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seths-rogens · 11 months

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cardboard houses, cardboard hearts | M | 1.9k | ao3

should’ve been finishing my infidelity au, but instead the cardboard joe cutout i was given inspired me to crank this out in one sitting,, anyway, please enjoy :)

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Eddie often thanks God that he took the leap and moved to Indianapolis after he finally graduated high school. Not that he really believes in God. Just… figure of speech and all. Though, maybe he’d believe in God if they were a metalhead with tatties and an eyebrow piercing, but he thinks that might ruin their image honestly.

He’s getting off topic.

Eddie often thanks God for Indy in moments like these. Moments where he has a fucking beautiful man pinned to his own front door, strong, thick fingers tangling in his hair as Eddie desperately tries to fit his key into the lock. He shoves his thigh between Pretty Man’s legs - he didn’t catch his name - and presses upwards. Pretty Man whines, grinding down and making it all that more difficult to unlock the goddamn door.

“Hold on, Sweetheart. I just gotta-“ Eddie bites back a groan as Pretty Man kisses down his neck, sucking a bruise over his pulse as the key finally slips into the lock. Chrissy’s never gonna let him live the marks down.

He’s surprised he picked anyone up tonight at all. He’d gone to a concert alone for once, as Chrissy was staying at her new girlfriend’s place, and Gareth and Jeff weren’t the biggest fans of his guilty pleasure artist ‘King S’.

And honestly? In any other world. Eddie wouldn’t be either.

King S isn’t his usual style. Where Eddie usually loves a hard drumline, thrashing guitars and lyrics you can only scream, King S is all soft melodies and crooning vocals set to slow drum beats.

He’d stumbled upon him completely by accident, honestly. It’d been a slow day at the record store Eddie manages. He’d been there for nearly five hours and so far he’d only served maybe three customers - and two of those customers were an old couple shopping for their granddaughter. So he’d picked the first magazine he could reach off the stand by the counter, and flipped it open to a random page.

It’d been an interview with King S, who’d just released his first album at the time. He was talking about his inspiration for making music - his best friend and little brother who, he’s quoted as saying, ‘always ragged on him when he played his pop shit in the car’ - and the meaning behind his stage name - reclaiming an old high school nickname he’d been given after his brief stint as a bit of a mean girl, though now he promises he’s using it for good.

He’d flipped the page to find a double page spread of King S curled up in a bathtub. His eyes were squeezed shut through the lacy masquerade mask that was supposedly his staple (no one knew his real identity after all). His hair was messy and flying all over the place. He was…

He was naked. Or at least that’s how it seemed.

His arms and legs were bare, the black and white photo only emphasising the toned curves of the muscles in his arms and back and the dark hair covering those lush thighs.

Call him obvious but Eddie had been intrigued. He knew they’d received a new shipment of records that morning that weren’t supposed to be hitting the shelves until the next day, so he figured what the hell!

Ten minutes later, elbow deep in a shoddily painted green wooden crate, Eddie emerged victorious with King S’s debut album ‘Robins and Tadpoles’ in his hands.

The album cover was two people’s hands clasped together, matching ice cream cone tattoos on both wrists. There was a little dedication on the back. To R & D.

He took it out to the turntable on the shop floor and dropped the needle. When the soft music started, he was hesitant, but as the album moved on he quickly realised he was hooked.

He’d gone into the shop bright and early the next day - on his day off no less - and bought the album. Only slightly laughing at the look on Mike’s - part time Lit student, part time cashier, full time grump - face.

That had been two years ago, and Eddie had been solidly on the King S train since.

Sure, Gareth and Jeff - and Grant too when he was in town - would tease him about abandoning his people, about betraying the freaks and the weirdos, but really they supported his love for the artist, even if they didn’t quite get it.

So when King S announced a stop in Indy on his second album tour, the guys (and Chrissy) had banded together to get him tickets as an early 26th birthday present. Except when the day came, they were all busy, so he went by himself.

He didn’t mind really, was just happy to be there to appreciate the music. (And the man himself, Eddie has eyes, come on now.)

Elated and feeling just a little self fulfilled after the concert, Eddie had gone to his favourite queer/metal bar, Crash. He’s picked people up there before, sure, but they’ve all been metalheads, just like him, and as many of his friends have said in the past, he’s cursed to have the hots for the preppy jock types.

Usually, that’s not the type of guy he’d find in Crash. Tonight was different.

Eddie had been sat at the bar, thinking about King S’s arms beneath the crimson sweater he wore on stage, when a gorgeous man had stepped up beside him to buy a beer. The man was wearing a dark, charcoal coloured t-shirt under a light grey Members Only jacket, paired with light blue levi’s.

Eddie kinda felt his jaw hit the floor. Could this be the perfect end to the perfect night?

This brings us back to now. Eddie finally pushes the door open, swings Pretty Man around and pushes him back against it.

He drops his keys somewhere. It doesn’t matter. He’ll find them tomorrow.

They’re grinding fast against one another now, only their harsh, panting breaths filling the silence of Eddie’s apartment. Eddie slides his hand into Pretty Man’s hair, tugs on this side of too hard. Pretty Man moans, loud, almost echoing, and tilts his head to the side, baring his neck for Eddie to defile.

Eddie leans in, presses his lips to those two little moles, and—

“What the fuck?”

Eddie pulls back to look at Pretty Man’s face. He’s still, not looking at Eddie, instead staring with wide eyes into the open plan of Eddie’s living room.

Eddie follows his gaze and… Oh. Yeah. He forgot about that.

See the King S tickets hadn’t been Eddie’s only birthday gift. He knew this would come back to bite him in the ass, but his friends thought it was hilarious. Eddie thinks they’re assholes.

Because Pretty Man is staring at a life size cutout of King S, standing by the wall.

Eddie winces, pulls away. This guy might not look like a metalhead, but he was in a metal bar, there’s no way he listens to King S. He’s gotta come up with an explanation for this, and fast.

“Um, yeah… About that… would you believe me if I said I didn’t buy it?” He asks sheepishly, avoiding Pretty Man’s eyes.

“You’re a fan?” Pretty Man asks, except he sounds dejected, which Eddie thinks is weird. And actually? Fuck this guy. He’s allowed to like whatever he wants.

“Yeah, man. What’s wrong with that? Maybe it’s not for everyone but King S actually makes really good music.” He gets more than a little defensive, takes a step back and crosses his arms over his chest.

“No, no… that’s not what I meant.” Pretty Man raises his hands placatingly.

“Then what did you mean?”

Pretty Man sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t you recognise me?”

Eddie furrows his brow in confusion. “Do I like, know you or something?”

Pretty Man raises his eyes to the ceiling like this is difficult. “Really? Nothing?”

Eddie shakes his head. “I don’t…” Pretty man nods, sighs, and then walks past Eddie further into the apartment. “Hey, you can’t just—“

“How about now?” Pretty Man asks, stopping right next to the cardboard cut out.

Eddie flits his eyes between the man and the cut out, trying to understand what Pretty Man is getting at until he sighs again, pulls down the sleeve of his jacket to reveal…

A tattoo of an ice cream cone, and suddenly it all clicks.

Oh. Oh no. That’s… oh holy ever loving fuck.

“Holy shit!” Eddie exclaims, pointing frantically between Pretty Man and the cardboard. “You’re King S!”

“Yeah. It’s uh, Steve, actually.” Pretty Man, King S, Steve nods, seeming much more shy than he was ten minutes ago. He’s curled his arms around himself, trying to make himself shrink. Eddie feels bad.

“Did you think I was trying to sleep with you because you’re famous?”

“I mean, weren’t you?” Steve won’t meet his eye. Instead he’s staring around the room, taking in all the little details of Eddie’s life.

Eddie takes a step towards him. “No, man. I just thought you were pretty, that’s all.”

“You really didn’t know who I was?” Though he still looks unsure, Steve finally meets his eye.

Eddie shakes his head, coming to a stop in front of Steve. “I didn’t even buy that thing, dude. My friends thought it would be funny because you’re like, the only non-metal artist I listen to.”

Steve smiles at that. He really is so pretty, Eddie can’t help but think. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, man. Heard your first album right after it came out and I was hooked!” Eddie laughs softly. “I used to be a little bit narrow minded when it came to music, but I heard yours and it’s like the world of music blasted wide open.”

A pretty pink blush spreads its way across Steve’s cheeks. “Oh, uh… That’s really cool. I’m glad you like it.”

“I was at your show tonight, actually.”

“You were?”

“Yeah!” He shrugs. “I used to play in a band in high school, we were never very good but I liked to think I had good stage presence, right?” Steve nods and Eddie grins, leaning in a little. “I was nothing compared to you. It was fucking electric, I felt like my skin was buzzing.”

Steve’s smile seems to grow even wider. He sways forward into Eddie’s space, almost unconsciously. “This might be crazy, but do you wanna start over? Forgo the one night stand and just, I don’t know, get coffee or something? I know this cute little 24 hour place, Victoria Street, it’s only a couple blocks away.”

