queer masc reader blog | requests are open!
jack | late 20s | he/him
☘︎ if you'd like to be added to my taglist ☘︎
☘︎ some fics are crossposted to ao3 ☘︎
☘︎ idrc who reads my shit, don't be a dick and we're chill ☘︎
note: this is not extensive and subject to be changed or added to. if you aren't sure, ask - through the askbox or DMs, whichever is most comfortable to you. this applies to characters i'll write for as well!
I write masc readers exclusively (can be cis or trans or not strictly identifying as a man. just generally masc). As a general rule, I keep the details of reader's gender identity/sex pretty vague, unless specifically requested.
Top Reader only, when relevant
Adults only for romantic pairings, obviously. I'm not aging up characters. But I'll do a platonic pairing with any character regardless of age or gender
If the relationship isn't specified in the req, then I will presume it's up to me if it's romantic or not.
Primarily a M/M blog, really just masc x masc, but im not gonna get picky about the particulars of where man ends and some expressions of nonbinary/gender queer expressions begin. use your best discretion when requesting and I'll use mine when writing/responding - if you're nervous about it, DM me. Nothing explicitly MxF, occasionally write m!reader with f!char, but only platonically.
I kinda write whatever, mostly ramble about some ideas I have. Sometimes it's an actual fic/ficlet or headcanon or scenario or whatever. You can request any of those (fic, headcanon/scenario, ramble), by the way. I'll kinda just do whatever calls to me if you don't :P
I don't tend to write them. Left to my own devices, I tend to keep it pretty close to canon/within canon timelines as much as possible, but AUs, like omegaverse for example, are fine (I'm just not very good at picking them/deciding the rules of them). Anything with Reader having a pregnancy - past or present, A/B/O or not - is a hard no, and I'm so sorry. With a character, it's a tentative maybe.
i'm gonna try out taglists on my posts. i made a form - it's very short. please fill it out if you'd like to be tagged on fics or anything like that!
i know i'm not great with promoting fics and there was a big uptick in activity when i went back and linked my masterlist on every post, so i'm assuming that made things a bit easier/more convenient to find. i want to continue to make things easier, so i figured a taglist would be a good place to start.
so if you want to be tagged on fics i post, click here and fill out the little form! you customize what specifically you're tagged on
it tells me everything i need to know and there's space at the end for you to tell me anything you'd like me to know!
You blog is—for lack of a better word—my holy grail.
My smile and eyes grew for every published work I saw on your wall. No one ever writes for Lewis Pullman characters. And when they do, no one writes for male readers. Yet here you are, providing quality content for even the niche-est of names. Ben Mears? Oh my lord.
I am excited to finish all my work so I can sit down and read everything you've made. You are a blessing to the m!reader community. I hope you're doing well. Please expect to be sick of me, have a great day.
what the fuck.
you're one of my favorite blogs, what is happening?!?!!??? what are doing here (/pos)
like, thank you! so much! there really is just about nothing for lewis pullman characters with m reader, like there's certainly a handful of fics out there, there's a specific rhett fic i really enjoy and come back too it every once in a while. and, like, every bob r fic of yours is immaculate (& ryland grace, but im trying not to veer too crazy off topic). but fuck is it just about impossible to find literally any other fics that are even just gender neutral for his characters. it's such a bummer bc he plays a lot of characters that are really fun to play around with too! like i love bob r, and get it - marvel, he's gonna be the most popular character, but there's more! there's more dolls in the bin to drag around and play with!!
if ben mears specifically is your jam, i have to admit, i don't have the most on him. there's one two plotless fics (heads up, im very bad at endings) and then those longform hc posts i do.
i love like everything you write, so im excited/nervous to know which fics you like :P
thank you again!!! im doing pretty good, esp after healing a few weeks! pls send as many messages/reqs/whatever/anything at all as much you want! i'll never grow tired of it!
ryland anon here and omfg bro.... just incredible that was SO good, angsty divorcees who can't quite move on is not a dynamic i knew i needed until now. such a fun read i'd eat up a whole series with them, thank you for sharing !!
[context]
!!!
🖤🖤🖤
thank you!! im so glad you enjoyed it. that flavor of angst felt like it'd really be hit or miss, but it was too fun not to drag grace into!
and im horrible with series, but i might do a few related/interconnected fics - i had a few ideas for pre-divorce, but they never got implemented bc they were too soft/fluffy. and i have a specific fic idea, after this one. one after grace joins the project, but he and reader still haven't really acknowledged anything, so we shall see!
Go on pinterest and type in the prompts down below. Whatever image pops up first is your image.
Prompts: Color, quote, character, hobby, accessory, song lyrics, flower.
thank you so much @ashlinxloves for tagging me 🥰💕
no one is surprised that the mr is here, but i love how aesthetic this turned out to be hehe also that quote hit kinda hard ngl 🥀
zero pressure tagging: @sammimi19 @theebladestar @remiratboi @gabswst-aug @greatfairymargiex @bibelotcat @theaonlax @mutsukisses @und34dd0ll and anyone else who would like to join 💖
was wondering if you’d be willing to write something with ryland grace? i’m a sucker for angst + smut and u write both so well 🙂↕️ maybe some post-breakup sex, or an established fwb situation where they’re trying (and failing) to break it off? idk just spitballing, no worries if not :-)
the weight of us
ryland grace x masc reader
cw: angst, sex (m/m, brief), unresolved requited feelings, pre-launch, slight spoilers for the book (a specific convo that happens in chp 1), abrupt ending (again, sorry, im bad at them)
a/n: ahhh!!! i'm very down, you're my first ryland grace req!! how do we feel about divorced ex's in the midst of trying to break off a weird fwb at the beginning of the probable end of times? because that's where your request took me
i'm glad you enjoy my writing/how i write angst is affective for you be i always worry about that coming across. and i hope it comes across here too - if not let me know, i take no issue with taking another stab at this! enjoy!
also i had a specific idea for a banner, so i made one - idk if i like it enough that i'll make a habit of it.
taglist: @not-so-normal-wh0re
want to be tagged?
you never asked for the key back.
despite the heated words or snippy comments grace is usually greeted with, you never really thought to ask for it back. not until recently.
feels inconsequential now. grace will find himself himself back in your house, pouting and pathetic. looking for comfort in you. in the house he also called home for the better part of decade.
or he won't.
there's only nine, maybe ten hours left until it's announced. maybe less. you haven't bothered keeping track. you'll know when it's real in a way that holds weight. your phone will go off, flooded with emails and texts. from work, from loved ones. and then this will be real in a way that takes away all the weight held by that key. those packets you served him not too long after you separated. the litany of papercuts against your relationship that came before.
