#MY FIC

[rispwr]

ੈ✩‧₊˚ || read it over and over again list 3 || ੈ✩‧₊˚

A/n: enjoy reading thesee! these are my current reads rn and i will definitely reread again

-‘๑’- jungkook!! -‘๑’-

List here👇🏻👇🏻

╔══ ≪ °❈° ≫ ══╗

: ̗̀➛ teach me how to love by @kookooluvr

➠ jjk x (fem) oc, fwbau

: ̗̀➛perfect partner by @peoniesnro

➠ yandere! jk

: ̗̀➛ what's your name again? by @solarhysm

➠holloween party, pwp

: ̗̀➛ permission by @shina913

➠ stripper, one night stand

: ̗̀➛server room by @mister0ctopus

➠ IT! jk, office au

: ̗̀➛ mature by @jiminrings

➠ push n pull

: ̗̀➛dopamine by @vanillakook

➠brothers bestfriend! jk, forbidden rs trope

preview Next….soon || visit my masterlists!! ||

[livelaughlou]

I wish you would write a fic where buck and tommy meet when they both choose to hide behind the couch at chimney's surprise birthday party ❤️

I LOVE this so much. The timeline's kind of iffy, maybe consider this a total canon divergence? lol. I hope you like it.

"You're late!" Maddie hisses at him when he slides in the door, rushing up with Jee in her arms.

"I'm sorry!" he says. "There was an accident and I got stuck in it. You sent me across the city for a birthday cake!"

She rolls her eyes. "It's not my fault the bakery screwed up the first one."

He supposes she's got him there. Begging off to skip the basketball game that Eddie, Chimney, and Bobby had all gone to so he could help with the party was a blessing actually, because he hates basketball anyway.

She sighs. "Sorry, I snapped. He should be home with Eddie and Bobby any moment now, so come on, let's get everyone gathered in the living room."

He follows her into the living room, looking around to see all the guests there, Ravi, Lucy, Hen and Karen, other people from the station that were free tonight. And then his eyes land on the hottest person he's ever seen.

He's tall, broad-shouldered, and from what Buck can see, he's got a light dusting of stubble around a mouth that looks amused as he talks to Lucy. He's got high cheekbones and a straight nose on a face that Buck suddenly wants to see even more of.

He nudges his sister. "Mads, who's that?"

She looks over, sets Jee down. "Oh, Tommy Kinard. He's an old friend. They've kept in touch over the years."

Buck blinks. "Oh, can you-"

Then Maddie's phone goes off and she pulls it out, her eyes widening. "Okay, everyone they're here. Hide!"

Everyone in the room scrambles to hide while Maddie hits the lights.

It doesn't take long for him to notice that he's not alone behind Maddie and Chimney's couch.

"Um," he says stupidly. "Hi."

The guy--Tommy--grins, and oh God, it makes his nose and eyes scrunch up a little. Did Buck know that was a thing before? He doesn't think so. He hasn't had this strong of a reaction to someone since Abby and he doesn't quite know what that means that Tommy is a man.

"Hi," Tommy says, clearly still amused. He holds out a hand. "Tommy Kinard."

Buck takes it. His grip is warm, strong, and firm and Buck can feel the butterflies in his stomach. "Evan. Buck. Buckley."

Tommy frowns a little. "Sorry?"

Buck sighs at himself. "Sorry. You can call me Evan."

The front door opens and Chimney walks in. "Hello?"

And as everyone stands up to yell surprise, Buck thinks he may have just discovered a surprise of his own.

[nuwildcat]