Eddie narrows his eyes a little. “Stevie… barely anyone knows Victoria Street. Are you, dare I say it… local?”

Steve’s cheeks darken even further. “Maybe.”

Eddie laughs. “Then, I’d love to start over. I wanna get to know you as Steve, not King S.”

Steve slips his hand into Eddie’s, tugs him

back towards the door. “God, how much do you know..?”

“I may have read a couple interviews.”

Steve groans, embarrassed, as the door clicks shut behind them.

Then, a few moments later. “Shit! My keys!”

The date goes well. As does the second, and the third, and so on, and so on. They’re officially exclusive by date 7.

Steve meets Chrissy and the boys on date 20. Eddie meets Dustin and Robin, right before date 45.

On date 94, Steve presents his third album to Eddie. There’s a different dedication on the back cover this time.

To E, my love.

——————

taglist: @judasofsuburbia @gothbat99 @cheatghost @flowercrowngods @fastcardotmp3 @simplebtromance @gonzofromspace

lemme know if u wanna be added to a permanent taglist for anything i do in the future, i’m thinkin’ that might be funky :)

#zee writes #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #the adventures of cardboard joe #<— starting that tag just in case 👀

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precious-little-scoundrel · 7 months

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Gigi -the unbaked thots:

• Bath •

Summary: I’ve had so many requests for this universe (including a bath time which this includes) and I appreciate all of y’all’s patience. I find this universe the hardest to write for and create entire scenes and fics out of so in order to keep it from dying out I intend to loosen up a little and start throwing out headcanons for y’all to enjoy in the meantime, you can watch for them with this header above. For now enjoy a trash bit of nastiness I wrote in under an hour in the middle of the night last night -kudos to the minxs @eliseinmemphis and @stylespresleyhearted

Warnings: Explicit! 18+ Bath sexy times, grinding, fingering, praying during sex, age gap, slight degradation, voluntarily drinking bath water containing cum. Yup.

Era: September 1977

Well here they are. On the dreaded tour.

But for now -there are bubbles. So many bubbles. And the heavy rumble of the bath’s jets and the golden glow of the dimmed bathroom lights in the hotel suite and the slippery bulk of Elvis as he grumbles beneath Gigi while she writhes amidst the foam of his rinsed shampoo.

“Sloppiest lil rider I ever-“ his face is shining in a heated glow, he is awash in pink cheeked arousal and Gigi persists, wearing herself out for his little gasps and the twitches of an eyebrow here and there. Bouncing adamantly atop his thick thighs in the swirling water and trying her avid best to slip his fat length inside her. She’s been trying since day one and every time it’s

-“not yet, Gigi, not yet, s’posed to be special and you’re special baby girl, not somethin’ to rush with someone special like you, see, I uh, i-i-it’s special-“

Gigi thinks having his rock solid cock inside her would be special enough.

“ ‘member the other night,

daddy?” She asks him in a huff, winded from the exertion as she pins his throbbing length against himself and grinds her clit against the hairs on his rounded belly, full of desperation born of youthful overexubernace, “remember how -how - when you were teasing me -and you pressed against my little hole?”

Elvis lets out a long groan in reply, slapping his hands against the sides of the tub in sexual frustration, causing his rings to clank and his bracelets to jangle against the porcelain. He can feel himself swell even more, the ache in his balls nearly unbearable at the proximity to snug tightness that he’s been denying himself for a myriad of reasons that are making less and less sense now, the more Gigi’s glossy wet tits slap his face silly.

“Oooh, oh I feel you-“ she gasps, as that redundant piece of meat between his thighs gives a hearty little twitch at the memory of her tiny hole and it’s fluttering need.

“You son of a bitch,” Elvis hisses to his traitorous little friend who’s acting very stalwart in his determination to find nothing but a tight cunt sufficient stimulation for release -it was easier back when little Elvis was a limp and useless dong: “this is the one time i’m asking you not to work. C’mon, don’t fail me now I-I- hell… O-o-our father. Who art in heaven-“

Gigi buries her face into the steamy crease where his cheeks meet his throat and licks at the salt there that not even the bath can remove. His hands fly to grip her hips and he yanks her up and down, grinding harshly against her raw little center as her breasts smash against his broad chest.

He regularly complained to the boys about her voraciousness and got no sympathy, not even when they saw it for themselves with the way he could barely get his seat in the limo, have his water handed to him and a towel before she was taking off his belt, unzipping his jumpsuit and inevitably giving lil Elvis some strong mouth suction. The boys had gotten used to ignoring him dumping a load down this little girl’s throat in the blurry blaze of street lamp lit nights and cranking up the radio to hide her moans every jet flight. Nothing about it was fitting and it wasn’t even to his tastes -so Elvis insisted- but it was real nice to be so wanted, even if the voraciousness of it was all a little alarming and out of hand.

Yet, God knows Elvis wanted Gigi badly. It half scared him sometimes and the rest of the time it kept him alive.

As did Lisa in an entirely different way and between the two girls tearing up his sedate plans for self mortification and permanent hermitage, Elvis found some zest for life returning to his soul as August became September and tabloids went from calling Gigi “the new girl” to calling her his whore and the colonel went from not answering his phone to leaving a perpetual red light on the message box and it went from kisses and snuggles in his Graceland bed to frantic grinding like this after every show that had her caterwauling in his arms begging to be torn open by his cock and him grunting like a bear in heat as he spurted against her belly and smashed the button for the tub jets to stop.

Wouldn’t do to circulate superstar spunk in a Cincinnati hotel jacuzzi.

“Mmm, that feel good daddy?” her sweet voice asks as the singing angels dim and the sense of time and space and his spent cock bring him back into consciousness.

“Uhuh. Feels real good.” he admitted sheepishly and felt her plump lips pressing to his bashful grin.

He returns it, pouring his love into her with the cradling of her head in his hands and the flick of his tongue against hers and the languid massaging of lips.

Gigi swirls the milky strands of his spend in the bath water between them, giggly and invigorated. She gets this way after climaxing and Elvis can only blearily smile and indulge the way she drags him around and makes him stand and get out of the tub, how she pats him down with towels like he’s a boy child and chitters to him about backstage gossip, praises for his performance of the night and Tammy’s latest tips for making Jerry’s life a living orgasmic hell. All while pressing kisses to every single part of his body as she goes along.

She’s found goosey places on Elvis that he didn’t even know existed.

Gigi is drying his shoulders when she sees the last remnants of the tub water cycloning in a swirl towards the drain, precious pearly strings cavorting like ribbons in the eddy.

Her conversational chatter ceases abruptly with a regretful -“oh no!“

She drops the sodden towel.

He watches her kneel, crouched and bent and glorious in a soft line of naked beauty from the back. Thought his maidenly idyl is shattered as she faces away from him and in what seems to be an impulsive moment of adoration, Gigi leans over the tub, hard porcelain lip digging into her sternum as she ducks her head and dips her mouth to the tepid bathwater.

He can hear her slurping.

Her graceful bracing in position and the greedy working of her throat suggest competency at this vile practice that makes his stomach lurch and spent cock swell thickly against his thigh. Without autonomy he hears himself grunt appreciatively.

“Fuuuuck me.” he drawls in disbelief, shuffling closer to watch the whole of it, the working of her sweet mouth sucking up his diluted seman and the arch of her back showcasing pink little pussy lips glistening from the back.

It’s sick and he’s terribly in love.

“That’s my good baby girl,” he finds himself praising this heinous degradation, hand coming to rest on the dip of her lower back, “not lettin’ m’lil contrition go to waste.”

It makes her strain to get as deep in the tub as she can, legs taut and face red from the blood rushing downwards to her cheeks as she chases gravity against the flow of the drain, his hand heavy and encouraging as it palms her ass, the pinch of his rings and the grunting, savage, male appreciation for her wantonness making her squeeze her thighs together in hopeless dissatisfaction.

A sting jolts her as his hand collides in an approving slap across her plush backside. The desire to make him proud eggs her on and she crawls further over the ledge, hair dragging in the drain.

Elvis’ hand once groping her butt moves until he’s peeling her apart and sliding in the long lengths of his middle and ring finger into her tight heat, meanly stabbing inside her as she’s bent double, tonguing at the drain for the last of his essence.

“You done this before.” Elvis’ voice is low, without a shred of questioning.

“Yes.” she moans, rosy cheek pressed to the wet floor of the now empty tub. “I always do this when you leave some left over, daddy.”

Elvis watches his fingers sink into pink plushness again and again, rings acting like stoppers at each culmination, spearing her until Gigi is sobbing and spasming over the tub edge, mouth wide open screaming for him with a tongue white from his spend, as broken as he is over the need to fuck her.

Sore and puffy, he assumes he’s learned her a lesson.

Standing her back up tenderly with all gentlemanly grace, Elvis wipes at her slimy cheek with his hands, pleased to find her smile as irrepressible as ever, the only thing on this godforsaken tour that hasn’t disappointed him yet.

