Stiles wakes up to his own groans, throbbing between the legs and knowing instantly that he isn’t imagining that sweet, wet suction around his cock. Peeking under the covers, he groans even louder as wide eyes alight with mischief peer back at him. Glancing at the clock, it’s a quarter past seven and he’s gonna be late for work, but glancing back down at the mouth around his dick, he knows he really doesn’t care. She’s got his cock locked up between her lips just the way he likes, not too tight or too lose, sucking him in a rhythm that’s long and slow and teasing.
“Baby,” Stiles moans, hands tangling in her hair.
“Mmm,” she hums around his cock, slurping her way back up and pulling off for air.
“Fuck, honey, you know I gotta work,” he growls, tugging her up his body to get at her swollen lips.
“Go in late. Call in sick. Fuck me,” She whispers, allowing him to kiss her while rubbing her wet folds against his aching cock.
Stiles just can’t; he’s a weak man. Rolling her over, he slips inside her, cock making a space for itself. It feels like coming home; Stiles doesn’t think that the feeling will over fade honestly and it’s been that way since the first time. There’s just something about getting her on her back, legs wrapped around him and lips parted on his name that makes Stiles wanna lay in bed all day and give it to her just how they like it. Call him pussy whipped but it’s more than that, a deep seated need to bring her higher and claim her from the inside out nearly every time they touch. She’s so responsive as he pumps his hips into her, legs tightening and loosening around his waist in intervals, showing that she’s bound to burst any moment.
“That’s it, let it out baby girl,” he croons, watching as the fire in her belly bursts and she explodes around him like a supernova.
“Stiles,” she chokes and he fills her to the brim. He buries his head in her neck, hips stuttering his release after holding back for so long.
“Little Devil,” he pants, looking at the clock to see that even if he were to leave without showering, he’d be a good half hour late to work. “Gonna get me fired.”
She watches as he pulls away, legs not letting him get too far. “Don’t go,” she whispers, pulling him back in. “Stay with me.”
“Sweetheart, you know I gotta-,” her pout stalls him. She’s a fucking minx and she knows it, using momentum and leverage to get him back under her.
“One more time?”
“Fuck,” Stiles groans, cock hard again already. “One more time,” he nods.
She sinks onto his cock easy as pie, watching him watch her. Stiles knows he’s not leaving for work any time soon and by the time he even thinks about calling in, they’ve fucked three times and fooled around in the shower. When she gets him locked between her legs on the dryer, Stiles knows he’s doomed for good, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Baby,” he murmurs, sinking into her once more as she shakes along with the dryer’s cycle.
She looks at Stiles with something like a smile, about to say it back before her face is warped into one of pleasure, Stiles’ name leaving her lips in a chant. She always looks so good taking his cock and makes him feel so powerful when she clings to and scratches at him, trusting him to please her. It’s a heady feeling, knowing that he’s the one making her feel this good, knowing that he’s the one who’s going to be touching her like this for the rest of her life. She comes with his name on her tongue, thighs clenching at his hips with all their strength. He follows after her, dopey, lovestruck smile on his face.
Later on, he’s grabbing his stuff and heading for the door, deputy’s uniform fitting him like a glove. She watches him with hooded eyes, lip tucked between her teeth because Stiles looks like a damn snack and he knows it. He shakes his head at her as she stalks closer, looking like she’s gonna ravish him for the fiftieth time.
“Uh-uh, no you don’t,” he warns, bag lunch between them like a shield.
“Later?” She asks, big, doe eyes pleading.
Stiles groans, nodding. Promises her that he’ll fuck her into the mattress when he gets home. He goes to leave but her voice calls out once more, honey sweet and everything he needs.
“I love you, Mr. Stilinski.”
He smiles, mouth hurting with how wide it is. “I love you too, Mrs. Stilinski.” And he’s out the door.