you're never surprised to hear ryland around the house. and you aren't surprised to hear him stepping out to your backyard, now. you just tip the bottle in your hand up to your lips, only about half ready for whatever trouble he wants you for. ready to endure the listening part, because that's about all you can give.
closing the sliding door behind him, trying to temper the snapping of the door against the hinge, ryland notes, it's disceptively serene out here. dark and cool with two of those old lawn chairs he hasn't seen since you first moved into this house together. bottles scattered around the legs of your chair, most still have the caps on, two don't. the one tipped over, a few feet away, like you'd tossed it and the one in your hand. something ugly twists in his stomach seeing you drinking alone.
then you glance back at him from where you sit. seeing you, that look. glassy and solemn. there's some joke there, that ryland figured only he could bring that out in you. it's a bitter part of him. the part that never really accepted it when you presented him with that stack of papers that meant the end of your marriage. that look accompanied them, though.
he can't bring himself to make any snarky comments when he sees the lazy flick of your wrist. a half hearted offer for ryland to take the chair next to yours. it's the closest thing to an invitation you've extended to him since before those papers. he wishes it wasn't with a "do you think this is the end?"
and for the first time since he sat down with her a few hours ago, ryland knows what marissa said is real. he knew it then, when she said it. she's not the joking type, but the sun dying? losing luminance. whatever.
it's.
it's a little out there. feels like it should be. and there's a gravity to that knowing, one that was offset when she mentioned you. replaced by that lurch in his stomach at hearing your name. that you were working on this. one of the first in the u.s. to volunteer.
certainly sounds like you.
ryland should've won an award for not leaving then and there. for not coming home immediately.
he doesn't take the seat, steps closer though. just behind your chair, squeezing your shoulders because it's familiar. the gravity of knowing is starting to hit him. "marissa says 'hi'," is all he can think to say, trying not to stare down the bottle in your hand.
"no, she didn't."
no, she didn't.
if she had a message, she'd tell you herself. you see her more than grace does with their weekly dinners. though, it hadn't occurred to you until now that ryland's isn't here for some petty grievance you have to bare through.
you lift a bottle to him, he slips in out of your hand. sets it down instead of drinking it. "let's head in, you seem tired."
one of your free hands goes to his, squeezing back. "i think it is."
and there's nothing.
there's nothing to say to that.
not a thing ryland can come up with. nothing more than a kiss to your head, like he used to. ryland cringes into it after he's leaned down, too late to stop muscle memory from taking over. "come on"
part of him expects a fight. or at least a line about boundaries. how he can't do that shit anymore. same ones he hears when he comes over, needy and far too desperate to think of anything but your skin on his. that he shouldn't keep coming to you to comfort all the anxiety and dread. all the lows that seem to flood his life. that it's grace's fault.
the petty arguments that'll stay forever unresolved and the rough sex that takes the place of any resolution. the late calls that used to feel so heavy, the simple questions about health. if he got that thing on his back checked out. if you've talked to anyone about that weird cough that started a few months ago. vague inquiries about work neither of you cared to answer (your vagueness leaves a pit in his stomach to think about now). and the awkward silences broken up by little details about friends or family or the news. that used to be the longest you'd talk to him. it was everything to grace.
still is.
he hangs onto those conversations, as infrequent as they are, as much as he can. sates some masochistic need in him.
that's all you and him are and grace knows that's his fault.
another part of him almost expects one of those lascivious thoughts shared from a flirty smile. always made him flush something horrible. encouraged something sadistic in you. back when you were that young outrageous couple. when he would've joined you without a second thought. when most monday mornings were spent waking up in the grass, hungover and still coming down from your highs together.
it doesn't come, this isn't like it used to be. you and him aren't like you used to be. you aren't twenty-something and tipsy on a work night.
there's just barely a nod. a quiet, "i wouldn't have," that ryland doesn't bother asking about. just hopes you catch yourself. that you don't continue that thought.
for a few moments you don't.
he pulls you to your feet, gets a step past the sliding door, into the kitchen before "if i had known, then-"
"but you didn't," he interrupts, "you couldn't. no one did."
there's another few moments. more than before. long quiet moments where it's easy guide you back to your room. not the master, not the one you used to share. that one's been locked, as good as exiled. you haven't been in there for about as long as ryland hasn't. you never told him that, but he's slept in your bed about as much as his own since the separation.
he brings you to the old guestroom that you haphazardly moved into. it's far too bare to feel like you really live in this room. that you exist in here. if he didn't tug you down this hallway, catching every half-assed complaint from your mouth in his more than a couple times a month, he wouldn't believe it.
"i wouldn't have made you leave, if i had-" you cut yourself off, suddenly. ryland doesn't have to look you, doesn't want to, either. he can hear it, he can hear you urging away the pressure behind your eyes. you've always been a little steadfast. the more resolute of the two. and selfishly, he doesn't want to see you like this. it's why he came, why he counted the seconds until that dinner was over. why he was quietly thankful when marissa called it early. and now that he's here, he can't face it. you.
your hands finding his is what does it. makes a glance last longer than he intended. you've always look so out of place in here.
now might be the first moment you don't. all those hushed words, "ryland." in your voice. there's that clinical sound that's always been there. it was there in grad school and it was there the day you went down to the courthouse, said those vows you both wrote, to a room of three. "stay the night."
it's there now. with something somber in it that makes your name drag out of his mouth, all too soft and pleading. ryland has never been strong-willed.
he'll never turn down that offer when it's from you. not when your skin is warm and ryland doesn't want to talk about any of this. not now, maybe not ever. not that it stops you. doesn't stop you from pulling him down into a kiss so plain. something without passion. with no energy behind it. something that's just a plea, as clear as his was. 'baby, please stay."
ryland's a very weak man.
a weak man that wakes up in your bed, reminiscing about how good your weight over him felt the night before. burning with shame over how much he's missed that, you, even in your more dysfunctional moments, you felt good. grinding into him, slow. deep. left him groaning out high and pathetic.
it shouldn't have been a thought in his mind, but he reveled in how earnest you fucked into him, how lethargic the pace is compared to what he's become accustomed to. loved being able to curl his legs around you, being able to savor how stretched taut around you he was, ryland's red. you've always liked him like that. it's never been hard for ryland to get more than a little rosy. your gentle graze over ruddy skin used to ease some of the shame that accompanied his blush. not now, though. there was the trace of your fingers down the lines of his face before you pulled him down. before any heat was pressed to that begging kiss.
ryland mimicked that. hands rested on your face, trying to sooth tension from it. it was the only thing that kept you from hiding away, from mourning along the flush along his collar bone. glossy eyes make him second guess if trying to hold your attention, to pull it towards himself is as much a mercy as he means.
