Akakakghhh i panicked and block the only girl willing to do sexting with me, but she is in her 30s bro im scared i dont want her to get in trouble cuz im a teen, IM SORRY MINA THIS IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD
bring back sexting bring back sexting its the most hottest thing ever YES i will take my time to TYPE OUT EVERYTHING yes i will do exactly what you tell me to over text yes i am that easy and yes im giggling over a stupid box of words from you
Goodness I crave myself for toxic fanfics, but ofc im the one lowk being abused, uhh, psst.. Toxic John lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Ringo Starr.. And billy shears x abused user, different ofc
tl;dr: my headcanons for each of the beatles' (your boyfriend's) sleeping habits!
word count: 2.5.k (ish)
a/n: tysm for all the love everyone showed on the last one, hope you lot enjoy!
JOHN LENNON
most nights, john sleeps peacefully.
he's a medium heavy sleeper and snores a little.
when alone, his arms are curled into his chest or under the pillow at his head and his legs are all crossed up.
for a man with big energy, he sleeps quite timid.
he chronically sleeps with his glasses on and the amount of pairs that he's deformed or straight up lost via sleeping on them is insane.
based off of the picture i posted of him sleeping, he sleeps with two pillows.
stacked vertically on top of each other????
now moving on to when he sleeps with you, he radiates big spoon energy. and he is the big spoon until he falls asleep.
he turns like a rotisserie chicken bro.
so if you ever wake up in the middle of the night, one minute he's spooning you, the next minute you have a face FULL of hair.
remember when i said he sleeps well most nights? yeah well let's talk about the days he DOESNT.
he turns into the most abnormal sleeper ever and i'm sorry for you.
these nights usually occur after a hard, long day at the studio.
i predict that he'll just reanimate like frankenstein and shoot up in the middle of the night which wakes both of you up.
sometimes he's fully awake in a second and can't sleep again.
others his eyes are open... lights are on... but nobody's home.
he'll be unresponsive while 'staring' right at you. it's kinda freaky.
but seconds after you waggle your finger in his face and ask him if he needs anything, he's very dramatically falling back asleep.
you thought he was fibbing when it first happened.
oh yeah and he sleepwalks sometimes.
you should be scared, but it's oddly endearing to lead him back to bed, remember to set his glasses on the desk that are hanging off of his face, caress his arm and watch him fall back to sleep.
in general, when he actually wakes up in the morning, he takes super long to come to his senses and get up.
"five more minutes." yeah right.
you flinched awake, suddenly disoriented by the harsh return to reality. you were home. safe. you craned your head around to peak at the curtain, and saw faint rays of moonlight peaking through the cracks. you let out a huge sigh and then craned your head again to peer at the clock on the adjacent wall. it was a little past 2am. so why were you awake?
your eyes were dry as you blinked them to life and when you turned your body over, you saw the silhouette of john's back. he was sat up with his feet off the bed and hands planted in the mattress at his sides. all you could make out was the steady rise and fall on his shoulders in the dark.
he felt the dip in the mattress and when you settled, he spoke low.
"sorry to wake ya."
john didn't sleep talk at all so you assumed he was wide awake as a result of his restlessness. you reached out to place your warm hand on top of his cooling fingers. you squeezed him, firm. he spared you a side glance but you couldn't see his expression in the dark.
"and m'actually awake." he added. you believed him. there was a dry attempt at humour that sleepy john would never possess. you sensed his reserve. maybe he'd had a nightmare? you weren't sure but you knew whatever he was feeling was still fragile. you took a deep breath and responded, sincere.
"i know, john."
he reached up to rub his face, removing the glasses there and clanking them on the bedside table. he let out a loud exhale and a weight sat on your heart. you snuggled deeper into the covers and retracted your hand from his to pat the space next to you. he reacted to the gesture but didn't move at all.
"would you lay with me a while?" is all you said.
"how could i say no to a face like that?" slowly, he lifted the covers and slid back in the warmth. he laid beside you and scooted closer so you were situated in his chest. he draped a delicate arm around you. you looked up at him, clunky and close.
"can you even see me right now?"
he scoffed, "don't be daft."
that was and wasn't an answer but you chuckled and accepted it anyway. your eyelids started to droop in no time and you rest assured knowing that he would follow your sleepy lead eventually.