“When is soon?” she whines into his kisses as he presses against her, bath quite redundant with the way he has her pinned between the door and his weeping cock, freshly spluttering his devotion against her bare pubic mound like he’s twenty years younger and fit to be such a minx’s lover.

“What?” He questions, murmuring in happy confusion.

“You said you’d make love to me soon.” she insists like a child reminding their senile parent of promises for ice cream after a trip to the dentist. “When is soon?”

Elvis grins through his grunt as he slides against her puffy clit, effortless from her slick and close to coming from images of her drinking his bath- “Soon, little baby,” he pronounces with all the gravity of a wiseman and the authority of a deadly opponent who his hand engulfing her fragile jaw, “-means soon.”

🏷🏷🏷🏷🏷🏷🏷🏷

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oftenwantedafton · 2 months

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the long way home | steve raglan x female reader

inspired by @arkarti ’s ongoing fanart series

rating | explicit

words | 4.7k

cw | sexual content

ao3 link

It’s the worst sort of luck, breaking down in the middle of nowhere.

The only saving grace is that it happens in the early morning, just after sunrise. You walk that dusty interstate road for what feels like hours. You have cowboy boots on that are meant to be flashy, not really proper footwear. Your heels are killing you and the sand that decorates the barren landscape feels like it has seeped into every pore and crevice. You can taste it, feel its grit in your hair and on your skin. The sun beats down and you’re grateful that you at least have sunglasses to shield your eyes. You’ve got your hair pinned up but it doesn’t really help with the heat much. You’re drenched in sweat that makes your tshirt cling to an even wetter bra and your skirt drags against damp thighs with every step. Sheer misery and yet you plod on, because you can’t—won’t—go back where you came from. There is just the promise of something more, moving forward.

You think you hear an engine and turn your head. The road has that shimmery haze to it, making it difficult to discern if there is anything moving over that lift of pavement you’d navigated awhile back. It’s getting larger, closer, so you decide it’s not a mirage after all. The vehicle is the same color as the ground you’ve grown to detest trodding over, a bland beige shade with a slightly darker interior. You grind to a halt and the sedan slows and pulls onto the shoulder, the tires dipping off the asphalt and onto the dirt.

You’ve been taught never to pick up hitchhikers, but not what to do when faced with the prospect of being one. Your steps are cautious as you approach the parked car. You haven’t gotten a good look at the driver yet, not that that was any clear indication of their intentions. Looks could be deceiving. Anyone could be dangerous.

The man—you can see it’s a male now, behind the wheel—leans over and cranks the handle of the window around, the glass descending and disappearing from view. He’s got a long sleeve shirt on which seems a poor choice given the climate, but you can feel the cool waft of air that emanates from within. The car has air conditioning. You find yourself taking an involuntary step closer towards that promised land. To be away from the sun. To feel a cool breeze. You’re not sure you can resist that kind of temptation.

“Need a ride?” It seems a foolish question. Of course you did. You’re hardly out for a leisurely stroll. “That was your car back there, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, she quit on me.”

“That’s a shame.”

The man’s voice is pleasant. You like the sound of it. There’s a rasp to it, combined with something else that’s difficult to describe. You notice he’s wearing a tie to go with the shirt. A traveling salesman, maybe? He’s got that demeanor. Smooth talker. Neatly trimmed facial hair, the same blend of salt and pepper as the rest. Glasses. Friendly smile that makes the lines around his eyes crinkle, becoming more pronounced. Dimples, too. You know you’re staring and you know it’s rude. You shuffle your feet, kicking up a little cloud of dust.

“I’m happy to give you a lift somewhere. I promise I’m not a serial killer.” He chuckles softly and you join him, relaxing slightly. The driver seems innocent enough. Maybe you’re just being paranoid.

Still you hesitate. You glance back the way you came. You look ahead. It all looks the same. So far to travel on foot. It was almost midday. The temperature was rising. It isn’t just about discomfort; it’s dangerous to your health, being out here like this.

“I’ve got water. Ice has melted by now, but…”

It’s the final shove you need. You lift the chrome handle and settle inside, cranking the window back up. The shift in the temperature is incredible. The shade. You murmur your gratitude. A thermos is pressed into your hands.

“Make sure you put your seatbelt on. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” You finish gulping down the drink he’s gifted to you. Best damn thing you’ve ever tasted. You hastily jerk on the nylon strap, securing it over your shoulder and across your waist, the buckle settling into place with a satisfying click. You offer to return the drink, secretly glad when he insists you finish it.

You drain that container so fast your stomach aches. The ice hadn’t melted that much, actually. You keep the leftovers in your mouth, allowing them to dissolve. You squirm a bit, your feet still uncomfortable.

“Take those off, if you want.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry if my feet stink. I wasn’t planning on walking so much in them.” You bend and tug each one off, sighing in relief. Your bare feet curl against the shallowly carpeted floor mat. Sheer bliss, except those tender spots you’re pretty sure might be forming blisters. You’re not going to prod them just yet to verify.

“Thanks again for giving me a lift.” You introduce yourself.

“No problem. I was heading in this direction anyway. No reason not to. Put the radio on if you want. Or take a nap.”

You’re not sure sleeping is the best idea right now, as weary as you are. The man is still a stranger. So you opt for the first choice, fiddling with the dials until you find a station with a decent signal. Not really your type of music, but at least it’s background noise. You let your head tip back into the cradle of the head rest. Your eyes shut. You’re only going to rest them for a moment.

You fall asleep.

***

You jerk awake, suddenly aware the vehicle has stopped.

There’s a definite trail of drool leaking from the corner of your mouth. You swipe at it hastily, straightening in your seat, your eyes darting around frantically. You’re suddenly thinking of the drink you’d been offered. Drugged? How stupid and careless can you be?

No. You’re mistaken, surely. Just tired. You can see you’re at a gas station. He’d stopped at a gas station. Nothing wrong with that.

You struggle to shove your feet—yes, those are blisters, a matching set for each foot—back into your boots, depressing the button to release the seat belt’s buckle, the restraint making a little whining sound as it retracts back into its plastic casing mounted on the side of the car. You push the passenger door open and it creaks in protest. You’re not about to pass up a chance to use the restroom, as vile as it probably is, and grab yourself a drink and a snack.

The man giving you a lift emerges from the store, and you realize then just how tall he is, mostly legs that go on forever. He’s got a rolling sort of walk that draws your attention to his hips. Your cheeks flush and you force yourself to look at somewhere safer, fixing back on his face. There’s a piece of cherry licorice between his teeth, shiny red twined ropes tucked through a barrier of even white, the pocket of his shirt bulging with what looks like a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of soda in hand. “Hey. I was going to wake you, just wanted to give you a chance to rest a bit more. You were really worn out.”

“Yeah, I guess I was.”

“Want something from inside? My treat.”

“No, I…I got it. You don’t mind waiting?”

“Not at all.”

“Th…thanks. I won’t be long.” You duck inside the shop to get a key for the restroom. It’s attached to a comically large piece of scrap wood. You unlock the restroom door and push it open with trepidation. Okay, not terrible. Seems relatively clean. Certainly not the grossest you’ve seen. No paper towels in the dispenser, but at least there was toilet paper. Even soap in the pump on the wall. Definitely could have been worse.

You return the key and peruse the aisles quickly, aware the man is still waiting for you. You decide water is still the best for hydration, opting for a package of mini powdered donuts for a snack. Not the healthiest option, but hey, you think you’ve earned it considering the day you’ve had.

Back inside the sedan, you slide the seatbelt back into place. You shove your feet free of the boots again and crack the plastic wrapper off the water bottle. It’s one of those ones with the nozzles you pull up and down to open and close it. You take a long pull and get started on the donuts. Your companion has made short work of the candy, chewing and staring at nothing in particular. He reaches for the pack—cigarettes, just as you’d suspected—in his shirt pocket and pulls the bit of red plastic tab that marks where to unravel the wrapper. He glances over at you as if to ask if you mind and you shrug. It’s not really your place to tell the owner of the vehicle you’re in if he can or can’t indulge.

He leans and pushes in the cigarette lighter on the dashboard, slotting one of the paper rolls between his lips while he’s waiting. For a time you sit in companionable silence, you nibbling on your donuts, your fingers and lips already dusted in powdered sugar, while the older man lights the end of his cigarette and takes a deep inhale, sighing the smoke out of the open window. You’re surprised he’s a smoker, honestly; his teeth look too pearly white for that. Maybe it was something he only did rarely, when the mood struck him. Traveling with a young female hitchhiker, perhaps.

You demolish the contents of the package in your lap embarrassingly quickly. You’d been starving. You lick the white coating off your fingers and lips and feel the man’s eyes on you as you crumple the plastic packaging in a tight ball. He points to the center console, where the lone vacant cup holder holds spare change and a faded looking receipt, the other occupied by his soda. You deposit your trash there and take another sip from your bottle, staring out the window. The engine rumbles to life. You hear the window crank being rotated and you copy the man, closing your own. The cool air soon returns, drafting welcomingly over your skin. The car is moving again. You’re on your way once more.

