a laugh. it’s not so funny, though, when your tongue swirls over the letters inked on his collarbone. heartthrob, sure. and also so obedient when he wants to be. the cross of the t touches the tip of your tongue, and luke plays with a strangled gasp. you try moving to the inky webbing on his shoulder, tugging the collar of his shirt down for a better view. he’s warm and especially salty here, so tender you could rip him apart with your teeth.
he’s usually so gentle when you’re loving on him. this time he’s making you, begging you silently to map those kisses and licks down his chest, and to the tight waistline of his leather pants until you’re on your knees in the gravel, looking up at him through thick wisps of lust skeined in hunger.
luke fucking loves it. he loves how you play with the notions on his pants with your lips and teeth and drag them over the shape of him through his leather.
“please don’t play with me.”
“i’m not,” you quip, rubbing your hands on his thighs and consecutively squeezing your own. truthfully, you’re getting used to him again. he tents out from his clothes so easily and your stomach throbs. suddenly the wait is all too much—you’re pulling at his waistband and his blue briefs. they kind of match his eyes when they’re not blown out from greed ‘cause he’s twitching at the way his cock slaps you on the lip.
something about the way you look up at luke, eyes glimmering from the lamp post above him, makes his stomach tighten and churn. you’re angelic in the limelight; luke knows he wants nothing else but to call you his pretty one and have you look up at him the way you do forever with his cock ghosting your lips.
“too pretty,” he whispers, voice high and taut, tracing figure eights over the shell of your ear. his back curves to you and he kisses your forehead. luke cups your jaw. it doesn’t mean much, but your lips part in a kiss to the jut of his pubic bone as he holds you.
you never break your gaze. luke huffs to himself. it’s pure disbelief at how he got so lucky with you in the most unlucky stretch of his own life. he’s taken to pickpocketing—the lowest he could go under the sun’s guise—to make sure he has every means to treat you like the nobility you are. he only imagined you’d ever want to do the same for him. and here you are, on your knees in gravel, chasing the tip of his cock with your mouth as he spreads his pre-cum on your lips, chin, cheek, and a mellow bump of his tip to the nose. luke wants you covered in and full of him all the time, and he’s so prepared to lean into his gluttony.
“you want it.” it’s less of a question, more of a statement. you hum lowly, kissing his beaded tip and its underside. luke pinches your bottom lip, impatient. you can’t tease him anymore when he’s so close to filling you up.
luke’s breadth puffs up your cheeks and quickly kisses your uvula, over, and over, and over, and over. spit and pre-cum threaten to spill from your lips but luke’s quick—he thumbs away the excess and makes space in your mouth for his coated finger where your top and bottom lip both meet his cock.
it really doesn’t matter to him who sees; this part of town’s dead, anyway. it’s luke’s personal hideout when he’s trying his hardest to hide from you so he can indulge in his own shit. right now you’re running laps through his mind and tracing lines with your tongue on his hot pulsing skin. luke’s exposed himself to you, and you’re handling him so good, he thinks. holding him gently, anxiously, making yourself so ready for anything he wants to show you.
“you want all of me?” his voice is somewhere in his chest and his cock restricts you from speaking. you groan when the length of him slides over the buds on your tongue and you can’t help it—luke’s earthy taste makes your eyes watery. you try to blink through the saltwater burn. it’s the gag and the quiet glory that tugs the tears from your eyes. luke’s quick to wipe them away.
“don’t cry, baby,” the twinge of the stones prodding into your flesh and luke’s lust over you shakes you up even more. “only me,” you know it, “only me. you’re doin’ so good.”
it’s a fight to hush yourself when you feel this good, this secure, even under the eyes of this neighborhood. luke ogles you like you hung the moon and strung each and every star just for him, and the way he blinks through you makes you feel that you can breathe. his verve for you is palpable and you absorb him further, faster, forcing out a grungy whine from his throat as you suck.