PAUL MCCARTNEY
paul sleeps like the hot mess he is
and he's a heavy ass sleeper too.
all the beatle lads HATE it.
you find it hilarious though and sometimes snap photographs of some of the positions he manoeuvres himself into.
in hamburg especially, nobody wanted to sleep in the same bed as paul because he's a notorious duvet hog and rowdy sleeper.
he thought he'd outgrown it since then.
you reassure him that he has. that it only happens sometimes.
you are lying. he hasn't outgrown anything. it happens every night.
he sleeps with a singular pillow and it genuinely explores the bed.
the reason he sleeps so heavy is because he dreams every night and they are super vivid dreams.
nothing can penetrate his song delivery dream time.
and you've tried.
in the event he does wake up, he startles like a single mother of three.
clutching his chest, gasping, his eyes open and darting everywhere.
funny thing is, he starts off the night great. he sleeps as quiet as a mouse, on his back and arm resting on you/holding your hand.
but somewhere in the night you can't pinpoint, everything goes wrong.
you wake up in the night to disheveled sheets, and now he's on his stomach while body parts hang across your torso.
sometimes there's an arm draped off the bed, knee tented in the air, legs jutting out of the quilt in different positions. his hair will either be astray or clinging to his forehead, slightly sweaty.
maybe a lil drool too.
and as if it was your imagination, by the time you wake up, the room is somehow back to normal?!1?
overtime, you've evolved to navigate a good night’s sleep and wake up feeling somewhat decent. it was hard to adjust to, but you're a trooper.
when paul wakes up in the morning on the other hand.. he’s as unaffected as a princess. maybe it’s his beauty sleep. zero eyebags, no grogginess. he's always the one dragging you out of bed, ready to start the day.
that smug oblivious bastard.
you had just returned from an afternoon shower, towel clung to your damp figure. paul sat absentmindedly at your vanity, preening himself in the mirror. you got changed into some casual home clothes while he hummed something you didn't catch. it was one of those uneventful days, spent lounging around in each others presence.
you were reading some pop magazine laying around. there was a small section that included the beatles, so what else would you do beside your god-given responsibility as his girlfriend but read it out in an exaggerative voice? the segment was clearly written by a crushing fan because rather than being informative, it was endlessly praising their looks.
paul had an influx of compliments towards him, which flattered and tickled him.
"somethin’ funny, pretty boy?" you interrogated.
"no, nothing." he smirked at himself, combing the back of his hair in the reflection. you stood up, stalking behind him and dropping your hands on his shoulders. he squinted slightly.
"what are you doing?" he questioned and you watched him.
"oh, just-" you quickly raised your hands to his hair, ruffling it wildly. "nothing."
safe to say, the play fight that occurred from that left you knackered. you were sprawled across your shared bed, catching your breath when paul groaned and thumped back down at the vanity. he moved towards your top draw.
"this comb's not going to-" he drifted off, mid sentence which piqued your curiosity. you sat up and after panting, asked.
"y’okay, macca?"
there was absurdity laced in his words. "what's all this?!"
you stood, crossing the bedroom fast to peek over his shoulder. your hands rushed to your face to cup a laugh in before it slipped out. sat in paul's hands were dozens of photographs of him in his fitful sleep. he flicked through the selection with his jaw falling further to the ground with each one.
"how long- when- i- why's it still going?!" he cried out and you stood no chance containing your laughter after that.
GEORGE HARRISON
georgie sleeps relatively normal.
he's a light sleeper.
i just know he was overwhelmed bunking with everyone in hamburg.
can't get anything past that one.
he doesn't snore but he does those sleepy grunts intermittently. almost like he's clearing his throat.
when you first hear it, you think he's going to say something.
and then he does.
he sleeptalks. only sporadically though!
it's pure nonsense that he blurts out and it's never more than three words. happens in the early morning so usually you can sleep through it.
on the day you didn't, you murmur a sleepy "huh?"
and boom, he's actually awake.
he then proceeds to gaslight you that he didn't say anything and that he wants to get back to sleep with a sleepy grin. he hushes your objections until you fall back asleep.
he's a still sleeper and will barely move.
his limbs are so lanky that whenever the blanket is any higher than his waist, his feet will poke out of the bottom.
extremely fair with the blanket though, he'll never exile you.
unlike paul.
but he sleeps quite isolated. so close to you but never really tangling his limbs in yours. he’s still undoubtedly protective but it gets him overly warm and if you so much as shuffle to itch your arm, he will wake up.
