⋮ hey, girlies! you can call me tuq (pronounced like the word "took"). i'm the most unserious serious person you'll ever meet. i hope to see you around this beach more often!
⋮ hint: this blog looks best in the pride color palette.
fics & more
⋮ masterlist ⋮ most recent work: curves and swerves (vox x reader) ⋮
So, about the writing. Is there something in the way Vox and his character arc were written that you didn't like? I'd love to hear about it. C'mon let your inner hater out gurl
I get that it's funny that Vox has a desperate, one-sided relationship with Alastor, but I wish there was something more to his and Alastor's backstory. They built up the origin story of Vox's animosity towards the Radio Demon throughout seasons 1 and some of 2, so I always imagined they had a more complex history.
When it was revealed he was bitter that Alastor refused his offer to partner up, I thought it was an understandable but tame reason. Vox was probably used to getting his way, so "no" was an impossibility until then. But, in my head, I thought maybe they actually were business partners for a time, and Alastor backstabbed Vox over something serious (made worse by him ghosting Vox for 7 years after the fact). What could he have betrayed the TV Demon over? More power? More souls? More control?
The reality is just so...boring. Vivienne wanted more old-man yaoi, and that's what we got. Again, it makes sense with what we know about Vox, but the reveal fell flat for me.
Thank you for the question, annie! It really made me think because, currently, Vox has the most solid track record in Hazbin Hotel. But what do you think? Do you have any issues with Vox's writing?
in what ways hh fandom is hostile towards POC folks? I hope it's ok to ask, I'm genuinely curious. From my own experience it's quite welcoming, and there's many character who are canonically not white in the series
Don't worry one bit. It's all right to ask.
I know you asked about Hazbin Hotel, but this also goes for The Amazing Digital Circus. I believe there are pockets in fandoms that are more accessible for POC. However, overall, fandoms that are largely made up of white people will inevitably have racist undertones that make fandom spaces uncomfortable for fans of color.
These undertones will combust into overtones when race is brought into a conversation, such as how a character is written or designed, or when a controversy involving racism occurs. This is due to white fans' inability to comprehend intersectionality. Comments like these on posts concerning race are a few examples of this willful ignorance:
I dont think anyone in hells race matters tbh...the show wasn't made to be about color. Why tf everybody gotta turn things into things theyre not. Can't we just all enjoy something without made up fights that do not need to be had AT ALL.
We're better off just saying hes hispanic (first voice actor), european/Persian (second voice actor)
Yeah better off not actually opening that can of apples by saying Alastor is black...
Hahaha chimping out. I like that saying. I'm not on the twitter so I have no idea what this is about and have nothing else to say, I just like the saying. Cheers.
Black people love telling others how to react when they hear slurs
I don't want this post to come across as me berating any fellow POC for participating in fandoms that are dominated by white people. I would be a massive hypocrite otherwise! I just take issue with the harm that comes with the continuous refusal to understand how intersectionality works. It makes certain fandom spaces harder to navigate.
That being said, I'm happy for you that the community has been very welcoming!
so, pls dont take this the wrong way, but ive seen a few of your comments critiquing tadc. i just wanted to know if you think hazbin is any diff since you write for vox.
srry if this sounds confrontational im just curious!
Oh no! Is this going to be my rent-lowering gunshot..?
So, the short answer is "no."
Let me elaborate. I think Hazbin Hotel and The Amazing Digital Circus mirror each other in many ways. They have similar dialogue, rushed pacing, and an inability to confront the heavier subject matters they present.
This may come as a shock, but I don't actually like either show LOL. I watched them because I don't want to be that person who blindly dislikes something. Now, there are a handful of things I enjoy, like characters (obviously) and scoring, but I have more criticisms than praises.
Trust me when I say that this blog will expand to include characters from other franchises. I'm moving at my own speed.
This sideblog is just for me to write fanfiction. I have other social media platforms I use to fangirl over different fandoms, particularly ones that are not hostile towards POC the way that many white queer fandoms unfortunately tend to be. I'm mainly a music gal, so you can check my tag #𝐭.𝐦𝐩𝟑𓇼 to see some artists I listen to.
how do you think Vox would act while having a crush? (Like Vox x reader fluff…… pretty please 🥹)
You ordered, so I will deliver, annie!