***

When the sun starts to go down, things feel different.

Maybe it’s because the radio signal has finally gone out of range. You tire of working your way through bursts of static and finally shut it off.

You wonder if the driver is getting tired at all.

He doesn’t seem it, his eyes focused on the road his headlights reveal, his posture still straight and upright. You don’t know how he maintains it. You can’t stop squirming, trying to get comfortable. Your ass hurts and your legs are cramped and you just want a shower and any even remotely flat surface that can serve as a bed.

“You never mentioned where you wanted to go.”

His voice startles you. It’s been so long since either of you has spoken. You’d forgotten how his sounded. That pleasant gravel drag.

“Hurricane. But I know that’s still a ways ahead. I don’t expect you to take me all the way there.”

“What’s in Hurricane?”

“Not what. Who. My sister.”

He grunts. “I’m going to Hurricane as well.”

“Really? Why?”

“That’s where I live. Where my business is.”

“What business is that?”

“Restaurant.”

“Really? Which one?”

“What do you think about stopping here for the night?” He gestures and you look through the windshield, seeing the lights of a motel glowing like a beacon against the growing darkness.

“Uh, yeah. I guess so.”

The turn signal taps in a rhythm that sounds a little too rapid, matching your elevated heart rate. You’re feeling nervous again. Mistrustful, although if the man had wanted to take advantage of you, he certainly could have done so before now.

He pulls into one of the empty spots in front of the office that shares a similar bit of crimson neon to match the motel’s vacancy sign. You speak before he exits the car, feeling pressured to say something before this continues any further.

“I’m grateful for the ride, and I know you’ve been nothing but kind this far, and I appreciate it. I might…I might just see if my sister can come pick me up tomorrow. I hope you’re not offended.”

He pauses, his fingers still curled around the door handle. “If that’s what you want.” You nod. “Alright, then. I guess this is where we part ways. Good luck to you, miss.”

“Thanks. You, too.” You’re suddenly feeling guilty. He really was just a nice guy trying to help a stranded woman out. He didn’t deserve this kind of treatment. “Maybe I’ll visit your restaurant, leave a generous tip for—” The door shuts and you cease talking. Well. That was one way to end a conversation.

You pull the boots back on and exit the car for what you think will be the final time. Your traveling companion is already inside, speaking to the man behind the counter. You can see the rows of keys with red tags hooked on the wall behind him. The man turns and pulls two down while the driver scribbles into a book on the counter. There’s a faint jingling of bells to announce your arrival, and the man passes you without a word.

“I need a room please. Single.” Your eyes glance down at the log book. You can’t read the signature of your benefactor. He still hasn’t told you his name.

“You’re all set, miss. Paid up by your friend there.” He waggles his eyebrows and nods towards the door.

“Oh, he’s not…”

“No?” The smile on the man’s features is far too suggestive. You grab the key off the counter, turning to leave.

“Sign the book, please. Then you can go to your room. Or your friend’s. Both paid for, so it’s all the same to me.” Another smug smile. You hurriedly scrawl your signature and exit the office, feeling your cheeks burn.

Your heels are loud on the decking that lines the front of the motel rooms. You glance down at the number printed on the tag, a chipped white six greeting your vision.

Your steps slow when you reach the correct door. The sedan is parked in front of the door beside yours. Of course the motel manager has given you rooms next to each other. Of course he has.

The man is apparently already inside the room, the car empty. You insert the key in the lock and shut the door, sliding the chain across. You close the blinds and turn to survey your surroundings. About what you’d expected. Dated furniture that felt straight out of the seventies. A carpet that badly needed to be replaced. You hoped there weren’t bed bugs. Gross.

You stride over to the bathroom. Chipped sink. Chipped toilet. Chipped tub too, but you don’t really care. You crank the faucet and let the water pour out, hastily reaching to plug the drain. You’re finally back out of that accursed footwear. Your clothes pile on the floor. Maybe not the best idea, but you’re too desperate to get into the tub just then.

It’s heaven. Sheer bliss, submerging yourself in that basin. You spend a long time soaking, letting your body temperature decrease. Scrubbing away the dirt that has clung so stubbornly to your skin. Rinsing your hair twice. You linger until your fingers prune and then you unplug the drain and turn on the shower, rinsing off a final time. You don’t have anything clean to sleep in, but you’ll survive. You’d wash your clothes in the sink, but it will take time to dry them. So back on the shirt and panties go. You leave your bra and skirt draped over the shower curtain rod. Fuck those boots.

You put the television on low volume and flip back the flower patterned coverlet. Well, it seemed insect free, anyway. You sink onto the mattress and pile the pillows together behind your head. You don’t hear any noise from next door. The room on the other side looked unoccupied, and the driver’s…well, maybe he’d just gone to bed.

He’d paid for your room. You had to thank him, at least. Damn it.

You slide back out of bed, returning to the bathroom to slip on your bra and skirt, cringing when you view those hated boots again. Fuck it. You’ll risk going barefoot. Knowing your luck you’ll step on a rusty nail and get tentanus, but fuck it.

You open your door, startled when you see the man standing outside. He’s leaning against one of the deck posts, smoking again. The end of the cigarette glows in the darkness.

“Thank you for paying for my room. You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I’m aware.” He barely spares you a glance, blowing a stream of smoke and flicking the ashes from the end of the cylinder pinched between his fingers.

“You should let me pay you back. There’s a liquor store just down the road.”

“I noticed that.”

“I’ll treat you. Pick your poison.”

His eyes focus on you again, his gaze lingering on your bare feet. “I don’t think they’ll let you inside like that.”

“I’ll put the boots back on,” you grumble.

The man hums thoughtfully. “Tell you what. I’ll go get something and bring it back here to share.”

“But then that’s you doing me a favor again.”

“Yes.”

“So then I’ll owe you even more.”

“I’m not keeping track. That’s you doing that.”

You chew your bottom lip. “Why did you pay for my room?”

He shrugs, taking another drag. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”

You don’t have a response for that. Everything the man did just made you feel more and more ashamed for doubting his intentions.

“What do you want to drink?”

“I…beer is fine.”

“Then beer it is.” The remains of the cigarette land on the pavement and the man steps off the deck, grinding it beneath his heel. “I’ll be right back.”

You nod, settling into the one of the cheap plastic chairs beside a small circular table that served as a patio set. You can hear the faint hum of insects, or maybe it’s the neon signs. It’s still hot. The pleasant effects of your bath are already fading.

True to his word, the man returns with a case, setting it on the table and sitting across from you. He’s loosened his tie so that it drapes in a lazy knot around his neck. It doesn’t look like he’s sampled the motel’s plumbing just yet. He rips a hole through the carboard box and hands you one of the bottles before taking his own. Chilled, and already sweating. You wrap the hem of your shirt over the cap and twist it off. You take a sip and hear the satisfied sigh of your companion as he does the same.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” you say, fiddling with the metal cap with the crimped edges, spinning it on the table’s surface. There isn’t much room with the beer case there.

“It’s Steve.”

“Steve,” you repeat. “Steve what?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“In case I decide to look you up. You know, to pay you back.”

He waves a hand in the air dismissively. “You didn’t see what I wrote in the logbook?”

“Your handwriting is atrocious.”

Steve clutches his chest, sucking in his breath dramatically. “I’m deeply offended.”

“You’re not. Why won’t you tell me? Is it a big secret?”

“Maybe. Maybe I’m a celebrity, just trying to live like the common folk.” He takes a pull from the bottle.

“Yeah, sure. Just like the rest of us losers.” You pause. “You’re handsome enough to be an actor. Got the voice for it. I can kind of see it, actually.” The compliment slips from your lips before you can think better of it.

“Flattery, now? I don’t think my heart can take this much stress.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Probably.” He finishes the bottle and reaches for another.

“So out with it, Mister Movie Star. What is it?”

“Raglan.”

“See? Was that so difficult? Nice to meet you, Steven Raglan.”

“Not Steven. Just Steve.”

“Okay. Just Steve.” You finish your bottle and colllect another. “How come you’re so chatty all of a sudden? You didn’t say five words to me all day. Are you that much of a lightweight?” You gesture with the beer bottle.

“Hardly. I was concentrating on the road.”

“You could’ve talked more.”

“I apologize for not making your ride more entertaining.” He stands, resuming his position leaning against the post again. You rise as well, noting you are the actual lightweight, already feeling a bit lightheaded. Blame the empty stomach. You pad over to stand beside him. “I thought you wanted privacy. It’s not my place to ask for details about your life.”

You consider that. “You think I’m being nosy.”

“No. Not really.” He swallows another mouthful of beer. “You don’t trust me.”

“I…I’m being cautious. A woman stranded in the middle of nowhere should be, don’t you agree?”

“Of course.”

“If it was your wife, or daughter…”

He smirks. “Clever way to source the information you want. I’m no longer married. Children are grown. It’s just me. The handsome movie star, all alone.”

“Okay, okay.” You nudge his arm playfully.