sleeps with two pillows evenly distributed between both of you. it smells heavily of him and the second your head touches it, K.O. you're out.
his morning voice is frighteningly deep and he stretches like a cat upon getting up.
lowkey prides himself on being a good sleeper.
besides the muttering, of course.
you were laid awake for god knows how long. that stupid evening coffee you had kicked in and the caffeine refused to relent and let you sleep. george on the other hand, had passed out a few hours ago and you'd been testing your willpower not to move despite the jitters buzzing throughout your whole body.
you were surprisingly winning the mental battle, focused on a spot on the ceiling and thinking about how to get to sleep. counting to 1000 failed so bad that after doing it the first time, you did it again. then again. everything was futile.
your attention was pulled from the blank roof since george stirred next to you. you let your head fall to look at him from where you laid on your back. his face was turned away buried in the shoulder outside your view. your eyebrows knitted together in confusion.
he spoke, near silent. "don't miss letter."
you cleared your throat to kickstart your sleepy voice. "wha'd you say?"
he replied without moving, a "hmm?"
"you said something, love?" you clarified, turning on your side and he lazily stirred and swooped round to look at you.
"ya sure about tha?"
you pulled your lips into a thin line, faltering in your judgement. you confirmed. "yeah?"
he nodded, completely unconvinced. you saw it in his sleep-ridden features. you started to elaborate.
"hazza, i mean it. you said-"
he brought a hand to your face pushing his huge palm to your mouth to silence you. he started getting sleepy again, speaking over your obstructed words. "sshhh, sshhhh, sshhh, i know."
he reaffirmed nothing in particular and you realised proving anything was pointless. he yawned, wide and obnoxious. this was followed by him sinking further into the bed. the tussle to speak drained some of your energy and you felt the beginnings of sleep start to come.
he’d pay for that in the morning.
RINGO STARR
last but never least.
okay, ringo ACTUALLY sleeps normal.
but don't get me wrong, he has... habits.
like he sleeps like a rock, a log, a brick.
he's the heaviest sleeper out of them all.
however he does not snore! despite the snoring ringo propaganda that we are fed in the ‘a hard days night’ movie because of his nose.
the only noise he's guilty of while asleep is deep breathing.
which makes sense since his head is probably right next to your ear.
the weirdest thing he'd do lowkey is sleep half on TOP of you with his whole weight.
but it's safe to say, a night with ringo is absolutely fantastical.
he goes to sleep and stays asleep, which sounds like it would be inconvenient if you ever wanted to use the toilet or get a glass of water.
but like clockwork, he unravels to let you go when you tug and when you creep back in the mix of the bed, he senses you're back and engulfs you again.
he has two pillows for you both but they are typically pushed to the side by the time you both wake up.
he isn't opposed to being a little spoon either but it's usually not a conscious decision.
haha he'd definitely run really hot in his sleep. with or without you.
it makes the shower in the morning extra therapeutic cause you're both lowkey drenched.
and when he wakes up in the morning, he's blissfully unaware.
of everything.
the brain fog he gets is unreal, but you can pull him through it when you break into a fit of laughs at his obliviousness.
you woke with a groan, which escalated to coughs since your mouth was really dry. it was the morning, that was apparent by the sound of birds outside the flat. you looked down at the body intertwined with yours. ringo looked like a model fastened across your chest like a seatbelt. he had long abandoned his pyjama top, so all you could see was hair and skin. an abundance of both.
you stretched your arm to the bedside table, clutching at the glass half full of water. you pulled it over, steady since you couldn't see it well from your laid position. once your arm was over your head, you tilted the cup and opened your gob to catch the water.
on the plus side, you got most of the water. on the negative side, you underestimated the clamminess of your hand and the sweat that accumulated. this caused the glass to slip and land on your lip.
the impact felt awful. you yelped out in pain, pushing the glass away in the bed. the rest of the water soaked your neck. immediately, your finger rushed to your lip, wincing when you pressed on the area. you could feel it start to swell and if you were any less discombobulated, you might've shed a tear at the pain. you rested your head back on the pillow and was surprised to experience a lapse in consciousness.
you had fallen back asleep somehow?
this time, once fully awake you gave ringo a good shake to get up. he yawned, prying his face off of your torso and blinking into the light. he was sheen with sweat and you supposed that you mirrored exactly how he looked.
you lifted your finger back to your mouth, upset to realise it wasn't a dream and that your lip felt like it was on fire. ringo pushed himself up on his forearms, moving closer to your face.