“keep going, baby, keep going—fuck,” and fuck and fuck and fuck. luke wants prettier words for how unbelievable you look right now but his mind’s gone and his knees keep failing him.
you’re his—always have been—and he moves to cup your jaw more steady, holding you still to drag himself in and out of you. you’re his and he feels his orgasm building as he runs through the one million ways he can claim you this way. you’re his and luke grows sporadic as he finds his pace to your own pleasure, watching you tremble and wobble beneath him as you chase your high between your own legs. the bike groans under the brunt of luke’s weight ‘cause your need’s making him sloppy. it’s nasty how luke loves you like this: openly, voraciously, inviting you into him and letting you take up space in his psyche while he does the same to you.
there’s a split second where your bodies come together in synchronicity. the lamppost above you flickers and the world grows quiet. your pulse and his own unknowingly sync and for a moment it’s just you and him. like it always should be: you taking him, him taking care of you.
the surety knots up your stomach and by the tangle of moans leaving luke’s lips, you’re sure he’s hitting his peak.
“doing so good,” he says. “so good. so, so good—fuck!”
in unison you cry out between luke’s praises, both spending stupid and falling over each other as your orgasms rip through your bodies. it’s rare that you cum together in union like this. it makes luke trust himself all the more for it—for letting you in and loving you, so, so hard.
luke doesn’t hesitate to continue fucking his cum down your throat. he’s careless and together your music is rancid, echoing off of apartment walls and right back under your skin. you shake and jerk and shiver until you can free yourself from luke’s hold with a pop. luke hurls his head back and exposes his cherried throat: showing you all the work you’ve done and now rewarding you with it for making him feel good and tolerating him even when he caves.
“get up here.” luke pulls you up off of your shins and envelopes you in his body, his mind, his soul. prickly pebbles fall from your knees as you press into each other and both go limp, further melting into one warm and sticky muddle from the thrill.
“i’ll always take care of you. let me take care of you?” luke’s puffing hard and still lathering your face with small, cold kisses. there’s no reason to say no, and really no energy left in you to fight. he loves that you speak your affirmation to him and in return he plants a deep, sour kiss over your swollen lips and pulls you so close to him that you might as well become one.
18+. grace is tired and bratty and horny, pre-rocky, some swearing, you argue too much, suggestive content.
you catch grace around the corner of the lab, sweeping nothing into nothing to pretend to be busy.
“grace?” your steps end somewhere behind him. “eva time?”
truthfully, he’s trying to ignore you.
his body’s tired, strained from yesterday’s hull repairs and your arguments about how the repairs should be done. you want it by the books, do it slow, do it right. grace wants none of that—it doesn’t have to be this torturous—get it done as quickly as possible. you could have done it, but lately he’s been better out there than in the lab. much quicker, too. unfortunately, it comes at a cost, and grace mistakes his quickness for correctness. it gets him in trouble, and you have no problem condemning him.
sometimes it’s worth the fight; yesterday was trying, and grace was incredibly irksome, but it got done. grace knows you mean well, but it’s too much right now. he doesn’t want another argument, but he can’t do it. he just wants to spend some time staring into a more confined space.
“i’m not doing it this time.”
you’re quiet as he hardly looks at you, still sweeping, still deep in himself. his tone is harsher than he intends. maybe part of him actually feels that way.
“and why?”
“don’t want to,” he says. “you do it.”
“you know I can’t. I have to clean up the mess that you made while I was asleep,” your voice grows closer to him, in his brain, under his skin, “and you don’t have much of a choice. eva or we die before we even get to tau ceti.”
grace actually rolls his eyes. he blinks profusely at the ceiling.
“i’m not doing it today.”
he hears your scoff, really hears it, and takes it in.
“holy shit, ryland,” you begin, “can you not be a brat for two damn seconds? just two?”
grace pauses and stares ahead of him, jaw clenching and unclenching, shallow breaths puffing through his nose. here we go again.
“i’m not being a brat!”
“good god you are. it’s enough that we’re tin-canned in dead space but you just always go the extra mile in being annoying. I should strap you down in the bedroom and just leave you there.”
shoot. grace grips the edge of the lab bench with one hand and the metal girth of the broom with the other. oily fingerprints are left—a sign of his restraint in this seriously trying time. he can feel the pulse of blood through his veins amplify with each second passing. he knows you’re watching him, yet from behind, and he’s so glad you cannot see how plum-red his cheeks have gotten.
grace thinks he’s angry. it’s mixed with something unintelligible, like chicken scratch in his stomach. or his chest. or throat. maybe even his cock.