your "i still love you," wasn't, you know that. but it was sincere. real.
that kiss that followed was too.
it was as much as an 'i love you,' as he could muster. it was a 'please don't say anymore,' too. you seemed to catch on that time, content to follow ryland's quiet lead. commands expressed in squeezes and gasps. in groans against your lips.
and for a moment, there was some peace. a thinly veiled and hiding tension, but a peace nontheless.
it's not one that lasts through the morning.
one that grace can't direct you back to when he wakes up to you more than half-dressed and rushing out the door, despite how badly you want to fall in line again. how badly you want to slip into old habits when your phone starts up. all those messages you knew would come, filled with problems and questions and hypothetical deadlines that only serve to confirm it's real. the sun, the petrova line. it's unavoidable and impossible. and real.
so he watches. watches you try to pull yourself together, watches you struggle through pretending not to notice he's awake.
there's so much to say. so much to explain. so little time and grace isn't wholly sure he wants to talk about any of it with you. it makes it easy to accept your awkward, "you have a key," before you leave.
in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or however many you like)
note: i'm bouncing between a few projects and the application i use doesn't exactly let me see what was the most recent thing i worked on, so you get two for one. i narrowed it down to one of these as the last line i wrote, but it's been a few days since i had a chance/motivation to write, and it feel dishonest to just pick one when idk for sure.
one of them is from a somewhat angsty cameron cassmore fic:
5 things he can see, 4 he can touch, 3 he can hear, and then he lands on smell again and the only two things he can smell remind him of the morgue.
the other is from a ryland grace request (finished now):
you lift a bottle to him, he doesn't take that either.
i simply don't know enough people to tag for each word, so i must break the rules again. that being said, i will tag @not-so-normal-wh0re @mossrat and @mlmmetalhead
i'm gonna try out taglists on my posts. i made a form - it's very short. please fill it out if you'd like to be tagged on fics or anything like that!
i know i'm not great with promoting fics and there was a big uptick in activity when i went back and linked my masterlist on every post, so i'm assuming that made things a bit easier/more convenient to find. i want to continue to make things easier, so i figured a taglist would be a good place to start.
so if you want to be tagged on fics i post, click here and fill out the little form! you customize what specifically you're tagged on
it tells me everything i need to know and there's space at the end for you to tell me anything you'd like me to know!
cw: established relationship, referenced sex (m/m), masturbation, praise kink, kink for pics/being photographed, sexual frustration (implied), abrupt ending, thunderbolt!r
an: requested! from this post, but if you don't feel like clicking-
a Bob Reynolds’s fic where he is having alone time imagining top reader is there because he is gone on a mission.
it's pathetic.
bob does get that.
curled up in your bed, with some toys and lube rolled up in a towel next to him, working himself up just scrolling through his photo album of you. a compilation of his favorites. he had the sense to give himself a break. he's no more gratified now than he was when he first pushed the blunt head of one the thicker toys into himself to pictures of you. some playful, ones he took because you were doing something half-dressed. because it annoyed you. because you're so unintentionally hot all the fucking time-
bob switches to your texts. fighting the urge to send another after that last one that simply read 'come home come home come home come home' (fourth text for the day. eleventh in the last three).
you don't text each other much, bob realizes. you don't really need to. you see each other more often than not when you're home. at the tower.
most of your messages to each other are pictures, some are things you see while either of you are out. some are from stores, from the sporatic messages about picking up something - usually groceries, but meds and dinner aren't uncommon either. there's some walls of texts without pictures at all. all from bob. all like the one he just he sent. all along the lines of 'do you have your phone back yet?' or 'you hate me :(' when you're on an assignment.
all obviously unanswered.
it's protocol. bob can hear it in yelena's voice when he finds himself getting agitated about it. he can hear it walker's and bucky's and ava's, before he bothers complaining. it's one of the first things anyone, sans alexei, says to him on the first few days after you're deployed for an assignment.
which is fair.
it's fine.
bob gets why you can't have it, can't send personal messages or have any contact with loved ones on the field - though there is a bit of pride held in the fact that he isn't labeled the same as the rest of the team. one he doesn't gloat about, rarely mentions. just keeps it close to his heart when you're not around. rings in his mind as praise.
it's nothing. not satisifying, but not chasing it either.
dropping from his side to his stomach, bob scrolls further and further up the text chain. the vast majority of those messages, of those pictures, are a bit more prurient. leaves him rolling his hips against the bed, slow.
the latest pictures, the first couple he saw after getting past his wall of text and weeks of the more mundane, errand-y questions, were ones you sent. all of bob, some with you. one of the highlights was one of the older pictures. one of your favorites, one of the first you ever took of him like this, after he first admitted to liking pictures like that being taken. one where bob's fucked out, looking up at you, just over your phone's camera after he'd given you head.
your hand is holding his face in the picture, bob remembers how harsh your grip was, unconsiously mimics it. squeezes his face like he can keep that memory playing in his mind, feel a ghost of every sensation a little longer if he holds his face tight. like you did.
bob slips his middle and pointer finger into his mouth. your dick felt so thick in his mouth and it's not the same. doesn't taste like you, like that combination of skin and soap and you. but his hand, the press of his fingers far back on his tongue, is alright. it's something. doesn't get him that 'baby' ripped out of your mouth while he pushes himself, but it reminds him of it. reminds him of choking around you, trying to take what's left in his hand too quickly. because bob is messy.
the soft buzzing from the plug had undoubtedly ramped him up some that night. but in that picture, you hadn't known about it yet. you were barely a few minutes in the door before bob's original plan was abandoned. he hadn't seen that nice suit they put you in before you left and he needed you out of those slacks. couldn't pull them down fast enough. that planned reward for you already forgotten, replaced by a much more impulsive one.
one that left his legs cramped with that dull, cold burn that comes from sitting on your knees too long. that warm prickle up his scalp from your hold in his hair was more than a fine trade off. you didn't mean to pull, bob knew that. craved more than the memory of it, though. this was just barely enough. that memory accompanied by that picture of himself. spit spread across his lips, stretched across cheeks fuller than bob was used to having, then. your grip was rough enough to push a few streaks of cum down his chin, while he tried to swallow.
how vain.
when he thrusts his fingers further in his mouth, he moans, flushes warm. bob flips to another picture. same night, only a few minutes before the last one. you hate this one, only kept it because bob was immediately obsessed with it - it's a mirror picture. you're both in it, but mostly you.
