#Pi-don

[avaford2009]

This is my Idea of Disney Munchlings Scented Plush – Sweetly Treats – Disney Princes Edition. The Disney Munchlings Sweetly Treats Disney Princes Edition series includes Derek Blueberry Muffin (from "The Swan Princess") (blueberry scent), Phillip Cherry Pie (from "Sleeping Beauty") (cherry scent), Dimitri Green Apple (from "Anastasia") (apple scent), Eric Vanillia Ice Cream (from "The Little Mermaid") (vanilla ice cream scent), Pied Piper Grape Ice Cream (from "Shrek Forever After") (grape scent), Prince Cornelius Orange Strawberry Sundae (from "Thumbelina") (strawberry scent), John Smith Blueberry Boba (from "Pocahontas") (blueberry scent), Hercules Lemon Zest (from "Hercules") (lemon scented) and Aladdin Grape Jam (from "Aladdin) (grape scented). Collect all seven plush toys in the Disney Munchlings Sweetly Treats Disney Princes Edition series! Part of the Disney Munchlings Collection.

[oohbuggypie]

need to write BullDon hurt comfort so so bad .. Don coming home and crying smthn smthn they go to sleep Don cries all night but he wakes up the next morning with Bull and he feels better smthn smthn IDFK IVE JUST BEEN THINKING ABT TWO SCENES IN SPECIFIC THAT I WANNA WRITE OUTT Don crying makes me so sick but i want 2 write cute domestic stuff AURGH

[evilhorse]

No one can alter history!

[cartridgeconverter]

Happy toki pona day nerds, here's an opera line that I thought fit too well with toki pona naming conventions not to translate

KIWEN PI JAN UTALA jan Sowani (o), mi li lon sina tan sina wile moku poka!

Literal translation:

STONE OF THE FIGHTING PERSON (Statue of the Commander) Sowani person, I am at you (here with you) because you wanted to eat beside me!

JAN SOWANI mi sona e ni ala a taso mi li ken moku jan anpa o, jo e moku sin o pana e moku ni

Literal translation:

SOWANI PERSON (Don Giovanni) I don't think this (I don't believe this) but I can eat. Bowing-down person (servant), carry new food. Give that food!

Notes:

I got really excited when I realized that the title "Don" could be easily replaced by the toki pona "jan", used when referring to a person. Except I forgot that when using the vocative, you have to add "o" at the end. So it's rather clumsily appended to "jan Sowani" in the first line (though I find it unneccessary, since there's no command after it). This means that the entire premise that I started this little project on is flawed. Oh well.

In the second line, Giovanni addresses his servant, Leporello. The issue is that since he's not a nobleman, Leporello doesn't have a title that can be conveniently substituted for "jan", meaning that if I were to try and use his actual name, I would have to shorten it by two syllables so it would still fit the meter of the line. My solution was to refer to him as "jan anpa", or "bowing-down person".

For fun, here are all of the characters' names, adapted into the sounds of the toki pona language with no regard for meter: jan Lepolelo jan Sowani jan Ana (this one is basically the same.) jan utala (or jan Konsalo if we choose to refer to him as that) jan Otawijo jan Ewila jan Selina jan Maseto (this one is also the same.)

I did think about translating this whole show, once. But then I realized that I would probably get bored halfway through. I'd also have to think of like 60 million four syllable words roughly meaning "bad person" for Elvira and another 60 million pet names for Ottavio, or else just have to keep using "jan ike" (evil person) and "pona mi" (my good or perhaps my joy) over and over again in the same scenes. No thank you.

[pier-carlo-universe]

Edizione Speciale di Natale per “Svuota la Cantina” ad Alessandria: Un Mercatino del Riuso per il Quartiere Cristo

Il 7 dicembre presso la Palestra Don Bosco, un’opportunità di scambio, riciclo e incontro per la comunità alessandrina.

Il 7 dicembre presso la Palestra Don Bosco, un’opportunità di scambio, riciclo e incontro per la comunità alessandrina. Torna l’evento “Svuota la Cantina” nel Quartiere Cristo di Alessandria, con un’edizione speciale dedicata al Natale, organizzata dall’Associazione PI GRECO e con il supporto dell’Associazione Alessandria Sud. Il mercatino si terrà sabato 7 dicembre 2024, dalle ore 8:00 alle ore…

[k-hotchoisan]

backseat serenade

<mingi x fem!reader>

Getting stuck in the backseat of your friend’s car after a night out with your drunk friends wasn’t how you thought of ending the night, especially not on Mingi’s lap.