Also, to everyone else waiting in my inbox for your request, I promise I will get to them! My smut brain is a little burnt out right now, so let me get some fluff pieces done while my perverted alter-ego can take a vacation.
tags: nsfw, headcanons, fluff, smut, exhibitionism, voyeurism, mommy kink, mentions of pegging, mentions of roleplay, strong language, 1950s beauty standards, early 2000s beauty standards, sinner!reader, curvy!reader, fem!reader
synopsis: how vox would handle having a significant other who has curves and knows how to use them—requested by anon.
wc: 700~
🏖️ As Hell’s beauty standards evolved towards extolling rail-thin bodies, Vox still found himself salivating over the plush curves that were in scarce supply in the afterlife. Following the end of the Second World War, the American beauty industry emphasized a hyper-feminine aesthetic in line with growing conservative ideals. Vox, like most men from the 1950s, believed that a woman should look as glamorous as she did pleasant—the picture of a happy and desirable wife.
🏖️ It was not uncommon for some hapless VoxTek employee to walk in on the TV-headed demon pleasuring himself to Valentino’s productions. The videos strictly depicted models with well-developed chests, wide hips, softer stomachs, and love handles.
🏖️ Of all the silver screen icons who got Vox’s blood pumping, it was the Italian “it girl”, Sophia Loren, who stole his heart. The Oscar-award-winning actress had it all—tan skin, a mature face, and an hourglass figure. Most of the lingerie Vox gifts you are based on a publicity still from Loren’s film The Millionairess (1960)—a British romantic comedy he had to pirate from Earth after his untimely demise. Vox carefully selects corsets, stockings, garter belts, pearl necklaces, and below-elbow-level gloves to recreate his cinematic fantasy.
🏖️ Vox is obsessed with your stretch marks. You think to yourself that he might be a little too obsessed with the jagged lines that embellish your skin. He’ll rub his clawed hands over any exposed areas that showcase the glossy scars. For some reason, Vox gravitates towards the stretch marks on your hips and thighs.
🏖️ The two most common positions in your sex life are doggy style and prone bone. Vox enjoys any positions where he can posture himself as the domineering, masculine man he is, whilst watching the fat of your ass ripple from his rough thrusting.
🏖️ If your boyfriend is up and at ‘em before you are, he makes a mental note to watch you get dressed through the security cameras in your bedroom. He’ll sit tight in his surveillance room at V Tower and slip into his voyeuristic ways, watching with rapt attention as your voluptuous form tries to squeeze into your dress pants. He (creepily) leers at you in person too, but there’s something more invigorating about doing it without your knowledge.
🏖️ You get a kick out of reading people’s opinions of your body type in Vox’s time. The vintage magazines were a far cry from the terrible tabloids of the 2000s—the kind that aggressively shamed waifish supermodels for being “bigger than ever.” These 1950s beauty publications were not much better, with their unabashed male-centered language. Nevertheless, it was deeply fascinating to read about how women took Ironized Yeast tablets to “gain beauty-bringing pounds” to avoid being labeled “friendless.” If this was the media your boyfriend was raised on, his over-the-top reactions to your hourglass figure make a lot more sense.
🏖️ Though it's done with ulterior motives, he’s used to taking care of people’s needs. On the rare occasion Vox feels that his own needs are being neglected, he’ll come crawling to you for a specific type of roleplay-based stress relief. He likes to be babied—to feel temporarily free from his endless responsibilities (do not be surprised that this whiny attention seeker has a latent Mommy kink).
🏖️ Out of any potential partners, Vox would have an easier time accepting someone like you pegging him. A very feminine woman (soft) domming him, as opposed to a masculine woman, a feminine man, or a masculine man, is more enticing than it is humiliating.
🏖️ Vox encourages you to wear skimpy outfits. He gets off on the covetous stares he receives from other demons. Your barely-there ensembles guarantee media coverage for their scandalously glamorous nature. Proceed to buy clothing with caution because Vox shreds garments he doesn't consider flattering—even if you personally like it.
🏖️ When your boyfriend is experiencing burnout, he’ll lie on top of you with his full weight like a dog who forgets it's a Tibetan Mastiff and not a Yorkshire Terrier. Vox just wants to be near you at all times, even if that means crushing you, scratching you, or shocking you.