he could see that button up undone. and the undershirt. jacket's gone, thrown somewhere you groaned about later. you're on the edge of the bed. bob's kneeling, head between your thighs. he remembers you wincing from how hard he gripped your thigh, at first. you're leaned back, propped up on your elbow. the whole picture is blurry from an unsteady hand. leaving that grip in his hair. bob remembers how nervous you were fucking down his throat. how you sounded, fuck, he wishes he could hear you now. hear that rumble from yours, all gravelly with huffy curses interspersed. a few 'good boy's that has bob desperate to squeeze his dick when they linger in his mind.
bob barely realizes he dropped his phone, dragging his legs up just enough to arch his ass up, just enough to scramble getting his sweats down his hips.
he'd ground into nothing then, and he finds himself grinding harsh onto the mattress, now. he can't help how erratic his hand comes down on his own dick. too indignant in his need to care that it isn't good. he remembers that 'you're always so good,' that came after mirror picture was taken and he needs something on him. or in him. anything at the memory of your hand falling from his hair, when he whined, too loud to hear you, before you could smooth it down his back. at the 'baby, you're too much for me', it earned him.
that 'too much,' repeats itself and bob sucks a little harder around his fingers, to feel like he's earned every, too much. there's another for each quick stroke down his dick.
god, he wants it to be too much. wants to be so wholly overwhelmed by your touch.
your dick.
lube.
he needs lube.
it was with your hand to his ass, fingers intending to tease, finding the long t-shaped end of his plug instead.
hastily he pulls the towel out and under himself and rolls onto his back.
bob would prefer to stay on his stomach. that's how you had laid him out after you pulled him forward. tugging him up after those pictures, taking him by the mouth, licking into his while he fumbled for you. any of you, your arms, your face, wherever.
that look of yours, with lips ever so slightly curved, eyes fixated on him through lashes, left him ruddy. 'yeah?'
your voice was so.
something.
in these moments you sound- bob doesn't know. just has a timbre to it that bob could describe if he wasn't so hot every time he heard it.
you were much gentler than bob is now. kept him on his stomach as you played with the plug. ramping the vibration speed higher before hooking your fingers on either side of the plug's stem. you ran your hand over his lower back, massaging it while you pulled the plug out. partially. you kept it in at the widest point. 'that too much?'
between that yeah? and every too much that came before, bob could cum from the kiss of the toy's head to his asshole. if he can at all.
the toy goes in too easy and he's panting before it's far enough inside him to matter. whining out when it's stuffed in completely.
too much, too much, too much
it wasn't.
not that he said that. or anything. tried to grind back onto the plug. your hand on his back stopped him. and it wasn't meant to be a taunt, and said in a voice much sweeter.
'look at you, so eager to take it. didn't even have to ask'
fuck, he could cry. it's not enough.
you fucked him so slow that night it verged on egding. but he came. cum and spit still splashed across his face, lube running down his thighs, he came.
and he's cum a handful of times tonight. enough that he doesn't think he can again, not even with that super serum shit, not tonight. every thrust from the toy leaves him shaky.
Not just some hot hairy *coughSEVENTIEScough* lumberjack man
One of the town weirdos, doesn’t talk much, spends most of their time in the woods, but reliable in that practical way a lone wolf type is.
Ben’s car breaks down and he pulls over, fix him up and leaves without a word regarding payment or favours or owning them a thing.
Someone gets hurt and he’s carrying bandages in his endless jacket pockets. Doesn’t explain why.
Get lost some place and all he has to do is look up and he knows where north is, south, west, east, and the nearest corner store is just by looking at the stars.
Stares in a way Ben’s only seen in nature documentaries and sketchy bars. Complete isolated focus on prey or opponent, consuming him with his eyes.
Explained everything in the plainest terms possible after he crossed the threshold of the church, clothes torn and bloodied but almost completely unharmed.
Ben getting fucked in the woods, his jeans pulled down to his thighs but otherwise fully clothed while the guy on top of him is as naked as sin. Writhing and moaning as much as he wants, grass stains and dirt under his fingernails
hello hello!
i believe i got most of the details, but there wasn't a plot to go off of and im awful at coming up with them. so here's a few plotless, but connected moments with ben and werewolf!r. i got a little self indulgent in a softer moment in this and i tried to keep the tone pretty grounded and not get too fantastical with it, but whoops on both counts just in case! :P
hope you enjoy!
jack <3
ben mears x masc werewolf!reader
cw: slight canon-divergence, slight body horror (how r transforms, mentioned), sex (m/m), kinda plotless, mentions of past drug usage, kink discovery, ben's fear kink bc i've haven't figured out a way to bust that new hc out until now
each snap of bone and wet pop of muscle and sinnew rings out in ben's ears like gunfire.
he wasn't supposed to see that - you coming back into yourself, a version of it. molding your body back into a more human shape. your original shape, one that hasn't felt like home in a long time.
a part of him feels dumb for not piecing together that it was you. that the man who jumped his car when his battery died just before he managed to reach the edge of town, was the wolf that, with snarling growls and snapping teeth, chased him back to the rest of the search party that was sent to look for the glick boy the other day. when ben broke off on his own. when he wandered off, much like he is now. too far out for someone who was alone, in your opinion. (ben couldn't possibly know this, but you had thought he was dumb a few days ago. you've since discovered it's much worse. he's curious.) another part of ben, a much more sensible and more thought out part of him, feels dumber for thinking he could've ever guessed that.
because what he's seeing simply isn't possible.
you offer no explanation or defense. just stand before him, clothes torn so bad they're just barely hanging off your frame rather than laying in a tattered pile on the floor, looking to him expectedly. and ben's brain scrambles to find anything. any reason or excuse. something. as if the onus of explanation is on him for this.
it could be sleep deprivation. he hasn't been sleeping as much. never really does. he's always had trouble winding down. letting tension ease and some level of placidity take over. he doesn't really feel tired, though. ben feels more awake with terror striking through his nerves keeping him up and far too alert for fatigue to rip into his mind, muddy where reality ends and imagination begins.
maybe he took something. that also crosses ben's mind. he's no stranger to it. bliss in digestible form is an old friend of his. before he was taking whatever tablet was handed to him by a pretty face at some other artist's shitty apartment, he downing whatever shot was slid in front of him in any bar that was open and near. before that he was sneaking out of his grandparents or aunts, or whoever had the burden of watching him, sneaking warm beer that tastes like piss out of the house to exchange for weed, on the weekends.
he's not so straight-laced, is the point. so it's possible.
he's seen stranger things. thought he's seen much more impossible things from a handful of different drugs that he can confidently name about half of. it's the most probable answer, ben thinks.
the only issue with that working theory is ben can't remember when he would've taken anything. so, "you aren't real."
there's a grunt, ben thinks. some rumbling in your vocal cords that's too gutteral for any human to make.