"happened to ya lip?" he stared, unblinking.
you swallowed before muttering. "how bad is it?"
he grimaced a little. "bruised. swollen."
he stared at you longer before tapping a feather-light kiss to your lips.
a/n: i turn into mei-mei from turning red writing these fics lol. leave a comment and shout at me if you hated it, follow me if you didn't!
gonna make a masterlist soon so everyone can navigate my fics similar to this really easy! also feel free to leave an ask/request :) (i may not write it... but would give credit if i took inspiration from it at all!)
take care, till the next one <3
Two-Bit never thought he’d be lucky enough to corrupt a Soc.
When he showed up to drive-in drunk off his ass, he expected to meet up with Pony, Johnny and Dally and dip. Instead, he found the younger two sitting with a few Socs. You had been the prettiest of the group in his eyes and your laugh made you impossibly prettier, especially when it was one of Two-Bit’s stupid greaser jokes that triggered it.
Before you left, you had slipped him a slip of paper. By morning, he realized it was your number and, unlike what any other stupid greaser would do, he dialed it right away.
He didn’t know why you had decided to give him a chance, but as he found himself sneaking into your bedroom and being greeted by a kiss just a few weeks after that phone call, he thanked every god in the universe for giving him you.
Two-Bit knew he was a bad influence for a Soc like you. He drank to excess, allowing you to have a sip a few times, he smoked nearly a pack a day and stole anything he could fit into his pockets.
He was a dirty greaser and you were a preppy little Soc, so why, when you finally let him fuck you, did that fact turn him on so much?
He started slow, his hips rolling into yours as he cradled you under him. He breathed soft groans against your shoulder, occasionally placing soft kisses to the skin as he whispered, “Fuck, you feel so good, baby…”
When your legs caged him in with a plea to go harder, he couldn’t deny you. He pulled out as much as your tightened legs would allow before slamming back in. His eyes remained on your face, his cock twitching at the blissed out expression on you.
Two-Bit smiled before doing the same move again, his hand tightly gripping your thigh as he did so. “Ya like that, baby?” Another harsh thrust. “Ya like havin’ a filthy greaser fuck this pretty pussy?”
You couldn’t even nod as Two-Bit’s thrusts became faster, in quicker succession. You whined as you clung to him, relishing the feel of his tip brushing against your cervix with each deep pump.
Maybe fucking a greaser was what you needed all along.
—IN WHICH, the greasers realize they’re truly, and honestly, in love.
tags/warnings: gn!reader possible OOC, story-focused rather than comedic headcanons, fluff and nothing else(lie), comforting steve, swearing, soda’s part is rushed cuz i ran out of ideas.
ೃauthor notes⁀➷ wow shocker i leave for awhile and come back with a new theme. anyways, hi angels! i love you all sm and i forgot how much i loved being here🥹..! i missed u guys so much!
—
Johnny Cade
cars zoomed by the lot at concerning speeds, the sound of wind being broken up by the obnoxious cop sirens or a drunkard yelling down the street.
though, to you and johnny, all of that fell to deaf ears. it was like the world didn’t matter to you—as long as johnny sat beside you.
the stars seemed to only shine above you two, twinkling and gleaming in ways that you’d never seen before. the moon was your sunlight, with johnny giving you the warmth.
his head rested on top of yours that was against his shoulder, his arm draped loosely around your waist. your thigh was pressed against his, making him more than a little nervous.
sitting in the lot with you made him nervous, despite you and him dating for a long while now. you made him..giddy. that’s the word.
you made him feel like a child again; the child he never got to be.
johnny had his head tilted upward toward the stars and the sky, matching what you were doing so he didn’t look like a clueless idiot.
your hand left your lap, your eyes flickering downward for just a moment that went unnoticed to johnny. you gently grabbed his scarred hand, holding his hand in yours. you held him like he was glass.
johnny felt his face get hot. like, really hot. you were so gentle with him, the type of gentle that he had never been treated with.
he looked down at you, your head still on his shoulder. your hair was so shiny, you were so beautiful and such a perfect fit for him with the way your body mended with his in a time like this.
perfect.
his lips were quickly pressed against the crown of your head, pulling away before he got too nervous to talk.
“i love you, y’know.”
Dallas Winston
“you’ll be fine.”