Okay, so hopefully you don't mind this, but this drawing absolutely refused to leave me alone since I've seen it and the writing gods demanded a sacrifice in it's honor.

~~~~~~

Jayce has only a basic understanding of undercity politics; even then, he knows this is a bad idea. 

He’s been coming down here for parts for over a year now. Which means he knows all the best places. Benzo’s is reliable. Good parts for a good price. [name]’s got interesting stuff, the issue is the quality is shit. It’s just as likely to break as it is to work. But there’s one place you only go if you’re really desperate. And Jayce is desperate. 

The Machine Herald’s. 

The name is odd, but from what Jayce has heard, if you need something unique, you’ll find it there. The issue is, what price will you pay for it? Because the owner is one of Silco’s. 

Even with his limited knowledge, Jayce knows you don’t fuck with Silco’s people. But again, he’s desperate.

If he can get this last part, he’ll finally have something to share that even Heimerdinger can’t dismiss for Progress Day. 

So he’s taking the risk — crossing the line you don’t cross as an outsider, and entering Zaun. 

Ever since the weird and antagonistic truce between Vander and Silco was struck, there’s been a divide in the lanes. On one side, Vander’s people. The other, the self-proclaimed Zaunites led by Silco. There’s literally a fucking line in the middle of the square demarcating whose land is whose. 

Jayce’s whole body tenses for an attack as soon as he’s stepped across it. Miraculously, his luck holds and nothing happens. 

Peering at the little map Ekko has drawn for him, Jayce frowns and turns left down an alley. 

Ekko had called him a crazy piltie with sludge for brains when he’d asked for directions to the Machine Herald’s, but Ekko is like twelve, so most of what he says is insults.  

The building is pretty nondescript. Jayce almost walks past it, but a cog mounted over the door catches his eye. It’s been welded into its shape by combining many other smaller items, wrenches, pipes, and what looks like a set of keys.

Jayce stares up at it over the open door, trying to pick apart everything in the cog.

“You look lost pretty boy.”

Jayce jumps, too focused on the art, he missed that a man appeared in the doorway. The stranger leans nonchalantly on the door jamb, shooting Jayce an almost mocking look as the pipe dangling from his fingers slowly lets off swirls of pinkish smoke.

He’s startlingly pretty.

The combination of half-skirt, corset, and unbuttoned shirt is clearly meant to draw the eye, and draw it does. Jayce scans the man, struggling to put his finger on what it is about the man that’s so striking.

A quirked brow reminds Jayce he’s yet to say anything.

“I—uh. I’m looking for a—a part?”

The man smirks, his face only getting more attractive, which is doing nothing for Jayce’s ability to string a sentence together.

“I should hope so,” the man replies. “Otherwise you’d need to head elsewhere.” There’s a unique accent to the man’s soft voice, slightly raspy from the smoking.

Jayce chuckles, and steps closer to the shop. “I’m Jayce,” he says, holding out his hand.

The man stares at him, eyes flicking down to his outstretched hand and back up to his face, amusement growing stronger.

“Viktor,” he says, passing the pipe to his other hand before shaking Jayce’s hand. “How can I help you, Jayce?”

Jayce takes a deep breath and dives right into explaining what he’s looking for. As he talks, the other man gives him a bewildered look before a glint enters his eyes, and Jayce can tell he has Viktor’s full attention.

What follows is a three-hour discussion about mechanics that robs Jayce of half his monthly stipend, but sends him home with no less than four different parts he hasn’t been able to find anywhere else.

Viktor sees him off, once again leaning casually in the doorway with a smirk firmly in place. He’s likely overcharged Jayce for everything, but Jayce is so pleased he doesn’t even mind.

“Make sure to hurry back, pretty boy,” Viktor calls to him as Jayce walks away.

Looking back, Jayce shakes his head at the other man and shoots him a wink. He’s whistling as he makes his way back out of Zaun and the lanes. Today, was a very good day.

_______________

Jayce goes back. 

It’s dumb. So very, very dumb, but he does it anyway. They’d talked for hours that first time, Viktor able to not only understand his designs but to make them better. 

Not even Heimerdinger’s done that. 

It doesn’t hurt that Viktor is one of the most beautiful people Jayce has ever seen. And he’s dated Mel Medarda. He knows beautiful. 

There’s something special about Viktor. Fragility paired with a cocky confidence that makes warmth spark to life in Jayce’s belly when he sees the other man. 

It’s all rather new for Jayce. He’s feeling out of his depth. Especially with the way that Viktor has draped himself over Jayce after shoving him unceremoniously on the couch. Legs tossed over Jayce’s, Viktor is sprawled back on the arm, ever-present pipe dangling from his fingers. 

“What’s that for?” Jayce asks before he’s thought the question through. 

Viktor pauses, holding in the hit he’s just taken before letting it spill from his lips, pink-tinted and smoky. 

“It helps with the pain.”

Jayce eyes drift to the brace partially hidden by Viktor’s skirt. He’s only been able to catch glimpses and his curiosity is gnawing at him to see more. 

Viktor stretches, knocking the skirt to the side and putting the brace and himself on display. 

“See something you like, topsider?”

Jayce ignores the taunt, peering closer at the brace. “Did you make this?”

Viktor loses some of his bravado in the face of Jayce’s admiration. 

“I did.”

It’s a gorgeous piece of engineering, and the forge master in Jayce wants a better look. 

“May I?” He asks, fingers hovering over Viktor’s leg. 

This time there’s no false bravado. Viktor nods and watches him like a hawk. 

Gently, Jayce lifts the leg, turning it a bit to see how the various parts of the brace move. Viktor doesn’t fight him, relaxed and loose in his grasp. The brace is a seamless creation. Jayce is highly impressed, so he says so. 

“It’s beautiful.”

Viktor lets out a noise that makes Jayce turn from the brace despite how much he wants to study it. A Cheshire grin has spread on the other man’s face, and there’s a glint in his eyes that speaks of danger. 

“Jayce Talis. Are you flirting with me?”

Jayce freezes, not sure he could cobble together a response even if he could get his tongue working with Viktor looking at him like that. 

One moment Viktor’s sprawled like a satisfied house cat, the next he’s straddling Jayce, arms draped over Jayce’s shoulders. 

“You like?” he purrs. 

Jayce’s brain has stopped working. He’s pretty sure for a second there be blacked out, because now his hands are holding Viktor’s waist, gripping the corset that must act as a second brace. 

Oh fuck. Jayce stares, unable to get what he’s seeing to make sense. His hands—his hands almost span Viktor’s tiny waist. 

For a moment, there’s just static in his brain and then something clicks. His brain lights up, and he squeezes. 

“Oh fuck,” he murmurs. Still staring. 

Viktor chuckles breathily, his finger threading through Jayce’s hair and then pulling, yanking Jayce’s head back. Jayce grunts, tingles racing down his spine as heat pools in his belly.

“Careful pretty boy,” Viktor whispers, leaning down so that Jayce’s eyes cross as he tries to watch Viktor’s lips. “You’re playing with fire.”

Jayce is pretty sure he’d like to be burned.

“You look like you don’t have a clue what to do,” Viktor murmurs, lashes dipping prettily.

“I mean, technically?” Jayce blurts out. Viktor pulls back, looking down at him confused. Jayce shrugs. “Inexperienced? No. This particular situation? Also no.”

Viktor cocks his head in confusion, eyeing Jayce like he’s a specimen Viktor means to study. Again that wicked smile spreads and Jayce’s heart thumps in excitement.

Leaning down so his breath ghosts over Jayce’s lips, Viktor says, “Whoever let you wander down here should have known better.”

Jayce’s mouth drops open, anticipation and want bubbling up inside him. Just a little closer.

“Piltover’s loss,” Viktor whispers. Then he kisses Jayce.

Zaun vik and Jayce

[epiphainie]

cherry bomb (1/1)

aka engine purr pt2

bucktommy, mechanic au, age gap, dom tommy, sub buck, degradation, humiliation, slut-shaming, dirty talk, riding, biting, spanking, frottage, daddy kink, under-negotiated kink, semi-public sex, jealousy

rating: E

words: 20k

summary:

“I told you, I’m fine,” came louder this time. “Just need help getting out.” Chimney frowned. “Wait…” Buck pulled down a bunch of needles from the crushed hood. “...I know that voice.” “Sit tight, sir, we’re working on it.” “Hen.” Chimney rapped her arm. “You know that voice.” There was a big frond obscuring the windshield. Buck pulled at it next. The motion brought down all the rest of the branches and the needles over the left side of the truck, a heap of foliage sliding down with sound. Dropping the rake and dusting off his hands, Buck stepped away. His eyes came up at the cracked glass and followed the path of jagged lines to the driver. He went still. Hen and Chimney’s voices echoed one another, the name said a little incredulous, a little curious. Quieter under all that, Buck heard his own whisper, “Tommy.”

new year's eve, the 118 responds to a call; buck comes across someone he told himself to forget about months ago