Genre/warnings: smut, pwp, forced proximity, technically exhibitionism but not because no one ends up noticing, fingering, light choking and wrist pining, riding, cream pies, orgasms, something is going on in the backseat…, furcoat mingi

word count: 3.3K (what the fucK)

a/n: y'all be eating fucking good fr. Also shout out to my loml @bro-atz for helping out with the plot a little <3 shout out to mingi brain rot!

taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff @choisansplushie  @pre1ttyies @hwallazia @songmingisthighs @yeosangiess  @woojirang @mylovelymito @softwsan @yourlocaljonghoe @itza-meee @jeon-ify @itza-meee @miss-fallon @hwallazia @bunnyluvr25 @eggyboy5 @hourswithoutyou @iwishiwasthemoontonight @yunhogrippers @watermelon2319 @vampiregirl215 @kibs-and-bits @s-h-y-a @liyahbug05-blog @luvt0kki @httpseungmxn  @voicesinmyhead-rc @woojirang @wlv-asteria @jjoongstar @comicnerd557 or @kpopwrites @vic0921

networks: @atzhouse @cultofdionysusnet @cromernet

“Who else is here?” You ask. 

She shrugs. “My boyfriend and a couple of his friends. You know them.” Well, you’ve definitely met a couple of your friend’s boyfriend’s friends before. Your eyes scan the crowd and sure enough, you spot familiar faces. 

And then your eyes rest on a particular male—his hair dyed platinum and slicked back, already drawing attention because of his height alongside his fur coat that hung over his shoulders. You never thought someone could pull off a fur coat that well actually. A pair of glasses sits on his nose bridge, which seems to somehow accentuate how sharp his eyes are. He’s been on your radar since he appeared on a mutual friend’s Instagram. 

“He’s pretty cute isn’t he?”, your friend’s date pushes, lightly bumping his arm against yours. 

You cast him a glance. ���Just surprised that there are people who still wear fur coats in this economy.”

“That’s-“

“Song Mingi”, you reply, not taking notice of your friend’s boyfriend’s surprised expression. 

“You know him?”

“Came across him”, you reply a little too quickly. You sure as hell were not about to spill the truth. 

He definitely looks and is intimidating for sure, especially when he opens his mouth to speak, his voice so low that it tickles your ears. You could hear him talk forever, you think. You could imagine how he moans in your ears.

You blink. The fuck?

And so, for the past hour or so, you’ve been stealing glances at the blond male, but unfortunately, there was only so much staring could do, and it was not helping you get the male’s attention. Sure, the both of you actually followed each other (you were surprised when he followed you back), and the way he liked your stories sometimes made your stomach grow butterflies, but you never actually interacted with him in real life. 

It wasn’t until the party was slowing down, when you came back from being distracted by another friend, was when you realise Mingi was gone. A ping of disappointment fills you up, but it’s not as horrendous as the feeling of regret—for not just going up to talk to him. You wonder when you’ll see him again.

You decide to find your friend and call it a night.

“Do you wanna hitch a ride with us?”, your friend asks, uselessly trying to balance herself, her partner holding onto her waist. 

“The driver didn’t drink, I promise”, your friend’s partner assures. 

You open the car door and your eyes widen when you spot Mingi. 

You whip your head to your friend to ask her sincewhen Mingi came with the friend group but you realise you wouldn’t be getting any concrete answers from a tipsy person. 

You glance back at the male donned in the maroon fur coat, who seems rather surprised when he sees that you were the one who opened the car door. 

But Mingi’s expression remains indifferent—god knows what he’s thinking about but you swore you saw a tint of something in his eyes when your friends told you to just sit on his lap because “the car had no space”. 

“Hi, y/n”, Mingi’s deep voice calling your name is kept in a bottle and stored at the back of your head. 

“Hey Mingi”, you greet back, cautiously approaching him. 

“Are you okay with this?” You ask, testing the waters by putting your weight on his left thigh. 

“It’s fine. I’m just worried that it’s gonna be uncomfortable for you since it’s gonna take a while to reach your place right?”

Right. You nod in defeat. 

Your body jolts slightly when you feel Mingi’s touch burn against your skin—especially your thighs. 