“i feel like ‘m bleedin’ out.”
dallas complained as he sat on your couch, his legs spread so that you could properly stand between them. you continued to dab the wet cloth against his cheek to get the dried blood off.
there seemed to be just as much of dried blood as there was fresh, his arms and hands coverer in gauze and bandaids.
you gently held his chin to turn his head every which way you needed, because he allowed you to. he liked you so much, he allowed you to move him around like a doll.
though, he liked slyvia a lot, too and she couldn’t do stuff like that. stuff like this with slyvia was weird, even if he did like her.
so, why was it different with you? what made you, of all people, so special?
his eyes were locked onto yours, taking extra note to how focused you look on cleaning his face up. you were pretty. like, real pretty.
dallas was quick to avert his eyes when he realized just how sappy his internal monologue sounded.
“what?”
you asked, taking note to how hyper-aware dallas suddenly looked. his jaw was clenched slightly as he seemingly refused to look at you.
how you always knew when something was up with him, he may never know.
“nothin’. the cuts jus’ hurt,”
he lied right out of his teeth.
dallas’ eyes met yours once more, trying to act tough once again. he asked himself once more, what made you so different?
“are you sure?”
you dropped the wet cloth slightly, the rag no longer against his cheek. you looked worried, and you sounded just as nervous.
you cared.
you cared for dallas winston. that’s what made you different.
dallas knew you were different from his other flings.
he liked his other flings. he loved you. he loved that you cared for him, genuinely.
he extended his hands out, grabbing your waist to pull you closer with a firm tug, your knee supporting you up as it was pressed against the edge of the couch.
“oh, ‘m real sure, pretty.”
“dally, please.”
“please, what?”
“don’t start with me now, winston.”
Ponyboy Curtis
you were golden.
completely and utterly golden. the sunset reflected off your skin like you were an angel, your eyes shimmering like the stars above, the flush across your face making you look beyond innocent.
ponyboy was the one to drag you out into the cold oklahoma winter in the first place. he just wanted to watch the sunset with you, the person he liked.
he protested against your arguments of, ‘it’s so cold out, though! it’s so warm inside, pony. don’t make me go out there!’ with, ‘it’s just a sunset. it’ll be for a few minutes! i jus’ wanna watch it with you. please, y/n?’
‘watch the sunset,’ his ass. he looked at the setting sun maybe twice in the span of 3 minutes. you were too beautiful to not look at.
of course, and thankfully, you were oblivious to his staring.
“it’s really pretty,”
you muttered. your eyes were locked onto the horizon, and his were locked onto his future.
his future.
the more he thought about it, he really liked you. like, to the point where whenever he envisioned a mile stone in his life, you were always there.
when he imagined graduating, you’d be there. when he imagined going to college, you’d be there. when he imagined getting married, you’d be standing at the alter with him.
he loved his future.
he loved you.
“real pretty.”
ponyboy agreed, but for a different reason.
Sodapop Curtis
the moonlight seeped through the curtains of his room, illuminating the lines that it managed to sneak it’s way through. the midnight sky was bright, yet the moon seemed to be the only focus for the stars.
soda held you in his arms loosely, your head resting gently on his chest. he traced imaginary shapes on the lower part of your back.
the sound of his fan whirling rang out through his room, your breathing falling into a rhythm as you drifted off to sleep.
soda always seemed to notice when you were about to fall asleep, and you didn’t know how he did. you were starting to suspect he might be a wizard.
he pressed a kiss against the top of your head, letting his lips linger there for a moment.
his life was hectic. it really was. he was a dropout who works a full time job to help his older brother keep a roof over their head, and he worked as a middle man in arguments.
but you, you were a breath of fresh air.
he needed you like he needed water.
he needs you.
he loves needing something, and he loves needing you.
he loves you. soda loves you so, so, so much.
“good night, baby. i love you.”