"you can't be," is all ben can bring himself to say. this quaint little town is weird. most are. too many people far too willing to overshare, quick to judge and nitpick. too many people who put too much faith into scary stories. that believe in local legends, which is all you should be. some quiet guy who got the shit end of the gossip stick.
and yet.
there's a tremble in your clenched hands. it didn't start there, it's just where ben notices it when you said, "you're far from town."
it's clipped, like there's more. and belatedly, ben will realize you aren't really saying it to him, just about him. ben just happened to be there to hear it. he didn't think past that moment. couldn't. excuses immediately sputter off his lips. he can hardly finish one sentence before another one shoots out. "the, uh, the glick boy, their son, the one that didn't, uh- we're still, uh- still looking. and i was out- i volunteered to, uh- and, i got turned around- i'm lost, obviously-"
he's so caught up in his own rambling, ben doesn't catch that you step towards him. scrambles back when he does.
you don't seem to be too bothered by it. not nearly as much as ben is. every movement you make is juddering in something ben hopes is anger. or something like it. something human, that can be reasoned with. anything less animalistic than it feels. then how your gaze feels. how it's felt since it snapped towards ben when he tripped over himself trying to run when he saw you change.
because you're right, he is far from town. trapped. ben feels like cornered game the way you stare at him. he's seen versions of that look before. years ago, under harsh fluorescent lights where most of ben's worst decisions seem to have made, it was a look he usually saw before he was tugging the lucky guy towards the back, ready to be fucked raw in a dive bar bathroom. it didn't look right on you. probably just one of those things that's only appealing after a few drinks in a dark room. the natural fading light at dusk leaving that gaze to feel more predatory than wanting.
it's a relief when the weight of that gaze is finally off of him. when your gaze flickers up towards the sun. he watches you glance around the woods, then extend a lazy hand to point. "head south, slightly east."
and there is a moment of hestitance. because he'd have to walk directly past you to do that.
but then your eyes land on his face again and ben books it.
here's some more belated thoughts of ben's.
first, you're gentle with him. which feels bizarre to think: when he tells you that later, half dazed in a town far from this one, barely aware he's even said it, it feels entirely absurd then, too. because your teeth had hurt. from the glimpses he'd gotten of them, from how they felt grazing against his neck, just before he found himself pushed onto the ground in the middle of the woods, he wasn't shocked it hurt. when, mid thrust, you'd bitten him, he was more surprised he didn't dislike it than he was you did it (and if ben did spend that night with one hand down his pants and the other pressing down on the tender skin of his shoulder then that's between him and himself).
but now, being half-shoved into the church. after susan. after he tried to run after her. after your voice, in more of a growl, joined dr. cody's - because he shouldn't have run after her. just another thought to add to growing list of things he realized too late. after you, not quite you but not quite dog either, followed him back to the church. after you, half mauled, caught one of the them. returned the favor. hands thicker than a humans and those teeth shred through that undead bastard, made light work of him.
after all that, when it all blurs together. the ryerson boy grabbing ben, he barely remembers staking him. or stumbling to pull himself along in your grasp. the following conversation, that's admittedly more between you and and dr. cody than him. ben just can't focus on them. can't pull his thoughts away from it. how easily that guy came apart in your hands. how easily ben could've, how you didn't.
he would be lying if he said he wasn't close to pissing himself at the thought. or that he wasn't imagining your teeth and that low scowl at the base of his neck anyway. because there's an excitement it, too. how you were fighting that instinct he didn't know wasn't dangerous yet. how it instilled a confidence quite undeserving in him.
ben finds himself pressing into those bruises again, until you pluck his hand away. "you alright?"
"yeah," because it could've been a trap the first time. but it wasn't. you had directed him right back to town.
he'd stumbled into the graveyard behind salem's lots's only church. ben had run into one of the shorter tombstones at the edge of the land, one of the ones that's not even a foot tall. ben had tripped and earnestly shrieked, convinced for a moment that something had grabbed him. that it was a trick. that he'd flip to his back and find you looming over him, but he didn't.
there was nothing.
not you or anyone (or thing) else. just a missed headstone and his usual shit coordination.
you didn't step towards him after he half-ran and backed himself into a corner, is another thing. it was hard to focus on at the time because his mind was scattered trying to figure out how to talk his way out of whatever that was. trying to figure out the right order of words, the right tone that might at scratch that stoic demeaner of yours.
"yeah, i'm good." it sounds more convincing the second time. when he finally looks at you. like he remembers you're there in more than just well-thumbed memories. ben lifts his hand, vaguely gesturing towards you. "do you want help with," he just sort of gestures towards you again. there's no wording that really feels appropriate for all the mess of blood and indistinguishable clumped remains sticking to you. "there's probably a bathroom."
in hindsight, he understands he'd found what he was looking for then by total accident.
you didn't show mercy in your face, there was never going to be that empathic smile ben was looking for, the kind that looks more like a frown with pinched brows. there were no comforting words. none of the usual reassurances people are usually quick to give in a misunderstanding. just ignored instincts and directions home. vaguely. it's not dissimilar now. you don't answer or really react to the offer, but you don't fight him on when gets fixated on getting your cleanish. he doesn't have to pull you along, you just come with him through the church until he finds a bathroom. a little single stall that has just enough room for the both of you when you're sat on the commode lid.
you don't mind the chatter he fills your silence with. it's not much. more of a quiet mumbling to himself while he drags a damp rag (that's really just part of your shirt you'd torn off and handed to him, he didn't seem terribly pleased with that) across your cheek. a handful of sporadic comments really, just more than you've heard in a long time.
you could clean yourself. you could stop him. make him quieter. you consider it when those comments drift to you. there's something about how it's 'not as bad as it looks'.
but your mercy is more in what you allow than what you do. so you let him.
you let him press his mouth to yours, let him stop you when you try to repeat what you'd told cody. "we have to kill them, every-"
ben doesn't want to think about that. about the town or susan.
it was impulsive. just like first time all those weeks ago. closed off in this bathroom it didn't feel safe, but it there wasn't a danger from something undead and bloodthirsty. he didn't really think when he started to fumble with your pants.
he assumed it was an instinctual thing. how your face was pinched something ravenous. hungry, then. now. like something you'd see in a documentary. suppose he could consider himself right, in a way. he wound up pinned under you, felt a hard line urging against his ass when he tried to move, to pull his legs under himself instead of laying flat on the ground. it felt like it'd be a more advantageous position before he did it.
his place over your lap, taking your dick much slower, certainly was. keeping a steadier pace. your grip on his hips and ass much rougher than you realize. it has to be with how you're holding him, like you're restraining yourself. like your trying to. and perhaps this position was much more ideal for him. technically. but ben found that day in the woods with you much more favorable. found himself thinking back to it more than may be appropriate. finds himself thinking back to it now.