“What about you?”

“Single as a Pringle,” you quip.

“That’s a new development, isn’t it? What you’re leaving behind.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“I’m good at reading people.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

You pull the now empty bottle from his hands and place it along with yours down on the table, selecting two more. You hand one to him and take a long sip from yours. They’re going down so smooth. You don’t even really like beer all that much. It’s making you feel warm and you hate that, but you like the buzz and you like the company, too.

“Okay, since you’re so insightful, tell me what I’m thinking right now?” You fold your arms across your chest, smirking after issuing the challenge. You’d meant it to be playful, but the look he gives you as he turns to face you holds no humor. Those blue eyes capture yours and trap them.

“You’re hoping your sister is more welcoming than you remember, because when you left, you weren’t on the best of terms. You’re hoping you can find a job soon and get back on your own two feet again. Relying on your ex so much was a mistake. You hate asking for help, even if you need it desperately. You—”

“—Stop.” You cut him off. “Don’t…don’t say that. You don’t know that. You don’t know me.”

“Alright.” Another shrug. He swallows more beer.

“How do you know so much?” Your voice is soft.

“I told you. I have a way with people.”

“You should be a fortune teller. Or one of those televangelists. Spouting prophecies that are actually real.”

“I despise religion. And I don’t predict the future. I just…understand people. Their motives. Even the ones they’re too ashamed to admit to.”

You’re not sure how to respond. The conversation is shifting, no longer light and comfortable and teasing.

“That’s why I don’t talk much. People don’t like hearing the truth,” he concludes, polishing off the rest of the alcoholic beverage he’s clutching. “I’m going to say goodnight now. It’s been a long day. Again, good luck.”

“Wait.” Your hand clutches his sleeve. “Let me…let me try it. What you just did.”

“You think you know all my secrets? Okay, I’ll indulge you. Go ahead.”

You lick your lips. “You’re coming back from somewhere you didn’t want to go, but you’re not exactly eager to get home, either. You’re tired of your business. You’re probably good at it, but it’s boring. Monotonous. You’ve always played by the rules. You long to break them, just once. See how the other half lives.”

His mouth curves slightly. “A nice attempt. But way off. Goodnight.”

He’s back at his door, hand reaching for the brass knob.

“You’re name isn’t really Steve Raglan.”

His fingers freeze. You see his shoulder blades stiffen beneath the dress shirt. He turns back to face you. Smiling again, but this one is darker, less friendly. “Good. That’s good. Clever girl.”

“What else have you lied about?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

You take a step closer to him. “Tell me now.”

“Why don’t you just ask for what you really want instead of playing this tedious game?”

Your mouth gapes, then snaps shut. “I don’t know what you’re…”

“This,” he breathes, dragging you to him, his lips touching yours.

Any protest you might have murmured dies. You melt against him, sink hands into hair that feels as dusty as yours had earlier, clutch handfuls of the rumpled fabric of his shirt that had undoubtedly started out the day crisply pressed and neatly tucked. He tastes like the beer he’s just consumed and the cigarette from earlier and you savor it all, letting him lick your mouth open for discovery. You’re shoved against the door and it strikes you again how tall he is, how much he towers over you. Those large hands already display more finesse than anything you’ve previously known, stroking over every curve, mapping each sensation. You hear the doorknob rattle as he fumbles it open, keeping you secured, not letting you tumble back into the sudden void at your back. His room is dark and he shoves you down onto the bed that’s still made. You wonder what he’d done while you’d been lingering in your own bathtub for all that time.

He’s at your neck and you’re at his pants and somehow you manage the belt and the fly while your skirt is lifted, panties tugged down. You’re not thinking about anything other than the need screaming between your legs, hot and damp and urgent, whimpering when you feel his cock pressing against your entrance. You’re not even sure if he’s shut the motel door in his haste to be at you.

He slides out of you almost as soon as he’s begun—you’re so wet and slippery—and he grabs your hips and shoves you back, leaning his body weight against you, and this time he fills you to the hilt. You wrap your legs around him and roll your hips to match his momentum, your mouth brushing facial hair before reconnecting with his lips. You’re fucking a stranger that lied about his name and you don’t care; it makes it better somehow, not really knowing. You don’t want to get caught up in details, in feelings again this soon. This man can be anything and everything and if it only lasts for tonight that’s fine, too.

His mouth tucks beside your ear and he whispers to you in that wonderful rusted voice of his, the hand slithering between your bodies stroking you just right, lighting those nerves up. He’s urging you to let go and you do, your body taut and then ragdoll limp as he pumps you full of his own release. You’re sticky, sweaty, pressed against him but you remain there, tucked now beside him, panting and spent and feeling better than you have in a long time.

You’ve nearly drifted off to sleep when you hear his voice again, or perhaps this is merely a dream, asking if you need a ride for the remainder of your journey.

You offer an affirmative answer, then inquire the last of your drowsy thoughts, asking if he might take the long way home.

You don’t hear an answer, already asleep. But that’s alright.

You can ask again in the morning.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan x you #divider @cafekitsune

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whereianonymouslypostfics · 1 year

Text

K.O.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Word count: ~1.1k

Summary: Training quickly devolves into something more fun. Part 2 of Training. I’m jumping the gun because I have a feeling I know who’s going to win the poll. 👀 If not I have the other one done too 😉

A/N: :) 18+ only please

Warnings: smut

You knew that you would end up regretting your cockiness almost immediately. Now; however, as you we lying on your back in the middle of the ring you realize that you probably should have been more gracious. That said, you couldn’t complain too much because the view from here was very nice.

Wanda was on top of you straddling your hips as she smiled down at you. She held your hands in hers, pinning them by your head as she looked to you with a smug grin.

“What was it you said about getting me underneath you?”

You have to clamp your mouth shut so you don’t groan at how poorly you’d judged your wife’s intentions. You shift slightly trying to roll her off you, but she just holds you down firmly as she tilts her head in question.

“I thought you were going to impress me, detka?”

You actually groan at this and you frown in frustration. You wait until Wanda shifts her weight before you try again to roll her over. You only partially succeed and Wanda manages to jump to her feet as soon as you do. You run at her and throw a punch that’s aimed at her shoulder because you couldn’t stand hitting Wanda in the face, but she dodges it easily and grabs your arm to pull you forward.

You almost lose your balance but you spin and side-step your wife so you end up behind her. You don’t get to try anything however before Wanda elbows you sharply in the stomach.

“Ow! Ruude.”

You double over and groan dramatically as Wanda just turns to face you with an unimpressed look. You just smile at her before holding out your hand that Wanda looks at with a frown. You wait until she grabs your hand and you shake it with a cheeky smile before you’re twisting your wife’s arm and kicking her knees out from under her.

Wanda hisses in more surprise than pain because you don’t crank on her arm as much as you normally would. She still has to take a moment to catch her breath when you push her forward so she’s staring at her knees.

“Give up yet?”

Wanda shakes her head before she goes to reach for something at her waistband. She ends up just turning and punching you in the stomach, but the message is clear.

“No because I can still stab you with this hand, Y/n.”

You sigh in defeat realizing your mistake before you nod in agreement. You pretend like you’re injured from Wanda’s ‘knife’ before falling onto your knees.

“Okay, that’s fair.”

Wanda watches more amused than anything else as you topple over with a dramatic groan and fall onto your back. You both realize in that moment that you’re not really in the mood to train. You thought you’d wanted to blow off steam, but you realize that there is a much more fun way to do this.

“You don’t seem very motivated, milaya.”

You smile as Wanda walks over towards you and reaches out a hand to help you up. You shrug as you admit that you’re not feeling it at the moment. Wanda just laughs at this as she pulls her hand away as she reconsiders. She takes advantage of your position on the ground and decides that she wants to humor you. Wanda’s on her knees and hovering over you before you can ask what’s on her mind. Her eyes are bright as she looks you over appreciatively before leaning in.

“Are you going to deprive me of watching you sweat because I was really looking forward to it?”

You are certainly sweating now as your wife kisses your cheek as she climbs on top of you with a smile. You hiss as she shifts against your hips before sliding up to settle on your stomach. You groan loudly as Wanda grinds against your tense muscles. You reach up to put your hands on her waist, but they’re only there for a millisecond before your wife pins them down.

“No touching.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Wanda cuts you off as she kisses you deeply. You moan as Wanda starts to rock against you more insistently. Your fingers flex and you consider trying to break free from your wife’s grasp, but Wanda reads your mind and holds you tighter. You break away from the kiss to breathe, and you can’t stop yourself from bucking your hips uselessly as you practically feel Wanda pulse against you.

“Fuck, Wands. You’re—”

You’d intended to say that she was amazing, that she looked beautiful from where she sat above you with her flushed face and parted lips. She bites her lip to stifle a breathy moan as she starts to move faster against you as her pleasure starts to peak.

“Mhmm, you feel so good, Y/n.”