read on AO3

[ctimenefic]

Strap? 👀 👀 👀 👀 👀

A (belated) response to this very silly prompt game. Er, there's about 4k of this for some reason. As always, eternal gratitude to LP for looking over this and spotting the clangers

“Are they red?” 

Fernando Alonso’s breath smells like whisky. 

Carmen imagines kneeling in front of a little girl crammed between her parents on their small sofa, all of them whooping and hollering as their countryman, their driver, becomes the youngest champion of all time, and telling her one day she’ll be sitting thigh to thigh with him as the new year rings in around them.

It’s such a dazzling absurdity she completely forgets the question. “Pardon?”

Alonso’s fingers flick down with his gaze. Down to her crotch. “Your underwear,” he says, baldly. “Are they red?”

He’s speaking Spanish, of course. He’s asking because she’s Spanish, because it’s tradition. Red, on New Year’s, for luck. 

That doesn’t stop her toes curling in her heels. Mindgames, they say about him. Well. She can play. Carmen raises an eyebrow. “Of course.”

Alonso leans back, satisfied. “Good. For luck in love, isn’t it?”

His knee nudges against hers as he opens his legs. 

George is a hot line up against her other side, sweaty from dancing and gesticulating as he chats expansively to one of his English mates – John or Jack or James, does something with land management. He’s oblivious, of course; she can’t tell if the white coal of indignation burning under her sternum is on his behalf or her own. 

She lets Alonso watch as she adjusts a damp curl over an ear. George catches her hand, presses a kiss against the inside of her wrist without breaking stride in his conversation. When she turns back to Alonso, she barely has to tweak the wattage of her smile; she loves George best when he’s slightly ridiculous. “I’ve been lucky already.” 

“Mm,” Alonso replies, neither agreement nor dissent. It rankles; reminds her of the kind of disinterest too many people in the paddock show her, when they call her sweet or helpful or picture-perfect. But then his crooked grin is back, all teeth, much more dangerous. “He must look good when you fuck him.”

Her mind stutters, once at the crudeness and again at the specifics. Not- not when you fuck. Not when he fucks you. When you fuck him.

Sometimes, she doesn’t let George touch her. He’s so much bigger than her; it changes her, something thick and warm fermenting in her belly, to see all of him stretched out and corded with need, jerking into her touch. Afterwards, she can pass a mirror and not recognise herself, the way she can’t bring her teeth together for a smile, jaw slack. 

When you fuck him. Alonso’s right. George’d be so good for it. For her.

Her face must be as red as her knickers – maybe she couldn’t challenge the master after all. But Alonso’s still looking past her, where George is rubbing his fingertips against his collarbones, his whole hand easily accommodated by the gape in his unbuttoned shirt. 

She can see it, suddenly; that neck straining under the span of a smaller hand. She hears Alonso’s breath rumble out of him.

George catches their looks then, starts extracting himself from John/Jack/James. It’s then that Alonso catches her, face still flaming. “Oh, you haven’t. Pity.” His mouth turns rueful. The hot glint in his eye dims. 

Carmen shakes her head, just a little. It’s the truth, sure, but not for long, not now the idea’s culturing in her gut. Alonso looks like he might laugh, as he reaches for his drink; she catches his wrist and lets her nails sink in, just enough for emphasis. George is only inches away; she should be more concerned about appearances. But she can’t let this one go easy, slide off her skin like she’s varnished.

“I could,” she says, steady and low. “I will, when I know how.”

“What’s all this then?” George’s stranger vowels come out when he drinks, his accent thicker than hers. He twists round, squints at them. His buttons are mismatched; Carmen can see one brown nipple through the bulge of fabric.

Alonso gives him a shark’s smile, but his answer’s all for Carmen. Still Spanish. “I could teach you.”

“Are you flirting with my girlfriend, Fernando?” George is sloppy-drunk, heavy with emphasis and innuendo as he sways in his seat. Carmen knows better than to let it embarrass her. He doesn’t like it, in company. No, it’s better to tell him the morning after how messy he got; watch him at the breakfast bar twitching in his boxers at each mild word until he slinks between her legs to apologise, spells out his sorries with his tongue. 

“Learn Spanish and you’ll find out, George.” Alonso leans past her to pinch George’s chin between his finger and thumb. His other hand lands on her upper thigh, hidden under the shadow of his torso. 

His fingernails score a line down her gossamer-thin tights, just at the hem of her dress. Not a hole, not quite a run, but a snag against the soft skin there that lingers when he leans back, lets his hand run down to her knee and stay there, grip steady and sure. “But,” he adds, back to Spanish, and Carmen feels her gut clench before he even gets the words out, “I do not have to flirt. She is already wet in her lucky red panties, mm?”

He’s right. 

George laughs, too relaxed to be uncomfortable. “A fair cop, I’m trying.” He’s not. It’s a small thoughtlessness she can forgive, when he’s so willing to apologise. “But what were you talking about?”

“New Year’s traditions in Spain,” she offers, smile fixed.

“And making new ones,” Alonso adds.

It only takes a few seconds after that. George’s hand lands on her knee, the curve of his palm fitted to her kneecap before he slides up, the way he always does, so his fingertips will graze the ticklish spot on the underside and make her squirm into him. The instant his knuckles knock against Alonso’s he freezes, and Carmen has one of those swooping moments when she remembers all the drivers live or die in microseconds; an entire conversation happens in front of her in miniscule expressions, the smallest grunts and hums, before she even has time to open her mouth.

George squeezes, and her knees fall open, and two sets of fingers drag rucks in her tights up and up and up.

And at midnight, when she crams George’s face between her hands and lets him hoist her off the ground for a kiss far too spit-sloppy for Instagram, it’s Fernando’s hand on her hip that steadies her, his stubble that grazes against the bare skin of her shoulder, and his address that they give to the driver that whisks them away from air soaked with whisky, sweat and the drifting smoke of fireworks. 

-----

Sobriety hits with the pound of black silicone Fernando presses into her hand. 

He has three of them, three strap-ons, lined up in a drawer on top of cream satin sheets. If George were two or three drinks more either way, sober enough for sarcasm or drunk enough to let his tongue slip, he’d probably call it a bit much. Instead, Carmen just hears him swallow where he’s tucked up behind her, chin pressed against her scalp.

Fernando drums his finger against the blue one, still nestled in the drawer. “This is what you should get for him, yes? Start small.” He wags his finger at the red monster. “Not for beginners. Work up to this.”

“Crikey,” George mutters. Carmen bites her tongue. It’s not that much larger than he is, but she supposes no one’s ever invited him to sit on his own dick. 

There’s probably a service for that, though. Custom-made. The kind of narcissism that would make him spasm. At some point he’d spill the beans to a friend, let them tease him mercilessly, come home humiliated and hard and desperate. She could-

Carmen forces herself to breathe slower, uncurls her fingers from the dildo. She’s getting ahead of herself. She can’t even be sure he’ll like it. That she’ll be good at it. 

“Shouldn’t I have the blue then?”

“Oh, but little George wants that to be private, no? He is not getting involved.”

Ah. This is what George gets for laughing at her, at them, in the cab. For coming over all British, spine stiff and blinking slowly, mechanically, as Fernando and Carmen had to search for the word for it, a stream of rapid Spanish and halting English. 

“Wait, so-”

Fernando is getting impatient. “You think I am going to teach you by fucking you in the arse? Any man could fuck you in the arse, you will not learn shit that way. You will fuck me and I will coach, hm? And little George can find out if he likes it from the corner.”

There’s a chair there, in Fernando’s spare room. An armchair, tight and cushy. He might as well have embroidered CUCK on the throw pillow. Still, it’s better than the dining chair they’d had to drag in from the kitchen the last time Daniel had stopped by. George had kept slipping off whenever his hips jumped. 

“I am going to get the good lubricant,” Fernando announces, “And then I will get you ready. Don’t get naked, I want to see those panties.”

George makes a choking noise behind her; when Carmen turns to face him, the dildo in her hand nudges him in the side, where his waist yields. He shivers at the touch of her and Carmen has to smooth a palm up his front, round his neck, and tug his forehead down to touch hers. With his ludicrous torso bent to hers, it makes a private space for them, a familiar room. 

“We don’t-” she starts, but he’s already shaking his head, tiny twists that rock his skin against hers. His eyes are shut and she can’t tell if he’s avoiding her face or picturing it, picturing her, harness and all. “Or-” 