thinking about fumbling with his jeans and how easily you popped the button off when you got restless. how you jerked them down his legs for him. how the zipper caught, got jammed on it's own teeth from the force, and it's stupid how hot that was, how it pinched his thighs together, forcing them half-closed. how it kept his boxers bunched just below his ass, because your fingers missed the elastic band when you yanked his jeans down.
part of him wishes you were just as rough now as you were then. after you'd barred your teeth. snarled a warning ben was too impulsive to heed, because he can never leave that restless unease quell in his chest alone. always has to walk straight into the cause. the ache of it feels too good not to.
he wasn't comforted by the arousal then, that's what was so good about it.
curled up and trapped under you, clawing at dirt, twigs, and leaves, he was nauseated with panic much sweeter than it should be. every thrust pulled something taut in his stomach, stretching that feeling until it snapped. until he snapped and it didn't matter because he was game. just prey to be played with.
ben could've gotten away. you gave him the same out. directions. time to flee.
he just didn't take it.
instead he reveled in the brutish care you took in fucking him. the same thing he's chasing now, grinding down onto you. grasping at your shoulders, pushing at the closed in walls, trying to get a bit more purchase. something to get him back to the woods. with that feeling that pulled tighter. that left him dizzy.
every frantic movement, vying for more isn't in vein.
your resolve is waning.
and when it finally does, your grip no longer steadying and you give in to that instinct again, ben feels the first bout of relief he's felt since reaching the lot.
Oh my god your little yap session was so good it feels like am watching a YouTube video essays and am hooked. You have gotten me back into reading fanfics after a rough time and reading in general so I was hoping if you don’t mind when you have the time how about a Bob Reynolds’s fic where he is having alone time imagining top reader is there because he is gone on a mission. And I was wondering if you wrote angst because I’m a ride or die for angst. Also the fic you wrote for the new Lewis was so good that am going to watch it soon as I’ve seen a few edits and have to get some ideas for fics. Also I hope you don’t mind but could I be 🐝 anon because am for sure coming back.
hello again! first things first: yes, you may absolutely be 🐝 anon! i went tagged the miles fic and the hc ask with a 🐝anon tag so you (and i) can find them a bit easier!
and ill absolutely work on that fic - when it's ready it'll be linked here! it's ready!!
i do write angst! i know i have a few angstier fics for some pullman characters (mainly rhett i think). but im super down to write angst for other characters. i don't have a crazy amount of hard limits but they're posted on my directory and i edit it as they change!
and for cameron im working on a hc thing like the other characters have actually! im really excited about it. i keep some of the book lore bc the movie is good (i do recommend it) but they changed some stuff and they cut some stuff from the book. a lot of the changes were solid, but some weren't my favorite. they got rid of his aunt jeanne and i love her so much. their relationship is so sweet and i can't just ignore her. the hc might not make the most sense if you haven't read the book as well (although i don't mind just explaining if anyone asks)
also i'm glad you enjoy my rambling. i love video essays (or really just essays in general, they're fun to write and read) and have them on in the background while i'm working sometimes so it's kinda funny to hear that my writing reads similar.
it's awesome that you're getting back into fics! it's such a fun hobby to have!!
Ok so I’ve seen you write for so many Lewis Pullman characters and I’m in love with your work. Like I can tell you genuinely love and do care about this as the details and seeing how each character. I can go on and on praising your work but am just asking if you don’t mind what one of the times miles does feel comfortable sleeping with reader. Am genuinely really curious like how far would he push the house wife thing like is it only in the bedroom or would it be else where am genuinely interested if you want to write this then thank you but if not am going to fill your inbox with both bobs as am so in love with them.
context [hcs for; how a relationship starts/develops, how their sex lives develop]
miles is the last in each post. everything is x masc reader.
cw: post-canon, homophobia (internalized) bcs it's like the 60's/70's, understandings of gender roles accurate to the time period, self imposed feminization (char) by a character who is very delusional and traumatized, feminization as a kink
you're so insanely sweet. please req any of his characters! i just keep rereading this bc it's so fucking kind. thank you so much!! i wrote a short little fluffy smut scene with miles after i first read saw this in my inbox, but kinda wanted to yap as well! bc i have so many thoughts that were cut from those posts (and the ones that followed) bc they were already so long or certain details didn't feel important/organic enough to add and i've been trying to figure out where to put these thoughts. so tysm for giving me an excuse to get these thoughts out!
because it is absolutely not restricted to the bedroom at first. it actually doesn't start there at all, it's just where you hear about it and learn about for the first time. but before that, this has been something of a comfort delusion of his for months, maybe longer.
i think there's a really long time before he's able to find something stable to fill his time where he carries a lot of shame about being cared for so much by you. there's a growing shame about sleeping in the same bed as you and there's a settled shame about how he's wanted that and more with you for even longer. and there's also all those things he's done, there's no way he doesn't have ptsd and some form of survivor's guilt must plague him. and none of that takes the el royale into consideration.
the problem isn't that he's a man, but it's a common theme. he's a bad man. a weak man. unholy man. bad at being a man. his brain just sort of fixates on that detail. because if he weren't a man, none of those would be such an issue. it wouldn't matter that he's always been a bit more sensitive. that miles has always been softer. he couldn't have been that wretched thing with impeccable aim. he just never would've learned to shoot. never would've been pushed to the military. he'd have been pushed to be a good wife for a good man.
maybe it could've been you. if he'd grown up closer. he could've been the pretty little thing waiting on you to come home.
it's a thought he keeps in mind when he's home alone, struggling to figure out what to do with himself. a line of thinking he spirals in until it's half true.
long before he's brave enough to express any want for sexual intimacy, he's treating himself like your wife in his own mind. a proper, traditional wife. that cooks and cleans and tends to the house, keeps track of household finances. and it's hard to say whether or not you notice the level of disfunction happening. because you're not home during the day and he's not using that housewife language with you. you don't really talk about it until well after he brings it into the bedroom because then it's undeniable. and miles seems to me someone who generally likes to keep busy and is generally particular about things being done the "proper" way (read: miles' way. because he's not a very assertive person, but i do think he'd develop certain rituals and habits that would be calming for him. and as those habits start to skew towards cleanliness, the housewife thing gets more intense. miles gets more intense and sort of learns to be assertive to preserve those habits. today he'd prolly get an ocd diagnosis, but this like the 70s so it's just hysteria or something). and i think he'd be much harsher and unforgiving towards himself when he can't meet self imposed standards.