“i’m surprised you have nothing to say.”
how could he? the idea of being strapped down with his growing erection, maybe even exposed to the cool air of the ship, leaves him speechless. it’s embarrassing—he should not be having these thoughts right now. those were reserved for his bunk but since everything’s all out in the open now—your feelings toward him, what you’d like to do to him—why should he pretend he’s in control? he should be angry with you for belittling him, but you’re right. grace is being bratty, on purpose, for good reason. right now he can’t tell if he wants to be asleep forever or continue being the subject of your antagonizing.
wordlessly, grace drops the broom and zips to the dormitory, away from you calling out his first name like you don’t know the weight of it on your tongue. he has to get away from you.
on his bunk, grace lets out the burst of breath he’s been building in his throat. he rubs his arms, scrapes his neck, squeezes his face. he’s shaking as your tone rips through the boundary of his skull and it’s so hard not to palm himself through his jumpsuit.
long story short, luke likes to play with you. test your nerves, push your buttons until you’re giving in from him fucking with you. or fucking you, whichever comes first.
you suggested the beach. it’s a much needed getaway from the sludge of schenectady, and you didn’t think it was half bad. new jersey’s close-ish, the east coast is even better.
“beach?” luke spits, cigarette curving his lips from the hold, “the fuck w’gonna do at a beach?”
“i don’t know, be normal?” the eye-roll is automatic at this point. robbing banks and stealing from kooks was cute, for a while. once they start recognizing you cause your eyes shine a little differently than the faces in town, it’s a done deal. but luke can’t see that. he’s moved by his need to take care of you, so robbing banks was a past time. now, you had enough money to get away and have real, normal past times. what the hell was wrong with that?
luke’s lighter clicks five, six, seven times before he’s lit ablaze, flame glowing in his pupils. sometimes you see it when you’re beneath him and he knows he’s got you good.
“you want a baby?”
the halo behind luke glows brighter. so bright that he’s a blurs into a patch of white hair and bright eyes.
“what?”
“you want a baby,” he repeats. “only people who want a baby go to the beach.”
“what the fuck are we gonna do with a baby?”
“d’nno,” he mumbles. “be normal?”
you look at him, he looks right back at you, blowing smoke in your direction. it barely hits your skin. through the haze you see the flash of teeth, a small, genuine smile. he’s laughing at you, cracking a smile so rare you might as well have said you won the lottery.
lars doesn’t seem to mind it anymore when you touch him. this is so good. this means that he can relax in his own skin and feel the burn in the weaning winter air light up his lungs and singe the hairs on his lip. he can focus on other feelings—like how he’s so desperate daydreaming about what your cheeks feel like in his palms, or how the map of lines under your eyes might mesh with his lips.
it’s so much of a jump—soft pokes on the arm when he’s being a little silly, you stretching out his fingers when they’re gripped together, open, open, open those palms! on bouncy knees so he can say what he’s really thinking a little easier.
it’s new to him, the openness, the sepia, sitting sticky in his stomach. lars thinks he’s gonna—? vomit? scream? beg God to let him live a little longer cause he can’t take the way your skin sticks together in the summer heat? it’s a different kind of good for the first time, and it makes him sick and sour. lars thinks he can’t take it anymore. he wants to live right under your skin just so he knows what he’s feeling isn’t an accident and that he can, in fact, handle it. that it’s not the worst of his past watered down in loneliness. that it’s so good for him—so good that his stomach learns how to settle into something a little less stupid. he can look at you for longer than a few seconds and squeeze his eyes open and shut and open cause the sun’s a little warmer this time.
“honey, you okay?” lars is zoomed in and spaced out all at the same time, trying to suck back in the breaths he’s been puffing over your skin. “we can try again another time.”
“no,” he whispers, too quickly, too quietly, clearing his throat as he speaks. “touch me—?”
it takes so much of you not to kiss him tender. lars takes in your smile, holds it, and stores it for later. it gives him a little boost knowing he’s got something good in store for him.
“i want you to touch me.”
and you do. slowly, lightly across his cheek with the back of your hand, down the sleeves of his acrylic sweater, and finally finding solace in his hands. lars’ hands are big and warm around yours and you squeeze them just enough to bring him to. he gazes down at your junction, and a small smile plays on his lips as he curves toward you.