🏖️ Vox loves how much you make him feel like the pinnacle of masculinity. After ruthlessly running a megacorporation all day, coming home to find his girlfriend dolled up in beautiful, flowy dresses leaves him drooling all over himself. The stress of the VoxTek boardroom fades away the instant he steps through the door and sees you. In these moments, he melts into a gloopy puddle of validation, like butter on a hotcake.
a/n: sorry this took so long, annie! my area of the world has been experiencing power outages. also, this isn't my body type in real life, so i hope this was respectful and to your liking!
headcanons for vincent with a curvy s/o? 🙏 big hips, big titties, slightly pudgy belly and love handles 💅
Ooooh, I've never done headcanons before, annie! I just finished a recent request, so I'll get on this right away. Do you mind if the finished product has NSFW elements? If you do, please message me to let me know if you want it to be purely fluff.
synopsis: the airbnb is too hot, and your battery-powered fan from don quijote isn't enough. but look on the bright side: the night market is selling siopao—requested by @vangoghpoes.
wc: 3.9k
You suppose your current predicament could be a lot worse. Complaining about the insulation of your beachside Airbnb—paid for exclusively by your affluent boyfriend, Vincent Whittman—was a luxury you never could have imagined for yourself.
Before coupling with the famous television personality, the most extravagant resorts you were accustomed to were 3-star Holiday Inn Express and Suites with modest continental breakfasts and swimming pools colored a deep emerald from algal bloom.
You begrudgingly recognized that the beach bungalow’s poor ventilation paled in comparison to the horrific 1-star reviews you read online—written like submissions to the r/nosleep subreddit. Even as you sweated off half your body’s weight in water, you reconsidered your situation after browsing forums dedicated to black mold, pest infestations, broken plumbing, and hotel mismanagement. You figured it was better if the island’s tropical climate remained your only concern.
However, despite your willingness to make the best of things, you couldn’t help but internally scold your boyfriend for disregarding your instructions. Before flying back to your island for this year’s summer getaway, you advised Vincent to conduct extensive background checks on your Airbnb, making sure the rental’s air-conditioning units were fully functional by the time you two checked in. Of course, the pompous talk show host ignored your suggestion, snagging the first rental property available on the most luxurious beach he could find. Lo and behold, you two were now stuck renting a banana yellow bungalow equipped with one low-intensity ceiling fan to combat the summer heat.
At least one of you had the common sense to purchase a JONETZ handheld fan from the Don Quijote a few blocks down. It was a little frightening knowing that the battery-powered device—the size of your iPhone—was the only thing standing between you and heatstroke.
...And it ran out of juice about five minutes ago.
As if nature understood the mechanics of comedic timing, a sweltering gust carried the afternoon heat through the slats of the bungalow’s French shutters. You instantly felt a fat drop of sweat slither its way down your back like a salty snake making a nest between your shoulder blades.
Blegh, gross!
Peeling your sticky body off the lime green cushions of your wicker chaise lounge, you began stripping off the layers of clothing clinging to your sweat-slicked self. You started by reaching around your torso to untie the knot holding up the Versace scarf you had converted into a top. The seashell-patterned scrap of silk fell to the wooden floor, along with your Lokahi Swimwear bikini top and white bell-bottom jeans.
The sigh of relief you let slip past your lips could have easily been mistaken for the whine of a small dog.
Up since the crack of dawn at Vincent’s insistence, you’d been acting as his tour guide, showing him around the main island in a rented Toyota Tacoma. Per his request, you traded in the typical tourist traps for a literal stroll down memory lane: driving past your dilapidated elementary school, buying Lotte-brand snacks from the convenience store you ran like the Navy in your teens, and catching up with your cousins in the shopping district.
Predictably, your family took a while to warm up to Vincent’s snappy New Yorker disposition, but soon his insider Hollywood stories worked their usual magic. Before long, your cousins were starstruck, hanging on to his every word, completely captivated by Vincent’s talent for entertaining and name-dropping.
You were not at all surprised that the late-night talk show host had effortlessly charmed your family in minutes. Vincent had poured his heart and soul into carefully crafting his world-renowned persona—the picture of an entertainment cognoscente fully plugged into the cultural zeitgeist.
An abrupt ping sounded out over the bungalow’s Bluetooth sound system, interrupting the tropical-flavored playlist suggested to you by Spotify's algorithm. Making your way over to the bungalow’s kitchenette, you coolly plucked your phone off the tiled countertop. You pressed pause on some dreamy pop track by MXFRUIT, then opened your WhatsApp chat with Vincent.
✩🐠Baby Shark🐠✩
Hey babe
Heading back soon with a big surprise!