it could go either way on how much you notice too. i think with miles, any relationship with him, inherently will include a pattern of him working himself up and his loved ones trying to comfort or console him until they accept they have to make him relax. order him to stop. because miles will always fall in line for authority - it's the only way to really get through to him with some of his more extreme forms of self-punishment. i think he hates that about himself, but he will listen and he'll seek it out without realizing. so it's certainly possible you're more aware of the housewife thing before he tries to initiate sex that first time, just divorced from the self-feminization aspect of it.
but it is definitely a thing inside and outside the bedroom for a while.
i have a hc that long after you and miles are established, miles finds a job or a volunteer job that sticks. specifically something at a university library or an archive. there's some stuff that'd be familiar. there's all the organization and filing things away. he'd generally be good at any customer service role, but i think something quieter would suit him more. it'd be easier for him to manage something of a work-life balance. and i think he'd like all the reading that comes with it and is possible, because imaginably it's slow a lot. there'd be plenty of time to get familiar with the library/archive layout and all the books, articles, and sources there.
once he has that going on and he's comfortable in a routine, it soothes a lot of his more dysfunctional and self destructive behaviors and thoughts more efficiently than anything else you two have tried over the years you've been together. miles likes being helpful and useful, and he may not have the healthiest relationship to those two things by 2026 standards, but by the standards of the late 70s/early 80s? he's doing alright, better than a lot of other folks certainly.
the housewife thing doesn't really ever go away. it always exists as some kind of fantasy, but eventually it becomes more recognizable to him as a fantasy and does become relegated to the bedroom eventually. i can't imagine him broaching dirty talk or being terribly comfortable talking about sex plainly, but he could mutter a "your wife is lonely" when he's in the mood. or something like it. i think talking about it in that coded way is the only way he can for a long time. it delves into light feminization in the way he talks about himself. i think he does retain a very heteronormative view of sex, so it just is very hard for miles to conceptualize queer sex. in his mind one of you has to be the woman and it's him at first because he fits the role better. but when life gets a little more stable and he has that job and routine, and in theory could be entirely independent from you. when you two split the household chores much more evenly. when it doesn't really fit the idealized straight relationship dynamic of that time period he has to confront some things. because your dynamic outside the bedroom changes naturally.
nothing in the bedroom changes and miles doesn't really want it to. and like at some point he has to reckon with the fact that you are both men. that he's a man who likes having sex with man. with one man, at least. that he has agency in sex and being on the receiving end is still a choice. one that he's been making for years. that he likes being called your wife, there's comfort to it that's different from how it used to be. that it's a kink. that it became one because it certainly didn't start that way. that he, the good little catholic boy, has a kink - something he previously thought was reserved for shameful nights in the el royale and every other shithole like it. something reserved for movie stars, politicians, and scandals.
even after accepting these things and processing them, which would be another few years i think - miles will never ask. he'll never ask you to indulge him on it. it's something you'd have to pick up on and initiate for him to be willing to explore it.
(tangentially related, but i do think if it ever comes up, he'd be the one to bring up marriage. i can see him reading though anything available, everything returned at that archive or library before it goes back on the shelf and getting some legal manual or textbook or something. and just figuring out how to effectively get married without the specific little paper that says it. because in theory you could, marriage has a lot of impact on your rights and it'd be much more annoying and costly. it wouldn't be the exact same thing, of course - but you could go through and do all the paperwork. "manually" get married. have it so the only thing missing really is just the paper that says it. i think he'd figure out how to do, get fixated on the idea and just sorta ruminate for a while before bringing it up.)
i'm so sorry i blabbed so much at you! thank you again, you're so sweet!
an: part of this request. context [hcs for; how a relationship starts/develops, how their sex lives develop]
"i can help you with that." you hear him say.
voice even, mellow, miles is trying to be seductive. and you can hear just how unconvinced he is with himself. and when miles tries again, he hides the doubt a little better. it lingers in a way that's much harder to notice. that would be if you hadn't spent years with the man. "i wouldn't be a very good wife if i didn't."
"miles." it's meant to be warning. there's less bite to it than you intend there to be.
he just hummed, more encouraged by it than anything else. despite your best efforts to not ruin a such a moment; pressed to miles' back on a morning that doesn't have to be anything more than lazy. on a day with no plans or errands. completely open to do anything. the way miles holds your hand to his stomach, that's a little softer than it used to be, keeps you content for a day of nothing; miles seems to be on a different page.
you catch up, eventually.
by the time you're sliding your dick into miles - when he's panting because you'd toyed with the head of his dick, pulling back his foreskin, when he huffed out your name, because he's, "supposed to be helping yo-"
"-you are, baby," you had reassured him. said it into his neck, grinding against his ass something close to feverish, because you weren't fucking him just yet. you always try to pull an orgasm from him first, fucking into him always feels so much better. miles finds it a bit embarrassing, but he always takes it so much easier after that first one. "just let me…"
that sentence wanes into a hum.
he was whiny. miles always is when you touch him like this. when he's close. squirming against you and squeezing at your wrist, but not quite pulling your hand from his dick, those high-pitched cries become a little breathier as he wets your hand. and his thighs twitch because you never let go of his dick. in that moment, when you are finally pushing your dick inside him, he's every bit the pretty little wife he wants to be. the one he wants to be treated like in bed.
shoving his face into pillows to hide his flush, like he's shy. barely half-hard in your hand and desperating failing to wriggle out. only really grinding himself back onto your dick, he's your wife. a good wife.
headcanons for Lex luthor x male reader. (established relationship) specifically if Lex was paranoid about his partner not telling him things and Lex tries to spy on his partner, only to find out that his bf is an artist and uses his spare time to make art/sketches and drawings of Lex out of admiration. And how does Lex react to it?
hello!
thank you for requesting, but im not writing for lex luther atm! here's my directory for characters im currently writing for!