Wanda’s eyes are squeezed shut so she can’t see your pained expression as you try to free your hands once again. Wanda stops what she’s doing despite it being torture for you both and she shoots you a stern look. You’re gasping for breath and nearly vibrating from the urge to reach out and touch, but you realize your mistake as soon as Wanda frowns at you.

“You’re being bad, detka. Do you want to see me come or not?”

That’s hardly a question and you nod furiously as Wanda shifts so she can hold your hands above your head. She leans over and pecks your lips before she starts rocking again.

“Stay.”

You do as you’re told and you desperately try to ignore the ache between your legs as your wife continues to use you to get off. It’s only a minute or so later that Wanda’s hips start to stutter and she lets out a gasp. Her body jerks to a stop and you feel her orgasm soak you through her leggings.

“Fuck.”

Wanda stills above you so she can catch her breath before she looks down at you with a smile. She kisses you again before releasing your hands which immediately go to her hips. She doesn’t argue this time and she kisses you thoroughly before she hisses as you squeeze your wife’s ass.

“Do you want to continue this upstairs?”

All you can think about is getting your hands on Wanda and watching her lose herself to her pleasure again and again. You quickly get to your feet with a nod and you help Wanda get out of the ring before quickly leading her out of the room with a grin.

“You know I do.”

Masterlist

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda x reader #wanda x you #silver springs #silver springs drabble #silver springs au

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skzmix · 2 years

Text

violet.

⇥ info: jeongin + car sex; explicit smut

If anyone asked Jeongin why he went through the trouble of getting his drivers license (and failing the test no less than three times), he would openly reply, “So I can do whatever I want.”

Of course, he left out the part about wanting to fuck you in said car.

The whole dating an idol thing came with its unique set of challenges, the worst being finding ways to be intimate without the risk of getting caught.

A car solved a lot of those problems.

You crawled back into the front seat, still shaking a little, and adjusted your mini skirt, painfully aware that your panties were somewhere in the back after having been tossed carelessly by your boyfriend.

Jeongin emerged from the backseat after you, climbing behind the wheel and cranking up the air conditioning. Both of you were sweating. Both of you were panting heavily for breath.

“Fuck,” you rasped, combing your messy hair out of your face with both hands.

“Yeah,” Jeongin said, slumping tiredly in the seat.

You were leaning back against the door, your bare legs draped across the console in the middle. Your mind was still racing with what had just happened. Finally getting to be alone with your boyfriend, the two of you didn’t even have the patience to get all of your clothes off.

Jeongin fucked you so hard and rough that you could feel the car rocking underneath you. Not that you cared. You locked your legs around his hips, dug your fingers into his arms to the point of leaving bruises in your wake, and begged him to go even faster.

You felt yourself settling down now, heart slowing back to normal rhythm. Though it fluttered again when Jeongin’s fingertips began tracing up your thigh.

Jeongin couldn’t help it. Your legs were right there, just asking to be touched. Only a moment ago they had been wrapped around his waist. Biting his lip, Jeongin smoothed his palm up your inner thigh, vanishing beneath your skirt.

You tipped your head back and cried out the moment his thumb found your sensitive clit and rubbed. Reaching down, you grabbed his wrist, stopping his movements, and whined, “You don’t play fair.”

“Neither do you.”

His voice was low and taunting, and riled you up (as was his intention). You met his eyes, fighting a smirk, and made for the backseat again.

Jeongin was right behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and falling onto the seat with you beneath him. You made a noise of surprise that quickly turned into a moan when his hands began to knead your breasts over your shirt.

You tried to strip out of your top as best you could being on your stomach with his weight on top of you. Jeongin helped and started kissing across your shoulders, grinding his cock against your ass to get himself fully hard again.

Your boyfriend grunted when you reached behind, getting a fistful of his hair, and drifted his kisses to your neck, making you purr. You bounced your hips a little, feeling his stiff cock rubbing at your folds.

“Baby, put it in,” you whined impatiently, squirming underneath him. God, you sounded pathetic. You felt like a pair of horny, hormonal teenagers going at it.

But could anyone blame you? You went weeks at a time without seeing each other, without his kisses or his touches. You had to make the most of what little time you had together.

Jeongin said nothing. He didn’t have the patience or the restraint to drag this out or tease you like he wanted to. Instead, he steered his length into your entrance and pressed inside, bracing a hand on the nape of your neck to pin you to the seat.

“Fuck,” you moaned, digging your fingernails into whatever you could reach. He fit inside you so good, stretching you out just right.

Jeongin propped himself over you and started to thrust, hips slapping into your ass. He tangled your hair in his fist, mouth watering at how pliant and submissive you were underneath him, taking his cock.

You smirked when he swore in his mother tongue. It was all so raw and primal; you couldn’t get enough of it. Jeongin was taking pleasure from your body and leaving you swollen and sore.

Jeongin moaned when you bucked your hips into his, trying to match his rhythm, wanting every last inch of him inside you. You were so tight and wet he couldn’t stand it.

Totally worth all those times he had to take that goddamn driving test.

You wrestled with your boyfriend just long enough to get on your hands and knees, steadying yourself as he drilled into you. Still sensitive from the first round, you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to release.

Jeongin tugged on your hair, watching you throw yourself back on him, and asked, “You close, baby?”

“Yes.”

Jeongin let go of your hair in favor of your hips, slamming into you as your moans pitched higher and higher.

You came with a cry of his name, shaking with orgasm and falling back onto the seat as your body lost control. Jeongin coaxed you through it, his cock filling you with another load that made his thrusts even wetter.

A minute or two later, you were crawling back into the front seat again, desperate for the air conditioning to blast on your face, chilling the sweat on your neck.

Jeongin slumped in the back, still reeling. “What time is it?” he asked curiously.

You glanced at the clock on the dashboard and chuckled, telling him, “Half past midnight.”

“Jesus, we’ve been at this for an hour?” he exclaimed.

You nodded, giggling. He had parked at this spot almost fifty minutes ago.

Jeongin willed himself to find the energy to get behind the wheel, clambering into the front seat with nothing on but his pants.

You snorted, realizing you were both half naked and neither of you had the motivation to get dressed.

Jeongin tilted his head back, eyes getting heavier. He let out a loud sigh and mumbled, “Maybe we should just crash here.”

“Not a good idea,” you replied quickly.

“Why not?”

“I need a bathroom.”

Jeongin chuckled softly and came toward you, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. Then, sadness washed over his face and he straightened up behind the wheel, telling you to put on your seatbelt as he drove out of the old vacant lot.

You said nothing, simply stealing glances of him and his swollen lips before looking back out at the lights of the city at night.

Eventually, Jeongin pulled up outside your apartment building. He reached over, running a finger affectionately across your cheek.

You smiled at the gesture, taking his hand and kissing the top of his knuckles cutely, and asked though you already knew the answer, “Wanna come up?”

“I wish I could,” he said softly, frowning. “I really, really wish I could.” The longing in his voice was unmistakable.

You guided his hand to cup your face, leaning against it, and told him, “This is just temporary, Innie. One day, we won’t have to hide.”

Jeongin nodded, but he didn’t seem convinced. “I hate loving and leaving you,” he whispered, cradling your head in both hands and closing the distance to kiss you.

“I can take it,” you flirted, giving him a smirk that made your sulky boyfriend crack a smile. Kissing him one more time, this time a little harder, you gathered the rest of your things and wished your boyfriend goodnight.

Jeongin watched you go, making sure you were safe and sound inside before driving away. He was stuck in his head for a while, beating himself up for fucking you and then taking you home.

He wanted to cuddle. He wanted to wake up in your arms. He wanted to take you out on fancy dates, for fuck’s sake. He wanted to constantly get in trouble for excessive public displays of affection.

He wanted the whole world to know how in love he was with you.

Jeongin returned to the dorms, pouting harder than ever. Reaching into the backseat to grab his shirt, the tension was effectively broken when he burst into laughter.

You had forgotten your panties.

~ 🌹

#jeongin #stray kids #jeongin smut #stray kids smut #skz smut #jeongin x reader #skz x reader #jeongin imagines #skz imagines

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abigailmoment · 7 months

Text

Underdark, Reprise

(Content Warnings: Grievous Injury, Compound Fracture, Predatory Instincts, Fantasy First Aid) "You'll sink it if you try that," Astarion said, making a shooing motion, warning the huge bear further back from the comparatively delicate boat. "You are absolutely going to need to go back to being a little less massive and marginally less hairy."

The bear was pensively examining the boat and seemed to come to the same conclusion. He made a grumbling sort of huffing noise that sounded maybe slightly anxious?

Then he backed up so that he was back on the stone part of the dock. He sat down. He exhaled slowly. And then he turned back into Halsin.

The air was immediately filled with the smell of blood.

Halsin's skin was mottled with bruising and scratches to the point where it took Astarion a surreal moment to really recognize him. There was a hole in him, on the right side of his chest in the bridge where breast met stomach, punched through his leather armor. Whatever had made the hole had been pushed out, probably by the sudden manifestation of bear. So it bled immediately and freely.