He kisses her, pushy with it, feeding his tongue into her mouth like that’ll work better than saying what he wants out loud. His clever fingers find the zip on the side of her dress, the button at the halter; he has it sliding down her legs before he breaks off, spins her around and steps back. She’s left in her underwear and heels, standing in the circle of her crumpled LBD. When she looks back over her shoulder, he’s retreated to the chair, folds himself into it, knees crammed together. But he’s watching her, blue eyes wide and open and determined, like he’s staring through a visor. 

Fernando’s in the doorway, shirt unbuttoned, a lube bottle the length of her forearm in his hands. His grin widens. “Lucky, lucky girl. Time to strap in.”

When he drags her pants down, he holds them to his mouth and nose for three long inhales before he chucks them across to George. He lays them over his knee, neat and flat, like she might want them later, even though the gusset’s soaked a deep maroon. His thumb strokes over the damp patch, though, and her cunt pulses. Fernando must hear the wet sound of it as he buckles on the harness; he licks a stripe up to her clit before he sorts the other leg, hides her away. He smacks his lips around the taste of her; she clenches so hard her arse twitches under his hands. 

When she steps out her heels, the dildo bobs between her legs, thick and heavy. Her balance is off, ever so slightly. Fernando runs a proprietary hand over the head, down the shaft - no lube, so the skin of his fingers catches and drags with the friction. Carmen feels drunk again, watching herself be touched and not touched. 

Fernando’s face is all mouth now, wide enough to swallow her. When he kisses her, one hand on her bum and one, immediately, on her tit, she tries to give as good as she gets. But a tug on his hair earns her a warning swat to the arse. “Ah ah. You are still learning, yes? I am the teacher. Be a good girl.”

It’s not really her thing, good girl, but she hears George inhale behind her, and that- the reminder of her audience, that’s enough to send a pulse of heat to her knees. Her hips twitch. The black dildo rubs against Fernando’s stomach. When he pulls back far enough for her to see him clearly, he’s all grin and teeth.

He strips quickly. Not the foreplay type, evidently. On the bed, he cracks the top of the lube open at once, slathers his fingers, and gets on all his knees to open himself up. Carmen bites back a comment on his flexibility. 

“Pay attention, yes? If you have not-” She scoffs, and he stops. “Oh, yourself, of course. But it is different for a man. I would have you do it, but your nails, ridiculous. Cut them and get fake ones. There are no uses for those.”

She scrapes the line of them down Fernando’s back, over the ridiculous tattoo, and he pauses. Inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Some uses.”

If watching Fernando finger himself open is supposed to be educational, it’s something of a failure. Barely a minute in, and she can tell he’s chasing pleasure, stretching fast and hissing round the burn. He’s not careful about it, not gentle; George would go quiet if she went this fast, and bear it, and pretend it was his fault he was soft and damp-eyed. 

She can’t deny it’s hot, though. The way the eagerness sneaks out of Fernando; all that cleverness dropping off his face when he gets the angle right and just has to feel it, even if he’s smug about it a fraction of a second later. It builds inside her, the want to do it, make him slack and stupid with her-

With her cock. 

George is watching too. Rapt. When she turns to look at him, her hair a whisper over her shoulder, he drags his gaze away from Nando’s hole, and she gets to watch how his gaze stutters on the leather straps, the hulk of the dick between her legs. She cups it and he swallows. He’s pulled his shirt out of his trousers, but the drape of it can’t hide how hard he’s got in his slacks. 

She feels hard too. Her clit is throbbing where the harness, slightly too tight, pulls it against her body.

“Pay attention,” Fernando chides again and, fuck, he’s up to three. He draws his fingers out with a flourish, wipes them on the sheets as he shifts to all fours. Carmen avoids the spot when she repositions her knees and reaches for the lube. It glides on differently across the toy, everything cold except her palm. 

She takes a moment to catalogue the differences between Fernando and George. The corded rise and fall of older muscle. The force of him, compact as a spring. On all fours, Fernando keeps his head up; it makes her think of a jungle cat on the hunt.

When she nudges the flared head against the furl of his hole, it slips around, up; there’s very little slack in the harness, but enough to remind her the dildo’s not rooted to her. She has to work for the angle, grip it with a fist to hold it against herself and find the tension, the shift, that turns a press into a push.  

The tattoo on Fernando’s back ripples. “Not too slow,” he coaches. He’s dropped back into Spanish; George whines, but it’s the good sort, high and needy like a purse dog. Carmen answers in kind; only slightly plays up the innocence, her Sunday school accent. 

“Like this?” There’s a trick to it, getting her hips aligned behind and below where the base presses hard into her flesh and bone, so she can keep the movement smooth, firm. She curls one hand over Fernando’s hip, lets her nails bite a little, and he likes it just as much as he did the first time, a little grunt falling out of his mouth before he can catch it, turn it patronising and sly. She lets her other hand wander up his back, the spectacle of him stretched out like a map on a table for her. 

“Down, more. Your aim is off.”

His voice hitches, though, when she moves. It’s starting to feel like hers again, her cock, in him; she draws it back until just the tip is left inside, admires the gleaming wet length of it before she drives back in, and George whimpers. There’s an ache, an emptiness, building between her legs, where the straps of the harness press against the lips of her pussy hard enough that she can feel how swollen and wet she’s getting, but not enough to satisfy. Not enough to feel. 

She wishes she could have Fernando on his back, so she could lean down and shove her tits in his mouth. Or that he’d let George play, so she could tell him to put his talented fingers on her stomach, trace teasing paths around her navel until she was ready to come from a flick of her clit. 

But it’s all on her. She’s in control.

Going faster doesn’t help, but once she starts she can’t stop. Not when Fernando starts panting, and his little coaching comments fall away into groans. One fist comes up to grip the headboard, then the other, until he’s pushing himself back against her, onto his knees, rising and falling with her hips.  

“Is it good?” she asks him, only slightly smug. In Spanish, of course. 

“Hah. The girl has teeth,” he answers her. “Your pretty girlfriend is very good, George,” he adds. English again. “I think maybe I should steal her, except,” and he laughs, the fucker, he laughs as Carmen’s hips stutter, and George moans, high and needy “-except I think you will like it even more, yes? When she fucks you. You will need it all the time-” Her knee slips, just an inch, but it makes a shallow thrust deep and he hisses in pleasure around it and still, unbelievably, keeps talking. “You will need it even before races, and you will be driving and feeling where she has fucked you. Drive slow to keep it going. Hit every kerb to feel it. And that will be better for me, I think.”

“Carmen,” George gasps, and she can hear how desperate he sounds, keeps her eyes on Fernando and the slide of her dick through sheer force of will alone, “Carmen, will you? Please? Will you fuck-”

“Yes,” and she can see it, wants it, her ribs white hot inside her chest, “yes, yes, yes I will.”

Fernando has his head flung back now, panting against her neck. The whole line of him is tensed, muscles straining. Each roll of her hips rattles the headboard. 

“What do good girls say to the men who teach them, eh?”

But she’s too dizzy to think, to grasp what cheap porn-brained trick Fernando wants from her. Her thighs are burning, her hips moving so fluidly, instinctively, sweat streaming down her back, down the line of her spine, gathering thick and wet above her arse. She’s so hot. She’s so turned on. But there’s maddeningly little pressure on her clit; her cunt keeps clenching on nothing. She’d rip the room apart with her teeth for a bullet vibe right now, for George to slide it gently across her tits and down her stomach and then hard where she’s wet and hot and achy and-

“What do good girls say, eh?” Fernando growls, and she shakes her head, can’t think, can’t speak, only aware that she’s grinding into the spot that makes him bite, mindless, and-

“Papi.” George sounds wrecked, hoarse. “He wants you to call him papi.”

Of all the words he could know. It doesn’t do anything for her. Quite the opposite. And she’s ready to tell him as much, but: “No, no, no, little George,” Fernando is saying. “You’ll do.” Carmen can feel his grin against the side of her cheek. “You have a girl’s mouth, mm? Use it.”

There’s a thump. Plastered against Fernando’s back, Carmen can only twist her head to watch as George falls out of the chair to his knees - his bare knees, trousers and shoes and socks and boxers abandoned, the two sides of his white shirt framing the lurid red of his cock where it curves back towards the dramatic lines of his stomach. He walks on his knees to the bed; Carmen thinks Fernando would’ve preferred him to crawl.