ETA 20 min
Attached to the bottom of Vincent’s brief text messages was a selfie of him standing on a dirt path in the middle of an open-air bazaar. Your boyfriend was giving you his signature chip-toothed grin; his grey-streaked hair smushed flat by the wide-brim sun hat you bought for him at an ABC Store. In his right hand, he clutched a misshapen plastic bag deformed by lumps of unidentifiable takeaway. The rounded corners of the Styrofoam to-go boxes were stretching the material taut beyond its limit.
You
okay, handsome ☺️☺️☺️
drive carefully, please!
✩🐠Baby Shark🐠✩
…Don’t you have trouble remembering to signal?
That’s like playing Mario Kart once and telling Baby how to be a getaway driver
You
unprompted?! wtf 😭😭 i was just being nice
✩🐠Baby Shark🐠✩
Kidding babe
That was a joke
I love you! 💙
Seriously that was a joke
You
ily2
can’t wait to see what you bought at the market 🍧🍘🍣 hope you had fun!
Your boyfriend simply reacted to your last text with a thumbs-up emoji, so you assumed he had gone ahead and exited the app to access Google Maps.
Vincent had probably been gone for at least three hours now, if the gimmicky, turtle-shaped clock was anything to go off of. Earlier in the afternoon, once you officially diagnosed yourself as unfit for any more socialization, your vivacious boyfriend had struck out on his own to visit the night market nearby. He informed you over the phone on the drive there that he was killing two birds with one stone by enjoying what the island had to offer whilst picking up a “culturally authentic dinner” for the both of you to enjoy.
You couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of the East Coast native, with his sunburnt skin and faded Hawaiian shirt, getting purposefully overcharged for teeny-tiny packets of li hing mui-dusted Gushers or chicken satay. You couldn’t feel too bad, though. Vincent’s wallet wouldn’t even miss the wads of cash its owner doled out left and right to various street vendors. If the Hollywood rumor mill was to be believed, the Academy was allegedly eyeing Vincent to emcee next year’s Oscars ceremony. Whatever dent those hawkers would put into your boyfriend’s bank account, the Emmy-award-winning hot-shot was sure to make up for it.
Actually, the A-list celebrity's contact name in your phone used to be “Princess Morbucks” before he “hacked” his way in. And by “hacked,” you mean he snatched it off you while you were playing Gardenscapes. Comparing Vincent to the spoiled little ginger from The Powerpuff Girls must have wounded his ego, because the man actually sat on you and typed out every emoji and letter, making you promise not to change it after he got up.
That was the day you learned that your boyfriend was a deceitfully heavy man...
You shook your head at the silly memory and relaxed back into the wicker chaise lounge to enjoy the remnants of the island’s golden hour.
Through an open window in the living room, you could see the sun gasping its last breath before disappearing beyond the horizon. Shadows of the bungalow’s balustrades rotated like the hands of a clock in the setting sun’s golden rays—a makeshift sundial.
Night settled over the island with an almost palpable calm—the air thick and still. Palm fronds rustled softly in the gentle breeze. Pale moonlight blanketed the sands and cast the vining branches of hot pink bougainvillea in a ghostly silver aura.
The air had cooled at last. Its ephemeral touch caressed your freshly tanned skin—dewy with perspiration. In the luminous glow of the moon and stars, your droplets of sweat shimmered like an elegant pearl drapery.
You couldn’t decide if the outdoor symphony of nature was from the cicadas, the crickets, or a mix of both, but either way, the low hum of harmonizing insects was doing wonders to increase the weightiness of your eyelids.
By the time you heard the revving of a Toyota Tacoma in the driveway followed by the familiar tinkling of house keys, you were barely awake. Heavy footsteps clomping in from the foyer to the living room indicated that Vincent had just waltzed through the front door and was offloading his night market haul onto the coffee table across from your naked body.
Wait a damn minute—
The bespectacled man’s heart skipped a beat when his blue and green eyes trailed up the expanse of exposed, tanned skin on display. Was this all for him? Were you really that needy for your boyfriend that you would wait by the door in nothing but light grey Hipster-cut panties? Holy fuck, you really were the perfect woman for him, weren’t you? Vincent throbbed against the stiff fabric of his cargo shorts. His mind moved at a million miles per hour, generating a myriad of sexual fantasies he could only hope to fulfill.