Bob Floyd putting an hour+ research into a slightly pricey but very highly reviewed shower mat so he can safely accomplish his bathroom sex dreams
in relation to bob's section in this, i presume.
you're so fucking right tho, he absolutely would. i don't think there'd be an inciting incident or anything that lead him to need the mat other than him just naturally being a pretty thorough and meticulously dude, either. like i don't think his fantasy is terribly complex - leaning against his forearms would be the only thing keeping him from being pushed against cold tile, and bob would go willingly if decided you wanted him to. if you wanted to see the exaggerated arch in his back. there's also how much louder the water makes everything. how your skin hits his, sounding so much more dramatic, like your fucking him rougher. and you kind of are. you kind of have to. even the best of lubes start to wash off in water. especially the best ones. that same water dripping down your chest and stomach, making relatively tame shower sex sound much more salacious. ravenous. making each thrust feel harsher, makes it a bit more arduous to take - bob's hard just thinking about it.
but he's not falling. not breaking a bone or getting unsexy bruises just to cum. that mat will definitely be dumby expensive, but it'll have enough high rating, detailed comments to justify that purchase in bob's mind.
i imagine, especially because clean up is inherently easier, this is a fantasy that's cyclical, much like the breeding kink.
a/n: i'm not the most confident in this one, but i've been holding onto it for a few weeks and haven't changed it at all. i'm so antsy to do anything with it so i'm gonna post it and i'm sorry
lars doesn't know the name of the man he hangs out with at the park. margo points that out, across these summer months of shared lunches and exchanged treats, lars never learned your name. he never really thought to ask, or even share his.
then again, it wasn't really a park and you don't really hang out. but there's a bench about half way between that ugly little building lars works in and other ugly little building you work in just down the street, and those thirty minute lunch periods of yours that seem to line up.
lars didn't really go out during his break. not usually. but he noticed that bench one day, and few days later when the weather was a bit nicer and lars needed a break - an escape from kurt's music and keyboards clicking and all the quiet conversations that weren't quiet enough - he went out to the bench for lunch. and you weren't there that first day. first day you hadn't been out all summer, not that lars had any way to know that. not that lars knew who you were. not until the day after, when you were there. your gaze flickered from your book to him and you pulled your lunch and bag closer. giving him room to sit.
he was gone before you noticed. so you left room the day after, figuring you probably should've from the beginning. (in all fairness, you did at first. but it was only ever you out here, figured it didn't matter how much space you took up.) and after a few days of returning back inside upon seeing you out there again, lars joined you on the bench. it was a loud day. every voice carried farther than it should and lingered in his ears. all those little menial sounds; shredders, faxes, keyboards; were projected, like every task was done harsher.
so he stood, a few yards away.
stuck.
he didn't want to go back in, but he didn't really want to talk either. didn't want to introduce himself and do all the little formalities his brother and karin try to push him to do. that they encourage him to get more comfortable with.
but your voice, abrupt as it was, didn't linger. "you can sit. i'm not much of conversationalist, though."
you barely paid any mind to him after that, just left the right side of the bench open for him and occasionally left a snack in his seat for him. it usually got you a short breathy laugh - that's the best way you can think to describe it - and a "thanks." sometimes, you'll get snacks back in the following days. sometimes it's little decorative things lars finds, like bookmarks or pens. and those handful of weeks go by, just like that.
serene and easy.
until he hesitates. doesn't quite make to the bench before, "i don't know your name."
as it does now and then, your attention flits to him. "i don't know yours either."
and he sits, taking that answer with him. those little formalities might've been helpful, he admits it to himself.
he enjoys your company. it's consistent, predictable. there's a reliability to your presence. the only time you didn't turn up you warned lars ahead of time, just before you walked back. it was more of joke than anything. something in the vein if 'i won't be around tomorrow, don't let anyone steal my spot'. something lars didn't really have an answer to. regardless, lars didn't go out the day you weren't there. so margo took the opportunity, asked where he'd disappeared to over lunch recently.
which leads him to now. sitting next the man on the bench, who's name he doesn't know, but would like to.
so he tries again. "lars," there's a short pause. "i'm lars."
cw: sex (m/m), fluffy sex, maybe a little heavier on the fluff than the smut, established relationship
a/n: i can't believe i haven't written anything smutty for him yet and tbh i feel like this barely counts.
grace is needy.
usually is in the mornings. demanding attention before you can get up, clinging to you like he's your only tether to this moment. like if he lets go, grace will open his eyes to find he's alone. that he always has been.
most mornings are like this. they were aboard the hail mary, and they are on erid now.
ryland's grip only becomes harsher on the muscle of your shoulder and back, when one of those mornings turned suggestive, until it wasn't much of a suggestion at all. until he was pulling you down and over him. almost eager once you finally drive into him. and admittedly, it had been a while. since college at least. feels every bit as good as he remembers. but there's something familiar, like a shriek that dies in ryland's throat. thankfully.
regrettably, it's replaced with a short cry that ryland isn't quick enough to stifle in the crease of his arm.
it's just too much.
he hadn't thought about it. with your hands brushing up his sides, skimming up his ribs, it was admittedly hard to think of anything. grace never had a chance to think back to all those little touches on the hail mary; hands that just barely grazed each other, and every bit the coward he couldn't remember, he never tried for more. never asked, despite wanting it; every clumsy bump while you got used to no gravity and how he flushed something horrible with each one, because it wasn't affection, but it was something. it was embarrassingly enough at the time, until it wasn't; every simulated night on the hail mary you spent laying a little closer than necessary. both of you were as willing to acknowledge it as you were willing to stop. so one of you, usually grace, slipped away in those faux mornings, picking up where he left off in the lab a few hours before.
ryland couldn't say when that avoidant streak broke. when all those gentle touches, when every bit of intimacy you both vied for, weren't so unspoken. just that at some point, before erid, it didn't feel so impossible to get out that 'i don't mind' when touch between you lingered longer than felt justifiable. ryland couldn't place when he came to expect you tugging at his arm, pulling him like it's easy. or when it became 'come to bed with me' instead of a passive 'you're running on fumes, man'. all in the same tone as your "don't." impossibly even, while he's entirely overwhelmed from the press of your dick inside him. while you push his arm from his face, leaving grace pouting and loud. "you're so," you don't say whiny, just trail off. but grace knows that's what you meant.
it'd have been awful if you'd said it teasing. or joking.
it might be worse that you didn't. that's it's said soft and earnest.
that was a lot. all of it always left him in awe. keeping his face flushed, leaving a tinge of red crawling down his neck and stowing away at the tips of his ears. all those touches that used to make him jump, that grace forced himself to relax into so you wouldn't stop doing them, they were so much. they felt like so much. and this was more
a good more. a lazy grasping at these mornings on erid, because neither of you were really willing to let soft moments like these just pass by, as of recent. there had been plenty that you'd never lingered on, that ended as quickly as they began. you deserved a few that stuck. that stayed, even you had to make them stay. the moments you can apricate in now that it feels like you're allowed.
so it goes. a cuddly morning becomes something more heated.
half cries, fueled by every touch, every thrust into him, pours into every kiss. panting, hesitant and sloppy against your lips while ryland grinds shamelessly down onto your dick. as much as he can pressed down onto his back. he's desperate for this, which puts a thought in your mind. "you're, fuck. baby, it can't've been since college." low and against his neck. you can feel that red that's smeared down to his chest.
it should be considered a feat of strength that you don't bite harder than ryland can handle when he speaks up. manages to answer what you haven't really processed that you said aloud yet. "s'just been toys, didn't think that counted."