She might have preferred that too. 

It doesn’t matter though, because when she lets go of Fernando’s hips with one hand, steady enough in her stance now to risk it, and reaches for his face, he presses it into her palm and sucks her thumb into the heat of his mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

She doesn’t realise she’s stopped moving, dumbstruck, until Fernando starts shimmying against her. His own cock looks livid where the purpling head emerges from the thick grip of his fist. “Move, or share,” he grunts. 

“Up you get, George,” she tells him. Her thumb is drenched shiny when he releases it, clambers onto the bed between Fernando and the headboard. He’s lucky it’s wider than it is long, and even so his feet hang off the edge as he curls himself into the space that’s left for him. 

One of Fernando’s hands drops down, out of her sight. She has to crane her chin over his shoulder, push the whole sweat-soaked length of her torso even closer against his back, to see. Fernando’s got George’s chin in his finger and thumb again, but this time George’s mouth is dropped open, tongue lax against his bottom teeth.

“Papi,” he says. Carmen shivers. Nando twitches. “Papi.”

And then George is taking Fernando’s cock in his mouth, his hands fisted by his sides and his own dickdrooling on his stomach and the damp tails of his shirt. Carmen grinds into Fernando almost without thinking; his hips shift away from her and back, chasing pleasure in both directions, and the jarring, awkward rhythm of it is somehow closer to making her come than everything before it.

The rhythm, and the naked, desperate want on George’s face as he sucks, eyes locked on her.

Fernando, unfortunately, is driving for a different laptime. He gives no warning before he grabs behind him for Carmen’s hip, grinds backwards for three fervid seconds and comes with a roar, straight into George’s mouth.

When he pats George’s bulging cheek, cum spills out down his chin and throat. A cry rips out of Carmen without her say so. 

He lifts himself off Carmen’s dick and falls sideways, to the empty side of the bed, with the self-satisfied grace of a big cat, seemingly unaware the rest of the party haven’t finished yet. Carmen gapes at him, and he lifts an eyebrow. “I figured you two knew how this bit went, mm?”

Her hand drops, automatically, to her clit – and hits the dildo, still there. The harness gets in the way, dulls the sensation, even if George is gulping as he watches her, trying to get his legs underneath him to move. It makes her feel like a fumbling teenager, abruptly unfamiliar with her own body, even as she can feel her orgasm getting closer, almost there, almost enough-

Fernando, indulgently, leans over to unfasten the left hand buckles. He gestures like he’d do the other side, but it’s enough for Carmen. She tugs the panel covering her cunt to the side, lets the dildo press into her stomach as George slides over her, around her, panting and mewling and as needy as she feels. 

Then George is sinking into her, thick and deep and everything her cunt’s been crying out for. He doesn’t even have the coordination to kiss her, his mouth wet at her temple, her cheek, her jaw, but it doesn’t matter because she’s coming, naked and soaking and clinging to him like armour. One shaking thrust, two, and he’s coming too, shivering through it, but loud, all his deliberation peeled away for a series of “fuck”s that have Fernando snorting from his side of the bed. 

George collapses on top of her, but not inconsiderately. She likes it, after, the press, squeezing the last lingering shocks from her body as her mind slowly ebbs back from the edges of the room. When she has the wherewithal, she strokes down his back, fingers dipping into the gully where his shoulder muscles bulge either side of his spine. He takes a while to soften inside her. 

Fernando yawns. “I will call you a car.”

“After we shower,” Carmen says, sharply. 

George snorts half a laugh. “The romance is dead. Happy New Year, mate.” He rolls off the bed fluidly, suddenly back to the man everyone else sees, as awkward as he is charming, but all that wicked need hidden away. 

Carmen’s still on the bed, waiting for her knees to solidify, when the shower starts running. Fernando clucks his tongue, and she rolls her eyes. As soon as she stands, the harness drops away to the floor with a jangle. She has to keep her thighs together as she makes her way to the ensuite; George’s cum starts leaking out of her well before she reaches the loo. 

Under the water, George kisses her with his eyes open, his thumb tracing between two of her ribs. 

George takes longer than her to wash; to be fair, there is a lot more of him. She ends up at the doorway to the bedroom again, wrapped in one of Fernando’s towels.

His eyes are closed, but his brow is furrowed. When she clears her throat, his face goes blank.

She has a thought. 

“Help me on with these?” she asks, nudging her clothes with her toes. 

Fernando goes to his knees to help her step into her dress and tugs it up into place. His fingers are quick and clever on the zip. He goes back down to help her step into her shoes, steady and firm when she puts a hand on his shoulder for balance.

“Good boy,” she says quietly, in Spanish. The shiver is almost imperceptible. 

“Er, Carmen?” George, clean and dressed, is holding up her red panties from where he neatly stowed them with his own clothes. “Missing something?”

When he chucks them over, she snatches them out of the air and pushes them into Fernando’s open hand. “Keep them,” she smiles. “For good luck. And as a thank you.”

Fernando sees them to the door, still not a stitch on him. One palm on George’s shoulder, the other at the small of her back. He’s smiling. 

“Thank you,” she says again. He’s one of the shortest drivers on the grid, but Carmen still has to reach up to press her lips to his cheek. 

It’s soft, past the stubble.

[runabout-river]

This is what kept me going with my 280k 2-part fic. The story parts that yet need to be written NEED to be written 😌

[hazbinshusk]

blitzø x hellhound!reader. blitzø comes home from a mission to find you a wet, whimpering mess - your heat has set in and there's only one thing that can alleviate the pain of it... but I'll leave the filthy single entendres to blitz. 3.3k

(I had two requests for blitzø with a hellhound; one for a sunshine!reader that told me to have fun with the genre, and another for a reader in heat. so here's a combination of the two. thank you for being so patient, dear anons! hope you like it!)

featuring: smut, afab/fem!reader, petnames that reflect gender (e.g. good girl), light petplay vibes in that there's petnames that reflect species (e.g. puppy), breeding kink, sex toys, overstimulation, minor references to blood, dom!blitzø, hellhound anatomy, oral sex, blitzø being a little shit, hell's version of contraception (I pulled it out of my ass, okay?).

Whining as you roll your fingers needily over your clit, you thrust your hips up to meet the dildo you’re pumping in and out of your aching, dripping cunt. Your usually downy fur is damp with sweat, your brow creased with frustration and your tongue lolling out of the side of your mouth. The thick silicon stretches you almost uncomfortably – you were using a toy that only saw action during your heat, one too big for you – hoping that the fuller you felt the more you could trick this fucking heat cycle into thinking it’s satisfied. Even with how wet you are it hurts a little, but that doesn’t stop you from fucking yourself roughly, desperately. You know you’ll hurt too much tomorrow, but right now all reasonable thoughts have been replaced with raw, unending need.

Pain flares in your cheek when you tense your jaw, irritation doubling as you feel yet another orgasm slip away from you despite your efforts. A snarl – a rarely heard sound coming from you – ripples out of your throat, one that rolls out of you chest in pure, unadulterated annoyance.

“Fuck!” you bark out at the ceiling, the sound devolving into a whimper as you shift your hips up against the toy, angling it to brush against your g-spot better with every thrust. Your arm aches with overuse, your lower back complains with every roll of your hips, but you can’t stop. All you can do is wish desperately that your vibrator would recharge just a little faster.

Not that it would matter. It didn’t the first time.

For the love of everything unholy, you hated being a hound sometimes.

Your ears prick upward suddenly from where they’d been flattened back against your skull. The sound of the lock in the front door turning over catches your attention, and you’re off the bed and on shaky legs son fast it makes your head spin. You barely notice the feeling of the dildo sliding out of you to land with a dull thump on the carpet, your thighs slick with your own excitement and your knees threatening to collapse under you as you stumble out into the hall.

Blitzø closes the door behind him and is halfway through shrugging off his coat when your legs finally give out and you fall sideways into the wall in front of him. You barely notice the pain that flares in your shoulder over the aching heat burning in the pit of your stomach. You’re panting, overheated and exhausted and so fucking needy, and you shudder, pressing your thighs together. “Blitz—”