“Aw, baby, look at you,” came the strained voice of your highly aroused boyfriend, who was incorrectly conflating your nudity with an open invitation. “You tryna tell me somethin'?”
“What?” You warbled in raw befuddlement, sounding more like an untuned trombone than a confused human.
“Whaaargh,” would be a more appropriate transcription of your nonsensical utterance.
You rubbed the remaining haze of slumber from your eyes, looking up to see your boyfriend, who was looming over your sweaty body with a mischievous smile spreading across his face.
He shrugged off his Hawaiian shirt, then stooped down low to straddle you, positioning himself between your legs. Your delirious self sucked in a breath when you felt his soft pink lips leave a trail of wet kisses along your torso and up your bare chest. Vincent’s long fingers traced the stark tan lines that wrapped around your shoulders and outlined your breasts, as if they were artistic strokes formed by the steady hands of a calligrapher. He toyed with the elastic waistband of your underwear, hooking it under his finger and lifting it up for a glimpse of your hip bones. The sight of your newly acquired tan lines from the blazing summer sun got Vincent's heart pumping. Pure, unadulterated lust coursed through his veins.
Your boyfriend shifted his weight—careful not to crush you under his muscular frame—and groaned softly into your ear, “You look so fuckin’ sexy like this, honey. Don’t know if I’ll be able to keep my hands off of you ‘til we get back to New York.”
Vincent’s hands clamped themselves around the meat of your hips, his bruising grip pulling you even closer to him. The vibrations from his stifled moans buzzed against your skin in an uncrackable Morse code. He eyed your body hungrily, rubbing concentric circles around the fat of your breasts.
Your boyfriend was either being willfully or genuinely ignorant of the unimpressed expression distorting your now fully alert features, consisting of pursed lips and a cocked eyebrow.
“Boy, what the fuck are you doing?” You deadpanned.
As soon as the accusatory question fell from your lips, the talk show host put a stop to his possessive, passionate groping. Vincent hesitantly looked up, gawking at your inquisitive face, as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A rosy pink blush graduated from his aquiline nose to his angular cheekbones.
Who would have thought? The pervert was genuinely ignorant—blinded by lust.
“I was just—I came in and—were you not, uh,” he spluttered defensively, tripping over the start of every new sentence. “I-I thought you wanted to have sex! I walked in here to dish out our food and found you with your fuckin’ tits out. Were you not, like, psychically beggin’ me to fuck you awake?”
“Absolutely not, you dickhead,” you scoffed in disbelief. “It was hot as hell in here, and I was too tired to go out back for a swim.” You grabbed a plastic piece of tech nestled into the nook of your chair and waved it a centimeter away from the concave lenses of your boyfriend's glasses. “The fan’s battery died hours ago, so my only options were to take off my clothes or die of dehydration.”
You let your eyes skim over Vincent’s roguishly handsome appearance. His salt-and-pepper hair was tousled this way and that from his sun hat, which was now hanging off the coat rack by the front door. An angry red seeped through the splotches of sunburnt skin peeking through the uncovered areas of his body, such as his forearms and neck. Goddamnit—that stubborn bastard! You had a sneaking suspicion that he wasn’t wearing his SPF 50 sunscreen, and this just proved your theory. It was the quick glimpse at his feet, however, that had you rapidly shaking your head in disapproval.
“Tch, V, take off your shoes. How have you not broken that habit yet? I make you do the same thing in New York.”
“I have—quite literally—never had anyone tell me to take my shoes off in the house, except for you.”
“It’s tradition—this entire island does it. I’d go bigger and say the whole Asia-Pacific region does it, too. Also, it’s just cleanlier. Why the hell would you want to track the outdoors indoors? Go—shoo!”
Vincent grumbled something unintelligible, but obediently followed orders. While he removed his sneakers and placed them by the door, you got up from the wicker chaise lounge and scooped his discarded Hawaiian shirt off the floor. You threw the oversized shirt around your body for partial coverage—not bothering to fasten the buttons.
When Vincent returned to your side, he wasted no time grabbing you by the hips and hoisting you onto his lap, as if you weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes. His warm hands immediately gravitated to your chest, slipping underneath the loose fabric to roll his thumbs over your pert nipples.
“Cough, cough, PERVERT, cough, cough,” you whisper-shouted.
Vincent pressed a kiss to the side of your head and snorted, “Eh, ’s not illegal, last I checked. Anyway, babe, you’re gonna have to tell me what any of this is before we eat.” He nodded at the unopened spread of takeaway in front of you. “I just bought what looked good in the moment.”