Darry Curtis
“oh, y/n,”
darry sighed as he entered the kitchen. the smell of freshly cooked dinner wafted through the air, leaving a comforting taste in everyone’s mouth.
he walked up behind you, your back turned to him as your focus was on scrubbing the last bit of dishes. his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling himself closer to you as if he needed to be as close as possible.
he rested his chin on your shoulder, his eyes looking down at your hands in the sink. you turned your head to look back at him, your faces a mere centimetres away.
you couldn’t necessarily help the smile that tugged on the corners of your lips at seeing darry look so grateful.
darry was a busy, hardworking man. that's who he was, and who he will always be as long as he lives. he provides with no one to provide for him.
until you came into the photo.
darry was cooking dinner out of fear that soda'd burn the roasted potatoes he said he'd make, and ponyboy was just..not that good with anything other than eggs.
he was cooking, cleaning, and working. he had no time to himself, it seemed. but you, the angel you are, takes it off his hands. maybe it was to just have him all to yourself after work, he didn’t care.
you were the angel that he prayed for day and night.
and god knows how darry loves angels.
you ruffed his hair, not bothering to dry off the water that stuck to your skin. darry chuckled, lightly shaking his head in a poor attempt to dry his loose curls.
in his own retaliation, he pulls you impossibly close, attacking your face with as many kisses he could. giggles filled the room as you attempted to push yourself away from him, only for his grip to tighten.
he pulled away at his expense, pressing one last kiss on the crown of your head.
“love you, doll. i really do,”
Steve Randle
“you’re always welcomed here, steve. you know that,”
you lightly scolded him as he sat on the edge of your bed. he’d been couch hopping before he came to you, a broken and embarrassed man.
you were rummaging around in your closest for another old blanket he could use, since from prior experience, you learned that steve has a tendency to hog the blanket you two shared.
“i know, i know.”
he begrudgingly grumbled, hurriedly avoiding eye contact with you with his head down, looking at his hands on his lap.
you looked over your shoulder, seeing just how embarrassed he looked asking for help tugged on your heart strings a little.
steve was never one to ask for help, no. he thought he was too prideful, too good, for help. he thought that he was superman with the way he thought he could help himself 24/7.
you sighed, taking a few steps toward him. you squatted down in front of him, lightly grabbing his hand and holding in it yours. he finally looked back at you with lowered brows, his eyes making him look way more innocent than he actually is.
“i hope you aren’t lying to me.”
“what?”
“do you actually know that i’m always here for you, or are you sayin’ that to shut me up?”
you questioned, allowing yourself to be straightforward since it seemed like that was the only language he knew.
steve shifted his eyes away from yours for a moment, a small huff leaving his lips.
“maybe.”
“steve,”
you started, the disappointment emanate in your tone. you stood up, letting go of his rough hand to cup his face. you forced him to look back at you.
“you know you aren’t ever a burden. i love having you around. i love you, okay? i wouldn’t ever push you away.”
you stated in the most soothing voice you could muster, looking him right in the eyes to really drive your point forward.
steve took awhile to react. he just looked back at you, letting your words process in his head. after a moment, he wrapped his arms around your torso, pulling you close.
he buried his face in the nape of your neck, his breaths coming out shaky as he tried to calm himself.
he loved home, he really did.
and, look, steve isn’t stupid. he’s heard and understood the saying that, ‘home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling.’ but he always thought it was stupid.
how do you feel at home?
well, now he gets it.
with you in his arms, you comforting him and talking to him like he was a human, and he’s never felt more at home.
and holy shit, he loves this feeling.
“love you. love you so, so, so much.”
Two-Bit Mathews
laughter rang out through your empty living room, the television being completely drowned out.
you gasped for more air as you and two-bit laughed at an inside joke that seemed to only make sense to you two. you hand your hand on his shoulder, the other on your stomach. two-bit was leaning toward you unconsciously.
“holy hell, two-bit! that’s so messed up!”
you feigned innocence, pretending like you didn’t play into the jokes that slipped off his tongue.
“well, shit! then i guess we’re both messed up since you were jus’ talkin’ about-“
“hey, wait!”
you were quick to cut him off, leaning toward him to cover his mouth with your hand.
“don’t go snitchin’ on me!”
two-bit snickered to the best of his ability, grabbing your wrist lightly to pull you toward him closer. you stumbled toward him, two-bit catching you by putting his hands firmly on your hips.
looking back at you with a sloppy smile across your face, your eyes having a certain mischievous shine to them made it hard for two-bit to look away.
you were so beautiful when you were happy. you were always beautiful.
how someone like you was able to understand his type of humour is beyond him. he just knows that he’s lucky, and that he’d be a fool to let you slip through his fingers.
he didn’t want to lose this moment, ever.
he loved moments like this.
though, he only ever experienced these moments with you. so, is it weird to say that he only loves moments that involve you? does that mean something?