“Shit—!” the imp moves to help you up, leaving his coat in a heap on the floor behind him. You must look a mess – hair dishevelled and sweaty, your naked body on full display – but you don’t care, nuzzling into his palm needily when he cups your cheek in his hand. “Christ on a stick, I thought you weren’t due for another week – fuck!”

He chokes on a laugh as you knock him onto his ass and try to straddle his lap, the sound breaking off into a groan as you grind yourself against his thigh. He pushes you away as gently as he can while you cling to him, and you’re too far gone to be embarrassed by the stain you’ve left on his jeans. Instead you whine, the reedy sound catching in your throat, and Blitzø makes a show of hauling himself to his feet, brushing himself off as though you’d just knocked him into a pile of dirt instead of onto the carpet.

“Alrighty eager-beaver,” he continues, unbuckling his belt and pulling it through the loops to toss it aside. His grin widens when your tongue wets your muzzle in response, your eyes wide and hungry. He takes your hand and hauls you up off the floor, smacking your ass and pointing towards the bedroom. “Let’s get your sweet lil’ ass to bed so I can pound it into the mattress for ya, that’s a good pup.”

You whine again as he takes hold of your hips and guides you back to bed, stumbling over unsteady feet. Blitzø snickers as he sidesteps the dildo on the floor pointedly, and he raises a brow as he takes in the disaster area that is the bed. Sheets thrown back and torn, feathers from where the pillow has been ripped open by your teeth scattered across them. There’s a wet patch eclipsing the middle of the bed, your charging vibrator blinking from the bedside table. When he reaches the side of the bed he reaches out and flicks the dildo still suction-cupped to the headboard, watching it bounce as he affects a tone of faux-sympathy and an exaggerated pout.

“Awww, poor little puppy’s been fuckin’ herself raw for hours, haven’t ya?” he coos tauntingly, smirking as you climb onto the mattress to kneel in front of him, fumbling with the button of his jeans with shaky fingers. He lets you, snickering again when you pull the zipper open with enough force to tear the fabric. He groans, eyes rolling back as you cup your hand eagerly around his half-hard cock, your tail thumping against the headboard with every wag of it. “Roll over, puppy. Let daddy take care of you.”

Blitzø strokes himself, squeezing the base of his cock with each slide of his fingers as you do as you’re told, rolling over and leaning forward on your elbows. Blitzø smooths a hand over your ass appreciatively, swatting it hard enough to draw a yelp out of you. You’re practically quivering with the need for him to fill you, to fuck you, and when Blitzø presses the head of his cock into your wet, eager cunt you choke on a moan, the sound coming out as more of a sob.

“Fuuuuuck…” Blitzø groans as you squeeze around him, even with only an inch or so inside you. Instead of fucking you, he stills his hips, scratching his claws up your thigh teasingly. “Fuck, you’re so fucking wet… Sexy little slip’n’slide…”

“Blitz, please…” you plead, a canine whine slipping out along with the words. “Please, I—I need you—fuck, please, fuck me. I can’t…”

Blitzø’s undoubtedly snarky reply breaks off into a moan, low and rough in the back of his throat as you move against him. You fuck yourself desperately back onto his cock and he doesn’t stop you, grabbing hold of the base of your tail so he can watch the way his cock slides in and out of your aching cunt. Watch the way your pussy kisses the head of his cock before enveloping him again, tight and hot and so fucking wet. You let out another strangled sob through gritted fangs when he still refuses to move, your forehead pressed uncaringly against the wet patch on the sheets as you fuck yourself onto him, the scent of your own arousal thick in your nose.

You can feel Blitzø’s grip on your tail, the claws of his other hand digging deep into the muscle of your hip.  Already this feels so much better than any toy, the warmth of his touch, the almost painful strength of his grip on your hip. He isn’t as thick as the dildo but he still stretches you, filling you with this delicious, familiar ache that makes heat tingle through the small of your back.

Or maybe that’s the way he tugs on your tail, forcing your back into a more severe arch, making each slide of his cock as you bounce yourself back on it graze against that sweet spot inside you. It didn’t matter – your brain can’t focus on anything through the haze of the heat except for how fucking good it will feel to have him fill you, breed you; to feel his cum filling you up so much it will have no choice but to drip back out of you and stain the fur of your inner thighs.

“Good girl,” he croons, his voice hitching when you thrust back against him and squeeze, and he snickers in the back of his throat deliriously. “Fuck… you want me to fuck you proper? Fuck you like a good little bitch?”

“Please, Blitz…” you whimper, claws tearing further into the sheets beneath you. Tears are burning in the corners of your eyes, and your voice breaks as you beg. “Please. I’ll be—I’ll be a good girl, Blitz, please, just fuck me—”

Blitzø runs a hand over the swell of your ass, squeezing wantonly at the flesh. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

The imp grasps roughly at your hips and thrusts deep into you, bottoming out inside you with a groan. He doesn’t hesitate to fuck you forcefully, his hips slamming into the back of your thighs with every push of his hips. The sound of flesh meeting flesh, of his cock filling you is downright filthy, joined by the throaty gasps that escape you each time he buries his cock to the hilt in your cunt.

“That’s it,” Blitzø grunts, tail wrapping itself tightly around your thigh. You choke on a sound halfway between a moan and a yelp as the spines of it dig into your skin. It’s a possessive move, one that will leave marks on your inner thighs for weeks, and it thrills you in a way that makes your entire body shudder. You’re his, and Blitzø chuckles when your tail wags at the idea, battering against his chest. He catches hold of the base of it again, holding it down against your thigh. “Yeah… such a happy puppy gettin’ fucked like this… feel so fuckin’ good…”

The bed springs groan beneath you with every roll of your hips into his. His tail quickens against your clit and an orgasm rocks through you, your thighs shivering and your hips jerking disjointedly as he continues to thrust into you. Blitzø slows his pace, hissing a string of curses under his breath as you tighten, vicelike, around his cock.

“No, no, no, no,” you beg, trying to fuck yourself back onto him again. His claws tighten painfully on your hips, forcing you to stay still as he steadies himself, and you let out a purely canine whine that makes him chuckle breathlessly. “Please, Blitz… don’t stop. Don’t stop, I need—”

“I know what you need, baby girl,” he groans, grinding himself slowly into you again. You whimper, desperate for more even as the aftershocks of your orgasm still make you twitch. This fucking heat… even with how good it feels to finally cum, the tension inside you won’t break until he does too; not until you feel him fill you with cum. “You… fuck…. ‘m not gonna last if you keep squeezin’ me like that… shiiit…”

“Don’t need you to last,” you tell him, pushing hair out of your face with a shaky hand. “Need you to cum, Blitz, please.”

“Jus’ what every dick-carryin’ member o’ Hell wants to hear,” Blitzø snickers, unwinding his tail from your leg. He massages a hand over where his claws have left blood welling up against the fur of your thigh. “Cum quick and no foreplay.”

Your answering laugh catches as Blitzø swats your ass again, and you let out a strangled sound of frustration when he slips his cock out of you.

“Roll over; that’s a good pup.” the imp orders, smoothing his hand up over your knee to your thigh as you do as he asks. He grips the base of his cock with his other hand, appraising your naked body and mussed fur with half-lidded eyes. His tongue slides hungrily against his lip as crawls up onto the bed to kneel between your legs. He leans over you and palms your breast, squeezing it roughly, pinching the nipple hard enough to make you gasp. Blitzø’s smirk widens lasciviously, and you wrap your legs around his hips eagerly, pushing his jeans further down his thighs. He trails his palm over your knee where it rests against his waist in what’s almost an affectionate gesture, and he slides his cock over your clit a few times, slow and teasing. “Wanna try begging again?”

“Blitz,” you groan, pressing your hips up against him needily. You sigh a moan ass the move makes the head of his cock dip into you, and Blitzø moans in the back of his throat, giving in and thrusting fully into you again. “Fuck!”

The imp grips at your hip with one hand, bracing himself over you on the other as he fucks you, rough and hard and deep. You clutch at his arms, his chest, claws digging into his skin and leaving dark tracks across it. Blitzø hisses at the feeling of it, grin widening, and he meets you halfway when you lean up to kiss him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Blitzø kisses you hungrily, demandingly, his tongue sliding into your mouth to meet yours almost immediately. He moans into your mouth, the sound almost obnoxiously pornographic, when your fingers graze the side of his throat, his teeth catching on your bottom lip. “Christ, fuck, you feel so fuckin’ good… shit…”