Thirty minutes later, he walks through the police department doors, not able to look anyone in the eye when they ask where on earth he’s been all day. The hardest of them all is his father, who has that knowing look on his face but says nothing, which Stiles is grateful for. Or at least he would be, if he didn’t hear the rumble of “pft, newlyweds,” huffed under his dad’s breath. Stiles just slinks to his desk and takes looking at the picture of the two of them on their wedding day. He’s a lucky man, he thinks, both in and out of the sheets.
It isn’t until he’s realized that he’s not alone in the room, looking up to see his wife’s face, mischief written all over it. He’s not that shocked, but still startles, knows that he definitely won’t get shit done today. He clears his throat, shakes his head, and puts on his deputy voice.
“Anything I can do for you, ma'am?”
“I came to turn myself in,” she chuckles, closing the door behind her as she slinks into the room.
“Oh, you’ll see.”
She’s in his lap in seconds, lips locked with his and fingers tangled in his hair. Stiles is a goner, never stood a chance and he’s completely okay with that. If his dick is what she craves, then who is he to tell her no? Doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks because he’s gonna enjoy it while it lasts.
“You like to get me in trouble, huh?” He asks, when they’re finally home, cuddled up in bed.
She shrugs, giggling as his fingers tickle her sides. “Well they say, increased sex drive is expected in the second trimester.”
It takes Stiles a second to catch up. He rolls over her, eyes twinkling in hopes that he heard her right. He’s going to be a dad? Him? A little Stilinski boy or girl with her hair and his eyes and just, wow. He’s gonna be a dad. He also takes a look at her stomach, trying to notice the barely there curve of it. She pulls him down for a kiss, smiling into it.
“Happy belated Father’s Day, Stiles,” she whispers against his lips.
And if they fuck again to celebrate, well, that’s their business.
I do. It's Tang. My parents Americanized their names when they immigrated. Your turn.
(rolls his eyes) I mean, if you want. I respect your privacy blah blah blah.
Trinidad Mercedes Quiñones de Lupo y Kwan. Quiñones is my actual last name. Kwan is my mom's Vietnamese stepdad's last name. But because of Spanish naming conventions, it gets tacked on to mine last, and that's how it is on my school file now.
(grabs Kimberly who's passing through the hall; to Zack) You gonna ask this gringa why she's got a white name?
My last name's Hart because my dad's white. But I'm not a gringa. My mom's Indian.
In my defense, I've only seen her once. Thought she was Italian.
She wears a bindi.
So does Ariana Grande.
(grabs Billy) Hey, bro, we're asking everybody why they have the surnames they do.
Awesome. (grabs Jason) Dude, we're having an awkward conversation about our last names. You white as you sound?
Yes. All my ancestors were Scotsmen who came to Angel Grove during the Gold Rush, and before that they were all probably Pilgrims or something.
I got impatient waiting for the new episode, so I wrote a thing. It features poor bean Benvolio and Rosaline having a slow change of heart a little after their wedding and angsty fluff and slowly coming to understand each other.
Who’s gonna walk you
through the dark side of the morning?
Who’s gonna rock you
when the sun won’t let you sleep?
Her husband was sneaking
Rosaline heard the sound
of his boots on the stairs, recognizable by the little spring in his
step despite the heavy spurred boots, then a few murmured words to
the guard at the door, and then the door of their new home, a modest
Palazzo near the river, creaked open to allow him out into the night.
For three weeks, Rosaline
had been married to Benvolio of House Montague. And for three weeks,
every night without fail, he had snuck out of the house. She would
have suspected a sweetheart somewhere, a lover that had been torn
from him in Escalus’ peace-making scheme. But the servants brought
back only reports of him spending his time at the taverns around Via
Frata, where he used to head for a night of revelry with his friends
all too often before their deaths.
In truth, she did not care
either way – was glad to have him out of the house, in fact, where
grief and resentment seemed to poison the air around them whenever
they were forced to spend time together. They kept up the facade of a
reasonably content couple for the sake of their servants, many of
whom were no doubt being paid to report back on their every move to
either of their houses. They had lunch or supper in the garden
together when Benvolio wasn’t called away for some duty or other, and
dined together in the evening when they were not invited to some
social gathering. They even slept in the same bed, though they hardly
spent any shared time in there in any case. Rosaline usually went to
bed early, for lack of anything to occupy her time now that she
suddenly found herself mistress instead of serving girl, and by the
time Benvolio returned from his exploits near dawn, reeking of wine,
she was almost ready to get up again, still used to early mornings
and enjoying the peace and quiet they brought.