Halsin moved, trying to reach for something on his belt. Then he made a guttural, pained noise because the hand he'd reached with was the dense apex of all the bruising on his right side. Purple black and lumpy in a way a hand should not be.

He reached instead with his left hand. He managed to open the pouch and fish out a bandage which he pressed immediately against the hole in his chest.

"Astarion," he said, and there was a patina of managed suffering coloring his voice. "I am going to need your help."

Oh Gods. He looked half dead. And he smelled amazing. And Astarion was going to have to get closer to him. And not...

And exercise a modicum of self-control. And help.

For the sake of this story we're ignoring the existence of the fast-travel points. Sorry Gale.

Full text below.

Full Text On AO3

The fundamental idea had been a good one. The Harpers at the Last Light Inn needed supplies and equipment. And as it happened, the inn was quite close to an elevator that led down to a recently evacuated duergar camp full of supplies and equipment. All the party needed to do was gather things into the lift, crank the lift to the surface, and make a quick jaunt through the Shadowlands.

The second step in that sequence turned out to be the weak point in the plan. It was at times like these they all felt the lack from not having a dwarf in the group. A dwarf might have noticed the creaking metal, or diagnosed why the crank that lowered and raised the elevator was becoming increasingly hard to turn.

The agonizing part was that they'd been almost done. Finished with crates and weapons, finished with braziers and torches. They hadn't even meant to do this last run, but Astarion had discovered that one of the executed drow had a Harper pin hidden in a pocket. Halsin had thought that they should bring the body to Jaheira. And Astarion had yet to his witness Tav refuse to do anything Halsin thought was a good idea.

Halsin was at the crank, as he was one of the people with enough height and therefore leverage to still turn it easily. Astarion was standing by the corpse, near the center of the lift, when things started to go terribly wrong.

The first sign of danger, their only real warning, was an unhealthy grinding sound that came from the lift's ceiling. Halsin looked up, concerned. Astarion threw himself at the still-visible gap between the cave ceiling and the bottom of the elevator entrance.

(Their survival instincts operated in different spheres entirely.)

The next six seconds were a chaos of collapsing rock and screaming metal. Astarion got a body long bruise forcing himself at speed through the not quite large enough gap. But he made it through, fell six meters, and landed staggering on the sculpted stone platform that had been their loading stage for the last four hours.

He heard more than saw what happened behind him. Cables and chains snapping, metal supports contorting, rubble falling in to fill suddenly empty spaces. The metal elevator falling heavily back down to its bottom most position, being reduced to scrap and buried.

When he turned around, what he saw met the narrative of what he heard. He also saw absolutely no sign of Halsin.

Shit. Tav was going to be so upset about this.

He stared at the wreckage, trying to stop shaking and start thinking about what to do now. Then the wreckage moved.

It was like an explosion, but with no blastpowder or fire. A bunch of the scrap metal that used to be an elevator was suddenly pushed out. Astarion jumped back to avoid being hit by bits of rock and girder. The huge bear that had displaced all that wreckage scrambled out from under it before the rest of the debris caught up with what was happening and collapsed further.

Astarion backed up more, down onto the stairs, because there wasn't room for an elf and a bear on the lift platform. He glared up Halsin.

"You have exactly one solution to every problem," he snapped.

The bear gazed impassively down at Astarion in his customary way. Well, maybe not as impassive as usual. He was panting a bit. Astarion wasn't good at reading bears.

"Move over," Astarion muttered, trying to shoulder his way back onto the platform. He didn't like how his voice was still shaky from the almost-being-buried-alive.

The bear let him by, making what space it could. Astarion stepped lightly and cautiously over to the wreckage of the elevator. He peered up at the shaft it was supposed to go up through.

The mechanics of the elevator had collapsed into a jagged metal monolith that choked the passage. And above that metal was a layer of collapsed rock. Not the sort of barrier Astarion was going to be able to lockpick his way through.

Astarion's ears twitched and he tilted his head because he thought for a moment he heard a voice. Yes he had. There it was again. Very faint. Someone yelling from above them.

Astarion looked around for something solid that he could climb and that he could be sure wouldn't collapse on him. The metal gates that girded the elevator entrance were intact and attached to the walls. He walked over, tested his weight on them, and then climbed up. He climbed as close as he could to the seam that he very recently and viscerally remembered struggling past. He got as close as he could to the stone ceiling of the elevator entrance, now choked with debris.

"Astarion!" Someone was yelling. "Halsin! Are you there? Can you hear me?"

It was Wyll. His voice was muffled, but from up here Astarion could make out the words.

"We're here!" he shouted back.

Wyll said something too soft to be decipherable. Then shouted: "Are you all right? Are either of you hurt?"

Astarion glanced down at the giant bear sitting on the elevator landing. It was watching Astarion.

"We are miraculously intact!" he shouted back.

Another unintelligible mutter. Then: "I'll be right back. I'm going to tell the others."

Astarion could hear very distantly the whooshing noise that the Flight spell made in action.

As he waited, Astarion worked his arm through the latticework of metal he was hanging off of. Clinging by hand made his fingers tired. He used to be able to do this much more easily. That was probably the only disadvantage to the mind flayer parasite--a few of his old vampire spawn abilities had been suppressed, including the one that used to let him climb walls like a spider.

Worth it, though. A thousand times worth it.

Astarion heard the distant gust of magic again. He pushed himself up to better hear Wyll's voice.

"You're to take the boat back from the duergar camp to the beach," Wyll communicated words that had almost certainly come from Tav. "Go up from there to the myconid colony. Stay there and we will come get you."

That made sense. That was a sensible plan. The mushroom creatures oversaw the only truly safe space they'd ever found in the Underdark. And getting there was re-treading ground they had already covered, so they weren't as likely to encounter as many terrifying monsters. He and Halsin should be able to manage it safely, even with only two of them.

"We'll be there," Astarion yelled back. "Don't dawdle."

"We won't," Wyll assured him.

And then he left. Because Flight only lasted so long.

Astarion exhaled slowly and hung for a moment, loose from his perch near the ceiling. He wasn't trapped. He'd almost been trapped, but he wasn't. And Tav wasn't going to let anyone get any sleep until they were all happily reunited among mushrooms.

She'd probably been rather upset by this. He could relate. He'd been extremely upset by this. He rather liked imagining her, yelling orders at a floating Wyll. Digging out maps to trace the fastest route from the Shadowlands to the Underdark. Hounding everyone to hurry back along the risen road so that she could find him.

And Halsin. Of course. She was probably worried about Halsin too.

Astarion looked down. The bear was still sitting there, staring up at him. The picture of a big dumb animal.

Only he wasn't actually a dumb animal. He was probably sitting there having deep, insightful thoughts about the situation.

Astarion sighed and climbed down. When he was back on solid ground he dusted himself off. He was filthy with rock powder. That was probably going to be the case for a while. How utterly tiresome.

"Well, come along then," he said to Halsin. "Let's steal a boat."

It was very easy to steal a boat when the owners were all dead.

Karlach has been the one to drive the boat the last time they made their way overwater while underground. Apparently the structure of these vessels, spike lined latticeworks of wood and bone, were very similar in construction to ships found in Avernus. Which made a sort of sense. Whatever shipwright planned this thing clearly cared just as much about looking intimidating as they cared about being able to float. Astarion could see devils having similar values.

And that hypothetical shipwright clearly cared not at all about preventing passengers from tumbling overboard. Guardrails were not a feature on these vessels.

Which did make it easy to hop on board. The deck swayed under Astarion's weight as he jumped on and climbed up to the controls. The quarterdeck. That was what it was called. Astarion was vaguely familiar with the terms you were supposed to use for parts of boats because cheap romances often happened on ships, and sometimes that was the only literature he could get his hands on. He played with the rudder and examined the lever that controlled the fan-like sails. It seemed straightforward enough.

Then the boat listed dramatically to one side. Deck tilting to a steep angle. Astarion didn't fall over, but someone with worse reflexes might have. And he didn't like being startled.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snapped at Halsin.

The giant bear moved back, taking its huge paw off of the boat's deck. He looked a little embarrassed. Maybe. Bears remained hard to read. At very least he should look embarrassed, trying something like that.

Astarion walked back down from the quarterdeck to the port side of the main deck. He made a shooing motion, warning the huge thing further back from the comparatively delicate boat. If Halsin wanted to remain a bear, Astarion generally didn't mind. It meant he didn't have to talk to the man. But in this particular instance it wasn't going to work.

"You'll sink it if you try that," Astarion said. "You are absolutely going to need to go back to being a little less massive and marginally less hairy."

The bear was pensively examining the boat and seemed to come to the same conclusion. He made a grumbling sort of huffing noise that sounded maybe slightly anxious?

Then he backed up so that he was back on the stone part of the dock. He sat down. He exhaled slowly. And then he turned back into Halsin.

The air was immediately filled with the smell of blood.

He reached instead with his left hand. He managed to open the pouch and fish out a bandage which he pressed immediately against the hole in his chest.