His fingers find your clit and you arch up against him as you cum, the way Blitzø’s cock hammers into your cunt making it gush out of you. You almost shriek with the force of it, your head falling back against the ruined sheets, eyes rolling back. Blitzø curses, shivers when your fingers graze along the spikes at the back of his head, pulling you into another desperate kiss.

“So fuckin’ tight…” he groans, lips and teeth brushing against your cheekbone before he buries his face in your neck. “Gonna fill you up. That’s what you want, isn’t it, pup? Fill you up and breed you like a good little bitch…”

“Yes!” you gasp as he buries his teeth in your shoulder, pushing your hips up to meet his with every thrust. His hips slam into yours, a thrill of pain mingling with the addictive pleasure burning through you. Your voice is a breathless whine, jaw tight. “Yes! Fuck, Blitz, fuck… please, let me have your pups… please… cum inside me, please, fuck…”

Blitzø kisses the underside of your jaw, breath hot and heavy against your throat. His fingers find your clit again and you moan aloud, voice hoarse and rough and broken as you cum again. The imp echoes it, desperately trying to steady himself long enough to get his words out. “Gonna cum, baby… Gonna fuckin’ fill you so fuckin’—fuck!”

Blitzø thrusts deep into you and cums, grinding himself hard against your cunt as he shudders through his orgasm. A sob tears from your throat as the tension inside you finally, finally breaks, your entire body shivering under his touch. Blitzø fucks himself slowly into you in a disjointed rhythm, forcing his cum deep into your cunt, and you barely register the way he brushes his lips over the marks he’s left in your shoulder. When he kisses you again, you taste the iron of your own blood, and he slides his cock out of you slowly with a heavy, tired sigh. He rolls off of you and onto the mattress beside you, laughing breathlessly as his back meets the soaked sheets.

“Fuckin’ Christ, baby,” he reaches over to pat your thigh, snickering when his touch makes you jump, over-sensitized. “Might wanna think about changin’ the sheets.”

“I’ll get right… right on it,” you reply breathlessly, thighs aching. The sound of your tail thumping against the mattress fills the space between you, and Blitzø smirks, his own tail switching back and forth lazily by your ankle. You whine quietly when you feel the warmth of his cum dripping out of you and down your inner thigh. You roll over to rest you chin on his chest and stare up at him with wide, happy eyes, tail still waving merrily behind you. “Thanks. For coming—”

“Heh,” he cuts you off obnoxiously, laughing when you poke him in the ribs in retort.

“—over.” you finish pointedly. “I know you had work to do today.”

“Oh, fuck work,” Blitzø says, one arm tucked up behind his head. His other hand comes up to tousle the hair between your ears affectionately. “You really think I’m pickin’ work over blowin’ your back out when you’re all heat-horny?”

“Well…” you shrug a shoulder, face warming in a blush, “you really like work.”

“And I really like the way you do that bouncy-squeezy thing when you’re all impatient for more of my thick, red co—”

You try to cut him off by covering his mouth with your hands and Blitzø laughs, ducking back out of reach. He catches hold of your wrists and pulls you into another kiss, forked tongue sliding against yours. He releases them to cup your cheek in his palm, fingers carding through your fur and up to the base of your ear. He rolls you onto your back, moving with you to brace himself on one elbow.

He breaks away with a breathless laugh as you reach down to curl your fingers around his cock. It’s soft, but it twitches under your touch.

“Christ on a stick, tits, give me a minute,” he snickers, pulling your hand gently away again and smirking when you pout.

You sigh childishly. “A whole minute?”

He grins and kisses you again, stopping when a thought comes to him.

“You’re early – that shit Fizz’s barnyard bitch makes is, uh…” he gestures vaguely down over your belly. “It’s, uh… doin’ its thing in there, right?”

“Took it this morning; the test for it is on the table,” you nod hurriedly, trying to pull him on top of you again. Blitzø shakes his head in amusement; as eager as you are right now to be knocked up, neither of you are particularly thrilled at the idea of actually breeding outside of the heat. Taking the contraceptive before heat set in was basically foolproof, and the test provided reassurance to partners when the one in heat is too far gone and needy to be worried about telling the truth. “Now, fuck me already, please.”

Blitzø chuckles, sparing the test a long enough glance to confirm you’re telling the truth. He slips a hand down over your belly to tease two fingers over your clit and you shudder, your breath catching in a quiet moan. He watches your expression almost affectionately, circling your clit slowly. “Thirsty bitch.”

“Blitz…” you draw his name out needily, bucking your hips up against his hand.

The imp smacks a kiss to the side of your muzzle, flicking your clit and making you jump before rolling away and sitting up. He claps his hands and rubs them together, stretching out a kink in his lower back.

“Alrighty, here’s the plan. You want me to fuck you again?” he grins when you nod enthusiastically, leaning over to fish a packet of wipes and a bottle of lube out of the bedside drawer. He cleans off the dildo still suctioned to the headboard brusquely and squirts some lube on it.

“Then you: fuck that,” he stands on the bed, cupping his hardening cock in his hand. “While you—” he points at his crotch with his other hand, “—suck this. Alrighty, tits?”

You roll over onto your hands and knees readily, and Blitzø bends down to kiss you again as you reach back and line the dildo up with your still-aching cunt, stroking it a few times to spread the lube over the silicon. You moan into his mouth as it sinks into you, your eyes rolling back behind closed lids.

Blitzø straightens, fisting the base of his cock and groaning as you lap at the head of it with your tongue. When you take him eagerly into your mouth he groans, his head falling back and his hand clutching at the hair between your ears. “Fuuuuuck… that’s my good girl…”

.

.

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a/n: it was two anons who requested this one, but I'm tagging @clovrplayz and @rhiandoesfandom because the vibes are very much there for them lol.

hope you all enjoyed! don't forget to comment/reblog and let me know what you think! :)

[cha-melodius]

23 23 23!!!!! (Hug prompt)

(This was a popular one! Also requested by @dot524 and @libbygrl, so I made it extra long. Just kidding, it got that long anyway, but we're pretending it's because of that. hug ficlet prompts; read all the hug ficlets)

23. The hug they pull you into when they’re about to kiss you.

This has been the shittiest birthday Alex can remember in a long time.

They’d been slammed all evening, like everyone in the surrounding area decided that they all had to visit the restaurant on the same day. Normally, Alex wouldn’t complain—he likes staying busy, and the buzz of a well-running kitchen is almost soothing to him. Tonight, though, the kitchen had been running far from well.

First, one of his line cooks was out sick and no one else could come in. Then, one of the new kids he’s been training accidentally upended an entire tub of prepped artichokes. Artichokes. Alex’s hands are still raw from the frantic all-hands-on-deck rush to get enough replacements cleaned. His normally extremely capable sous chef had just broken up with her girlfriend and was hanging on by a thread all night, occasionally disappearing to go cry in the walk-in. More than one sauce had been forgotten and burned on the stove. And of course there’d been your usual picky diners, people unable to be satisfied by anything, and while usually he’s pretty good at letting that stuff roll off his back, tonight Alex was seconds away from melting down and turning into one of those chefs he swore he’d never become.

He might have spent the last twenty minutes, after the last diners had finally gone and the rest of the kitchen staff have followed, collapsed in a booth with a bottle of Maker’s. He’s gonna go home, promise. He just needs to get up the energy to move.

Except—

There’s a clattering from the kitchen, and a soft, unexpectedly posh fuck audible in the dead silence of the restaurant. Alex levers himself out of the booth and pushes his way into the kitchen, following the sounds of movement to the pastry chef’s station, which is tucked away in an alcove. There, bent incongruously over a single dessert plate holding some kind of small cake, is his sommelier.

“Henry?”

Henry, who apparently did not hear Alex come in, jolts upright, his face going red like he’s been caught. Caught at what, Alex can’t begin to imagine.

“Oh, Alex,” he breathes. Then he glances down at the dessert in front of him, and his face falls. “Christ, this was supposed to be a surprise.”

“I mean, it definitely is,” Alex offers. As far as he knows, Henry doesn’t cook much. He’s got an exceptional palate, but is fairly hopeless in the kitchen, by his own accounts. And yet, no one else is here. Just Henry, and a cake. There’s a singular candle stuck into the top of it. It’s not hard to draw a conclusion, unlikely though it may seem. “Is that for me?”