But it was precisely the
fact that they put so much effort into appearing a successful match
that made it so irritating to see her husband pursue his own pleasure
so shamelessly. What was the point of making stilted conversation at
the dinner table and putting up with his snoring when all the
servants talked about were his nightly adventures away from the
No, Rosaline decided, she
was going to put a stop to this. She hadn’t abandoned her dream of
retreating to a nunnery and living a life of her own choosing to wed
this… toad, only for him to continue in his debauched ways as if
nothing at all had changed.
She’d go after him and
drag him back home by his ears like an unruly child if necessary –
but she’d have to be careful about it. Their marriage may have forged
a temporary peace between Verona’s warring families, but it was a
fragile one, and one which too many people were dissatisfied with.
Quickly, Rosaline dug out her old, modest servant’s dress from the
bottom of her trunk and put it on in exchange for her much grander
evening gown. Over it, she put on a dark brown cape, pulling its hood
over her hair, then walked over to the bedroom door to peer out
through the keyhole.
Unlike her husband,
Rosaline had spent enough time at home to know what the staff were up
to, and had learned that the guard tended to get a little drowsy
around this time of night, at which point he would head to the
kitchen to talk the cook into indulging him with a luxurious cup of
caffè, an invigorating brew the merchants of Verona had recently
started to import from Venice.
As soon as the guard set
off for his refreshment, she slipped quietly down the stairs and out
the door, momentarily reminded of the many times she had snuck out of
her parents’ house years ago - though it had been to see a different
man for different reasons back then, and it had been excitement
making her blood race rather than anger.
But there was no use in
such thoughts, she told herself, focusing instead on the street
before her. Concealed by the wide sleeve of her cloak, she clutched a
slim dagger - not much of a weapon, but better than nothing. Ever
since her close encounter with a blood-thirsty ruffian in the street,
she had taken to carrying the weapon with her, usually concealed in
the folds of her dress. She had received unexpected help from her
now-husband on that bloody day, but she would not allow herself to
count on his protection in the future, even if she was now legally
entitled to it.
But though her hand
trembled around the dagger and she flinched every time she heard
approaching footsteps, the trip was a quiet one, and soon Rosaline
was making her way door to door down the few particularly infamous
streets of the city, peering into taverns and brothels for a glimpse
of her missing husband.
He would be easy enough to
find, she expected, no doubt surrounded by a crowd of people, holding
court and boasting of his heroic deeds, with an adoring woman on his
lap perhaps. But to her surprise, he was alone, and her searching
gaze almost passed over him before doubling back.
Tucked in the darkest
corner of a particularly seedy establishment, Benvolio was peering
forlornly into a half-empty, lead-rimmed glass beaker of rich red
wine, looking for all the world as if he was trying to disappear into
the dirty wall behind him.
And then she took a few
steps closer and saw something that made her stop in her tracks as
realisation dawned on her: Benvolio was not making merry, not
carousing or whoring around.
There has been a lot of hinting and build-up to Arrow‘s Felicity starting up her own company, Smoak Tech. Are there plans for this in Season 6? —Aurora “That was something we wanted to do last year, and then we got sort of seduced by the Helix storyline,” co-showrunner Marc Guggenheim explained to me. “I would say that people wanting that storyline will be happy, but for reasons that I think will be very obvious, it can’t be called Smoak Technologies. And all those clever readers who are like, ‘That’s because she’ll be changing her last name to Queen,’ it’s not Queen Technologies, either.”
Have anything new to share about Arrow‘s Slade sticking around? —R.J.
It appears Oliver will make good on his offer to his frenemy, in trade for his help against Adrian Chase, seeing as the CW series is currently seeking an Aussie lad to fill the guest-starring role of an “introverted, moody and naturally athletic” teenager.