"Astarion," he said, and there was a patina of managed suffering coloring his voice. "I am going to need your help."

Oh Gods. He looked half dead. And he smelled amazing. And Astarion was going to have to get closer to him. And not...

And exercise a modicum of self-control. And help.

Astarion swallowed. And then he swallowed again, because there really was a lot of blood. And it smelled warm and fresh. Astarion closed his mouth and made a conscious decision not to inhale again until this was over.

He jumped lightly from the ship deck to the dock. He walked towards Halsin. Halfway there he realized he was stalking. He straightened up from crouching and finished closing the distance with a more normal posture.

Astarion knelt down in front of Halsin, who was sitting up but looked like he shouldn't be. The bandages he held against the wound were already turning red.

"Healing potions," Halsin said. "Right side pocket."

Astarion moved to open Halsin's pack, which looked only marginally less mangled than the man. He looked where instructed and found that those pockets were filled with shattered glass, wet with red liquid that smelled faintly of mushrooms.

So instead Astarion fished out his own healing potions. Tav insisted that everyone carry at least two. So they had two.

"Can you apply them directly to the wound?" Halsin asked him.

Interesting. Astarion didn't know terribly much about medicine, hadn't had access to it for most of his life, but it made a certain amount of sense that healing potions might be applied topically rather than imbibed. After all, they worked if you hurled them at people. And it made sense that Halsin would want to prioritize mending the wound that was definitely going to kill him, rather than letting the healing magic scatter diffusely over his myriad cuts and bruises.

Logistically the answer was obviously yes, Astarion could do that. So Astarion supposed he was being asked about his capacity for self-restraint. Probably Halsin had registered his own resemblance to wounded prey. Probably it was a novel experience.

Astarion spent some of his limited breath to ask: "Don't you have spells for this?"

"They need two hands," Halsin told him.

Of course. And his lump of a right hand wasn't doing anything intricate or magical right now.

Astarion nodded and asked shortly: "How?"

"First, help me lie down."

Halsin leaned back, and with Astarion's assistance it was a controlled descent rather than a collapse. The movement still clearly jostled things that were broken inside of him. He kept the bandage pressed hard against the wound, arm clenched with the effort of that.

"Armor needs to come off," Halsin said.

That was actually relatively easy. Halsin's leather armor was segmented in such a way that Astarion could unstrap and remove just the damaged chest part. It meant there was a moment where no pressure was being applied to the wound and Astarion turned his head away for that moment, turning back when Halsin had the bandage back in place. It did its job better now, flush with skin and without broken leather in the way.

"Pour the potion into the bandage," Halsin said. "Slowly. Give it time to absorb."

Astarion uncapped the healing potion. He tipped just a bit of it on to the bloodstained bandage.

It was fascinating to watch. The magic liquid soaked into the fabric, and then sank right out of it. As if Halsin's skin were a sponge that only absorbed that particular kind of fluid.

Astarion poured out a more generous spill of the potion, drenching the cloth. Halsin groaned, a noise of relief as the magic disappeared into him and started to perform its function.

Astarion kept at this interesting alchemy, pouring the potion bit by bit into precisely the place it was needed. Halsin breathed laboriously. He was trying to watch, but his eyes kept fluttering closed. Flirting with an unconscious state elves only ever experienced through the use of specific potions, or in situations like this.

When the bottle was two thirds empty Astarion started to have difficulty because Halsin had bled so much that the bandage was oversaturated with fluid that didn't mystically vanish. That instead sat there, red and distracting. Astarion glanced at Halsin's face to see if any other guidance was forthcoming. But the druid was truly unconscious at this point.

Astarion investigated the pouch that the first bandage had come from. He found another. Clean white thick cloth. It was like sleight-of-hand work to pull one bandage away and press down the clean one. Messy sleight-of-hand work. And now he was holding the old, utterly bloodsoaked bandage.

It was actually fairly easy to resist the intrusive impulse to put it in his mouth. Because that would look deranged. He set it aside.

Astarion finished pouring the rest of the healing potion into the wound through the medium of the fresh bandage. When that was done he went right on to the second healing potion. It seemed the only thing to do.

Astarion could pinpoint the exact moment Halsin stopped bleeding. There was a visceral difference between the smell of blood freely flowing from a body and the smell of blood already spilled and cooling. It was the same as the difference between standing directly in sunlight versus being out and about on a day that was bright, but overcast. It was a matter of intensity.

To make sure he was right, Astarion tentatively moved the bandage aside. And indeed, the skin underneath was whole. Not even scabbed. Just regrown healthy and intact in that miraculous way that happened when you used healing magic. It frankly looked a little weird. One point of health on an otherwise very damaged body.

Well then. It seemed that Astarion had successfully stopped someone from bleeding. How utterly perverse.

And he still had half of a healing potion left. He should probably do something with it. There remained a wealth of nonfatal wounds to deal with. But Halsin couldn't drink it right now. He was still unconscious.

That probably wouldn't be the most effective use of it, anyway. Now that Astarion thought about it, it seemed that the next most problematic injury was Halsin's right hand. That was preventing him from using magic. If that were fixed, the entire situation would suddenly become much more manageable.

Halsin's right arm was on the ground, spread slightly away from his body. His hand was swollen and unpleasant to look at. Fingers not quite at right shapes and angles.

Astarion prevaricated for a moment about whether he needed to do the slow process of soaking the healing potion into skin through the bandages. The problem was that there were no more clean bandages in Halsin's belt pouch. And using the soiled ones wouldn't be terribly efficient, or sanitary, or conducive to Astarion's peace of mind. And probably he didn't need to. Probably that had been a way of applying healing potion to an open wound. Probably he could just pour it directly onto the skin.

Astarion poured the rest of the healing potion out over Halsin's hand. The results were instantaneous, and good, but also awful. The thing about healing, even magical healing, is that it's not always a linear process. Sometimes wounds are complicated in a way that makes mending them painful. The hand changed and began to look much more like a hand should. And those changes were accompanied by the popping, grinding noises of bones being realigned.

Halsin screamed.

"Shit," Astarion said, flinching back. And he was about to go on to say 'Sorry', but he had run out of air for speaking. So he inhaled.

Astarion's nose and mouth filled with the copper-bright smell of the blood that was everywhere around him. And Halsin was screaming-weak and wide-eyed and he was looking at Astarion with such an expression and he was covered from neck to waist in soft skin that was meant to be torn open and there was nothing he would be able to do to stop it from happening.

Astarion stood up and turned around and walked until he hit a wall. The far wall of the dock, by the barrels of old, spoiled provisions that hadn't been good enough to take up in the lift. Astarion leaned against the wall and breathed air that smelled only very faintly of blood, and overwhelmingly of rotten fish, and he didn't do anything that Tav might never forgive him for.

Astarion had been standing there for perhaps a minute, smelling the fish and not doing things, when he heard Halsin say his name.

"Just a moment, darling," Astarion said. He needed another moment.

When he was ready, Astarion turned back to look at Halsin. Halsin was sitting up. That seemed like a good sign.

"How are we doing, then?" Astarion asked.

"Much improved, thank you," Halsin said, not sounding at all like someone who had just been screaming. "That was a good idea. A clever idea. If I had been awake I should have asked you to do it."

Astarion did not admit even to himself how much he liked being told that his ideas were clever.

"Can you cast?" Astarion asked.

"Unfortunately no," Halsin said, he was cradling his hand which did look better, but was still very swollen. "We will have to make our way without the benefit of magic."

"Make our way," Astarion muttered, and then lowered his standards from his last question and asked: "Can you walk?"

"I have to," Halsin said. "You are not the only individual in these caves who will take notice of blood."

Oh, that was a very good point. Halsin probably knew all about the taxonomy of scavengers that lived in the Underdark. It had been less of an issue when there were four ready adventurers standing around the site of bloodbaths. It was a very different situation when there were only two of them here, and only one who could fight. And Astarion felt acutely how much less dangerous he was without someone to flank with.

"Very well," he sighed. "Let's finish stealing the boat."

Astarion helped Halsin down the wooden dock. Gods, he was large and heavy. Astarion let Halsin sink back to the ground on the edge of the dock and grabbed one of the spikes that decorated the side of the boat. Astarion pulled until the wooden platform of the ship's deck was as close as could be to the dock. Halsin clambered aboard, one-handed and slow. The craft dipped slightly under his weight.

Astarion jumped aboard and climbed quickly up to the controls. He pulled the lever that fanned out the sail. He turned the rudder the wrong direction at first, but quickly corrected. They bumped against the dock a few times before turning out into the dark and open water.

Astarion glanced back at the dock and saw that a rat-like creature the size of a dog had already crept out of the shadows. It was lapping up blood off of the stone floor.

It would be deeply undignified to be jealous of that creature. So Astarion tried not to be.

***

This is part of a series. The rest of the story is on AO3.

***

#astarion x halsin #astarion #halsin #bg3 astarion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #grievously injured halsin #compound fracture #predatory instincts #self-control #fantasy first aid #mostly hurt #comfort to follow

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