“Well,” Henry says uncertainly. He sighs. “Yes, I suppose.”

Alex can’t help the smile playing on his lips as he slowly walks closer. “You suppose?”

“If it’s not any good, then it definitely wasn’t for you,” Henry hedges, but he’s smiling now too—a little, hesitant thing that makes Alex’s heart beat an erratic rhythm in his chest.

Alex stops next to the counter where the cake sits, which also happens to be right in front of Henry. He looks up into sparkling blue eyes under brows still knit together in the middle and wants to smooth out the wrinkle between them with his thumb.

Instead, he picks up the fork sitting next to the plate. “Can I try it?”

“Now hold on, the candle’s meant to be lit—” Henry tries, but Alex laughs at him and cuts a neat corner off the little square cake. It’s a rich, deep brown with a dark filling that oozes out between two layers, and when he sticks the fork in his mouth, a rich interplay of chocolate and the sweet-tart notes of port-soaked cherries bursts across his tongue.

Alex finishes his bite slowly, savoring both the flavors and the nervous fidgeting of the man standing so very close to him. He’s been more than half in love with Henry for a while now, but he could never be sure if his feelings were returned. They work so well together here. It seemed stupid to risk it.

Fuck that.

“Well?” Henry finally asks, unable to help himself, as Alex slowly sets the fork down on the plate. “You don’t have to spare my feelings if it was awful. June tried to help me with the cake recipe, but I fear I might be unteachable—oh.”

The words cut off because Alex has grabbed both of his wrists and is pulling him a step closer, even as he closes the remaining gap between them. He arranges Henry’s compliant arms around his waist, then loops his own over Henry’s shoulders, drawing him in until their bodies are pressed together and mere inches separate their faces.

“It’s incredible,” he murmurs. Yeah, the cake’s a little dry and his ganache isn’t perfect, but it doesn’t matter. Henry made it for him, for his birthday, and for that, it’s better than every Michelin-starred cake he’s ever eaten. “Thank you, H. It means a lot.”

“You deserve it,” Henry murmurs back. His eyes keep flitting down to Alex’s lips, and Alex’s smile grows.

“You know what I really want, though?”

“What?” Henry asks breathlessly as his arms tighten around Alex’s waist. The tips of their noses bump together.

“This,” Alex says, and kisses him.

Clearly, Henry’s been sampling as he constructed the dessert, because he tastes like chocolate and port-soaked cherries, and Alex can’t get enough. Henry kisses him like he’s been aching for it just as long as Alex has, holding onto him like he’s never going to let go, and frankly, Alex isn’t going anywhere.

Maybe this wasn’t such a shitty birthday, after all.

[frugs-facts]

Counterpoint: you seem to be interrupting people's sleep, which is a form of torture if you're able to keep up the fanfiction to such a high quality and degree of publishing that your recipients never receive a moments grace to rest. After years of this they'll be so zonked as to be the perfect targets for brainwashing

Don't think of your writing as something you do in your spare time, think of it as a hobby with the potential benefit of securing yourself a host of brainwashed cultists and malcontents whose stomach problems and anxiety you're now responsible for.

On second thoughts maybe don't do that and just enjoy it as a hobby

[setmeatopthepyre]

Confess [@118dailydrabble day 40] [part of antarct-fic | bucktommy | 118 words] [continued from this]

“And that's my fault?”

“I never said it was.”

Evan's eyebrows draw together in thought and his eyes are so, so blue, and Tommy wishes there was an even more remote continent he could exile himself to.

Finally, Evan says, “So why are you telling me now?”

“To make you realize you don't know me at all.”

Evan tilts his head. “And you thought confessing to the fact that you want kids would, what, Tommy?”

Make you run, Tommy doesn't say. Instead: “Make you flash-forward to the moment when the kids have to deal with a messy divorce when we inevitably don't work out.”

Evan's eyes glitter. “So you're telling me you would marry me?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

[vbnhuet]

Wow, look at that very happy and uncomplicated couple. Really makes you wanna read about them, right guys

(I did promised myself I would finish this fic if it's the last thing I do, but a four months break was pushing it a bit far lol)

[livelaughlou]

i wish *you* would write fluffy louliver ☺️ (i did the ol' switcheroo)

Oooooh. Okay! That's fair! I kind of waffled on this and what I wanted it to be before I decided to keep it simple.

This is based off this photo Oliver posted to his Instagram.

louliver (rpf) - words: 570 - rating: general - complete

He looks at the picture he just took. Not bad, the surroundings are pretty, the dogs look cute and he looks appropriately ragged for all the traveling he's been doing. He also looks like he's being completely transparent with how little he's brought along with him and he can't help a little laugh to himself. If only they knew.

He posts it to Instagram and turns around to yell into the van, "All good."

He hears the shuffle of a long body before the passenger side door opens and Lou comes striding around the side of the van, a reusable coffee cup of his own in their hands from their stop to refill the gas tank on the van.

"Get your photo there, hotshot?" Lou teases. He sets down the coffee cup by Oliver and zips his jacket. Oliver has quickly learned that Lou is a California baby through and through, sensitive to the slightest bit of cold.

"You cold there, grandpa?" Oliver teases back and Lou rolls his eyes, adjusting the beanie on his head. He shouldn't look as cute as he does, but he manages it somehow. That's another thing he's learned....Lou is a bit of a wildcard. He hadn't been intimidated by him by any means, but there'd been something about him when they'd met briefly back when shooting season 2. And when they'd finally met again before shooting the big scene, well, Oliver won't admit to him the attraction to the guy who'd beefed up since then.

Besides, Lou probably already knows considering he'd all but jumped him in his trailer.

"I'm not that much older than you," Lou grumbles, sitting next to him, taking a sip of coffee.

"I like that that's the part you focus on," Oliver says and Lou chuckles.

"I'm not the only one dressed like we're in a midwestern winter," Lou answers, bumping him with a shoulder. "Weren't you raised in a cold environment?"

"Too much time here," Oliver says and it's probably true. He looks toward his traveling companion, who's spent time sleeping in the van, or out-of-the-way motels for the last week and a half. "Thanks for coming with me."

Lou shrugs, shoots him a little look. "Not like I was doing anything. SWAT doesn't start shooting for a while either. I am glad I left Bjorn with Shanna. Three dogs to sneak into motels would have been too much."

"He's so cute though," Oliver complains lightly and Lou laughs and God, he's gorgeous like this, haloed by the low light, nose a little red lips a little dry.

Before he can help himself, Oliver reaches a hand up and cups Lou's face, turning it toward him and bringing him in for a light kiss, short and sweet. When they break away, they lean their foreheads together.

"You know," Oliver says carefully. "You wouldn't have to hide in the front seat if I wanted to take photos. You know, if you want."

Lou raises an eyebrow. "I thought we weren't ready for that."

Oliver shrugs. They've been doing this for over six months. Maybe...maybe he's tired of hiding. "I think I might be ready to start...going public, I guess."

Lou's smile turns up the corners of his mouth, scrunching his nose a little bit. He reaches into his pocket and pulls his phone out. He gets it ready, the holds it up in front of them for a selfie.

"Well," Lou says carefully. "Say cheese."

[alex-procrastinates]

OH NO i hit the tag limit

heres the rest of it

This links to a wheel with nearly a hundred fic tropes for plots, settings, and more. Spin it twice.

This could also work with art inspiration, but the buttons only allow for so many characters on them. And please do ramble in the tags! I'm going to have no idea what most of you are talking about, and it's going to be great.

[screamlet]

118 daily drabble (day 55; mayday)

@118dailydrabble

notes: bucktommy wedding planner au

---

"Mayday, mayday, mayday—"

Tommy's done. He snatches Buck's walkie-talkie from his Aunt Ruth and throws it into the fountain. "That code's for a firefighter down, not your pallet of booze getting stuck in traffic!"

Ruth slurs at him, "When you pay for the wedding, Tom, you handle it, but at my—at Sandy's—"

"I'm fucking the wedding planner so on his behalf, shut the hell up and let Sandy enjoy her beautiful party and her lousy husband!"

Suddenly, he sees Buck. He rushes over, says, "I've outstayed my welcome, but you should know I'm falling in love with you so if that's something you're interested in—shit."

He kisses Buck, hard, then bolts through the reception and over a hedge.

[linddzz]

I am happy to announce that I've currently got just under 10k words that are almost entirely Jayce the demisexual having a meltdown bc he's getting horny for the first time over a glimpse of some collarbone