You shifted your gaze to the three Styrofoam to-go boxes occupying the surface area of the low-level coffee table. Reaching for the box sitting to the left-most side of the table, you cracked it open, revealing two perfectly round steamed buns fighting for space in their claustrophobic Styrofoam enclosure. Grabbing hold of one bun, you pried the soft bread apart to sniff at the aromatic spices within.
“Mmm...okay, so this is siopao with a chicken curry filling. Remember the manapua we got at that food truck? It’s basically the same thing,” you explained while rotating the fluffy ball of dough in your hands.
Vincent nodded without comment. He drummed his fingers against your rib cage in a slow, rhythmic pattern—a silent indication of his interest as he waited for you to move on to mystery box number two.
Once more, you unlatched the takeout container's hinges, but this time you were greeted by a multicolored array of vegetables and rice vermicelli encased in a gauzy rice paper wrapper. Off to the side, in a squat to-go cup, was what you imagined to be the accompanying spicy peanut sauce. You would have smelled it to double-check, but if you inhaled any more of the savory fragrances swirling around the bungalow, you’d probably end up devouring the rolls and the Styrofoam it came in in a flash.
Growing impatient from hunger, you didn't hesitate to open box number three, flinging it open faster than you had the previous two containers. Inside this one was a generous amount of butter mochi. The squishy, sunshine yellow squares seemed to catch Vincent’s eye because he rested his head on your shoulder to get a better look at them.
“You guys eat lemon bars without the crust or the powdered sugar?” He wondered aloud.
“Hm? You don't smell the coconut? These are butter mochi, and the box next to it is fresh spring rolls with, uh, some kind of sauce—probably peanut-flavored or some sort of fish base,” you theorized (more to yourself than to your boyfriend). You pinched off a greasy corner of the 'lemon bar' and casually plopped it in your mouth, letting the buttery, coconutty taste burst across your tongue. Reclining into Vincent’s sturdy chest, you turned your head to plant a kiss on his strong jawline. “I’m impressed, sweetheart. You picked, like, everything I was craving ever since we left the airport.”
He gave your tits a firm squeeze from under your shirt, prompting you to gasp in pain and pleasure.
“What can I say?” The television personality gloated, straightening up like a sunflower under the radiance of your praise. “Happy wife, happy life.”
You shot Vincent, who was very much not your husband or even your fianceé, a quizzical look. “Aw, sweetheart, that was...so corny—sweet, but corny. I don't think I have room to complain, though. I find your tap dancing attractive, so maybe I'm the corny one...”
Vincent studied your side profile as you spoke—a dark intensity shrouding his vision like rolling thunderclouds over a once-spotless sky. You were too cute for your own good, despite how bratty you can be at times...
“Hey, wanna know somethin' cool?” Your boyfriend asked you plainly.
You hesitated for a second, sensing the shift in Vincent's energy, but accepted his question. “Uuuuuuh, that sounds ominious, but sure, what's up?”
“Did you know that some species of male sharks give female sharks love bites when they mate? Sometimes they inflict such deep wounds that the female shark's healin' process will leave a pretty little scar,” he informed you in a rather morbid tone.
“The hell does that have to do with anyth—OW! VINCENT!” You yelped.
A sudden warmth flared beneath your skin as you felt Vincent’s teeth graze your neck—a tender bite, equal parts playful and intimate, sending a shiver of something indescribable down your spine. The show of possessive affection oscillated between searing pain and sizzling delight. His sharp canines had chomped down on the muscle stretching across your neck to your shoulders, as if you were made of the same pillowy dough as your neglected siopao.
When Vincent removed his mouth from you to bury his face into the crook of your neck, you gaped at the sunburnt man cradling you in his lap.
Rubbing at the teeth marks he had just impressed into your body, you hissed in discomfort, “Jesus, honey, what the hell was that for?”
“Mmm, I don't really know and I don't really care,” he sighed, inhaling the scent of your vanilla and jasmine-scented sweat. “You just make me—I, uh, I...felt happy...”
“Yeah, well, feel happier in a more productive way. I love you, but what the fuck is wrong with your ass?”
a/n: this was requested by one of my mutuals! please check her fics out if you haven't already! she puts a lot of effort into them. additionally, although this fic was written with a specific image of the reader in mind, please feel free to enjoy it nonetheless.