If you write for twobit can you pls write some dating headcannons for him? I love ur username btw!!
(yes, of course i can, and thank you so much! i feel like people don’t appreciate the creative genius that went into it enough.)
DATING TWO-BIT MATHEWS
✮ loves making fun of you and poking at you, especially if you’re the type to get really upset over it.
✮ in relation to the last one: whenever you cry, he laughs—not because he actually finds it funny, but because he just can’t control it.
✮ always insists that you dress up as minnie mouse while he goes as mickey for halloween, especially when you’re handing out candy together.
✮ the king of pda—he physically cannot resist keeping his hand in your back pocket or wrapping an arm around you in a chokehold while you’re out.
✮ constantly begs you to do your makeup, hair, and wear outfits that he likes (which are all hideous, by the way). but if you even suggest something for him to wear, he’s laughing in your face and making fun of you to the rest of the gang.
✮ lets you put makeup on him because he thinks it’s funny and loves how much it makes his kid sister laugh. every single time, without fail, when you announce that you’re “done!” in that sugary-sweet voice of yours, he immediately mimics you—“do i look like a pretty princess?”—batting his eyelashes dramatically. it always earns him a swat on the back of the head.
or... matt looking through the lattest magazine number you appear on.
warnings : pure smut, blowjob! daddy material matt right here.
ᐟᐟ ⟢ a/n: HE'S SO FUCKING HOT I CAN'T I LOVE HIM I NEED HIM TO BE THE FATHER OF MY CHILDREN.
( 🏷 @callme-holly , @twobitsblade )
♱ *ೃ.⋆
You hear him before you see him. That is, Matt’s heavy footsteps echoing across the polished marble of his penthouse. He’s just come out of the shower, a towel lazily slung around his hips, his hair still damp and disheveled in that rough, careless way that makes your stomach flip. He always looks like he couldn’t care less—and that makes him irresistible.
He flops down on the long leather sectional like he owns the universe—legs wide, taking up way too much space, letting his presence swallow the room whole. One hand rakes through his wet hair, the other reaches lazily for the newest copy of Playboy.
Your issue.
You watch from the floor, kneeling in front of him like a good little showpiece, his towel a dangerous slip away from scandal. But he doesn’t even look at you yet. No. He’s too busy flipping through the glossy pages, slow and deliberate, his finger pausing occasionally as he scans the layout.
“Goddamn,” he mutters, his voice low, rough, that lazy drawl soaked in gravel. “They really let you pose like this, huh?”
You bite your lip and nod. Your voice comes out a little breathless. “Mhm… they said it would be a special spread.”
He glances down at you with a crooked smirk, like he’s looking at a puppy that accidentally learned a new trick.
“Special, huh?” He flips another page, whistling. “You do realize most girls your age are still figuring out how to microwave popcorn and pass Psych 101, right? And here you are, tits out, pouting like a little airhead on a fur rug.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, but there’s heat in his gaze. Possessiveness. Approval.
“Jesus. You don’t even know what they’re really selling, do you?”
You blink up at him, confused, but a little turned on by the way he talks to you—like you’re dumb, like you’re precious, like he owns your brain along with your body.
“I mean, yeah… it’s me. My pictures.”
Matt leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. So close now that his voice practically rumbles through your bones.
“No, baby. They’re selling the fantasy. This big, stupid, perfect-eyed fantasy of a girl who thinks being pretty is a personality. Who giggles when a man talks down to her… who drops to her knees the second he tells her to.”
His hand slides down to the towel. Loosens it.
“Which,” he adds, eyes fixed on you, “is exactly what you’re about to do, isn’t it?”
You nod, dumbly, eagerly, cheeks hot with blush, thighs pressed together with need. The part of you that’s still pretending to be a grown woman shrinks, fades, drowns in the deep, gravel-and-iron tone of his command.
Because when Matt talks like that, you don’t think.
You obey.
With the movemenMatt’s towel slides off his hips like gravity’s finally caught on. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move to cover himself. Just sprawls there, big and solid, legs spread, cock heavy against one thigh, already thickening under your hungry gaze.
He catches you staring and lets out a slow, smug chuckle.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “My little centerfold.”
You feel heat rush to your cheeks. It’s not the praise that gets you—it’s the way he says it, like he’s laughing at you and owning you in the same breath. Like you’re not a model, not a woman, not anything except his dumb, glossy toy to play with when he’s bored between scotch and scripts.
He flips back a page, tapping the image of you on all fours, looking over your shoulder with parted lips and blank eyes.
“This pose here? Fuckin’ textbook. Bet the editor had a field day with this one. You even know why they picked it?”
You shift on your knees, thighs squeezing.
“No… I just thought it looked cute.”
Matt barks a short laugh. “Cute? No, baby. It’s not cute. It’s obedient. That’s why. You look like you’re waiting for someone to unzip and fill your pretty little mouth.”
You whimper, softly, breath catching as his words wrap around you like a leash. You feel it—the thick, sweet fog settling in your head, making it harder to think, easier to feel.
He sees it. Loves it.
“Oh yeah… I know that look.” He leans forward, gripping your chin with his thumb and forefinger, tipping your face up to meet his. “That’s your bimbo face, sweetheart. All soft and pink and needy. You got one thing on your mind, don’t you?”
You nod, helplessly.
His thumb presses against your lower lip. “And what’s that, baby?”
You try to speak, but the words get stuck in your throat. It’s not fear. It’s need. Thick and sticky, dripping down your spine, pooling between your legs.
“Say it,” he growls. “I wanna hear it.”
Your lips part, your voice a whisper. “I wanna suck your cock.”
His smirk is pure sin. “Yeah, you do. That’s my girl.”
He leans back again, arms draped along the back of the couch like he’s the fucking king of the penthouse—and maybe he is. You’re not thinking about anything else but him now.
“You gonna do it while I read your little magazine spread?” he asks, stroking himself slowly. “Let Daddy admire all the glossy little poses you made just for other men to drool over, while you keep your mouth right where it belongs?”
You nod. Climb into place.
He doesn’t rush you. That’s the thing about Matt—he doesn’t need to. He knows you’ll crawl for it, beg for it, because he’s already rewritten the way your mind works.
Your breath catches, and your lips part, glossy and full, painted just how he likes. You don’t remember if you put the gloss on for him or for the camera earlier—but it doesn’t matter. Everything you do ends up being for him anyway.
Matt watches the way your gaze dips. His smirk widens, slow and smug.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “My little brainless bunny.”
You feel your thighs clench.
He flips another page in your Playboy spread, holding the magazine wide open like he’s comparing the image on the page to the live version kneeling at his feet. You—on all fours in a pink faux-fur bikini, mouth slightly open, eyes glassy.
“You even look dumber in print,” he muses. “All pout and tits. They nailed it.”
Your cheeks burn, but you can’t stop smiling. You like when he talks to you like that. When he makes you feel soft. Silly. Owned.
Then, his voice dips lower.
“Use your mouth, sweetheart, c'mon. Show me how proud you are to be my perfect little covergirl.”
Your hands are trembling as you reach for him.
You wrap your fingers around him first. He’s thick, heavy in your grip, the kind of cock that makes your pulse flutter and your brain short-circuit. You hear him hiss through his teeth, but he doesn’t say a word. He’s watching you, studying the way your lips part, the way your breath hitches as you lean in.
When you finally take him into your mouth, he groans, low, approving.
His free hand drops the magazine into his lap. His thumb brushes against your cheekbone, then slides down to your jaw. Not controlling—just guiding. Because he knows you’ll do exactly what he wants.
You always do.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice gravel-rich and warm like whiskey. “God, look at you. Pretty little thing, so eager to stuff that pretty lil mouth full.”
You moan around him, the praise hitting you harder than anything else.
He watches you like he’s watching his favorite movie. Big, bossy, lounging back on his throne of Italian leather like this is just what men like him deserve: a perfect girl between his legs and his name on the masthead.
“You know how many men are-ahh-jerking off to this?” he hums, flicking the page again. “Your spread. Your blank little stare. Thinking they could make you drool like this, mnh.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, dark and full of ego.
“They’ll never get it, baby. You’re mine. I’m the one who trained that stupid little, fuck, look into you.”
Your eyes flutter shut at that.
Because he’s right.
And now, here you are: on your knees, mascaraed lashes wet, thighs sticky, his cock filling your mouth as he flips through your magazine like it’s his portfolio.
“You want to be my dumb little centerfold forever, baby?” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your lips as you pull back, spit trailing down your chin. “Let Daddy keep you pretty, keep you obedient, keep you useful?”
You nod, dizzy with need.
He laughs, that deep, smoky sound curling around you like a noose.