His friend on the passenger seat has the aux cord and he’s picked out a song to blast in the speakers. You feel goosebumps bloom across the nape of your neck when Mingi’s voice hits your ear from behind. 

“Sorry, you might need to move in a little more, Princess. We have three more squeezing with us at the back.”

You blink, processing the information before internally thanking the universe that the car is dark so the red flushing against your cheeks gets hidden. 

Soon you find yourself fully on Mingi’s lap, and although you try not to lean too much against him, you realise the position feels awkward, and when Mingi personally shifts you with his hands instead, you decide to stay put. 

The energy in the car is high, even after all that partying, which you easily deduce to be due to the alcohol. Unfortunately, you couldn’t be singing along at the top of your lungs, not when you’re subconsciously aware that Mingi is just behind you. 

Sitting on someone’s lap was definitely not as comfortable as sitting on a car seat, and that was a given, so you find yourself shifting constantly, not realising Mingi closing his fists every time your ass shifts against him, particularly his crotch. 

Suddenly you feel the weight below you shift. Mingi’s arm wraps around your waist, his weight pressing against you. You stay put the moment you feel his lips barely inches away from the shell of your ear. 

“I strongly suggest you try to stay still, y/n, or it’ll become a problem for the both of us.” 

You turn your head slightly, barely enough to capture him within your peripherals. At first, you wonder if you’re starting to annoy him, but when you feel his hands slide down to your thighs and something hard pressing against your ass, you get your answer. 

And you wonder how far you should take this. 

Your face is heating up, at the idea you’re just sitting on Mingi’s thick erection, separated by the fabric of his pants and the ridiculously thin fabric of your body con dress. You wonder about his size, which only gets more vivid since you’re literally sitting right on his fucking cock—how thick he would be, how much he would stretch you open, and it’s making you slowly drench your panties. 

The more his erection is blatantly pressing against you, the more you can’t help but fidget on his lap. You’re wondering why Mingi hasn’t said anything, you wonder if he even felt it at all. The moment that thought forms in your brain, you pick out what sounded like low groans from behind you. Then you feel Mingi’s fingers press against your bare thighs, just this fucking close to lifting your dress. 

Mingi shifts against you, his hard cock now even more prominent against your ass—directly below your pussy if it wasn’t for the fact that there were layers of annoying fabric keeping them apart. 

His deep voice is like a melody in your ear,  “I’m closing an eye if you’re just doing this on accident, but there’s only so much more grinding I can take princess.”

You glance over to the company seated just right beside you—they are still singing their hearts out thanks to the self-assigned DJ of the car. The music was still blasting, and you realise you and Mingi are slowly forming another world—one growing of hot and heavy air. 

You’re trying to weigh your options and risks, but the constant friction of Mingi’s cock just poking you through his pants mixed with the light buzz from the alcohol earlier is keeping you less than logical. 

You lean back, the back of your head resting on his shoulder, feeling the thick coat tickle your cheeks, taking in the scent of his cologne that you swear only he could pull off, the boldness rushing into your veins like adrenaline.

“And if I said it wasn’t an accident?”

You don’t know what he might do next, but it’s making your legs tremble by the second. Your clit is fucking throbbing from the sheer anticipation. 

Mingi’s eyes dart to glance at you while his head remains positioned straight, before he presses himself onto you with a smirk against your ears, “Right. Glad we cleared that up, princess.” 

His hands press on the sides of your throat, two fingers tipping your jaw to turn your head to face him as he clashes his lips against yours, and you’re ready for him to just take whatever the fuck you have left. You’re doing your best to muffle your moans through the kisses, but as every second passes, you’re ready to give into it—mostly scream his fucking name into the night at this point. 

Your eyes are so glazed out, your pussy throbbing and drenched, your mind so sexually frustrated the more Mingi keeps you waiting. Mingi’s fingers trail along your bare thighs, his legs forcing yours to stay open, easily letting the gather of your dress push upwards, while his fingers push your panties to the side. You hear him mutter fuck when your wet cunt drenches his fingers. He barely drags his fingers over your clit, yet you already feel like you’re about to burst. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl and stay quiet for me?” Mingi asks, sinking his gaze into yours. You swallow hard and nod, so fucking entranced by his sharp eyes behind the glasses, and alongside the fact that his fingers are rubbing circles on your clit. 

“Fuck me. You’re so fucking wet for me”, he hisses, eating up your moans as he fits his thick fingers into your pussy, filling you up instantly. Oh god. You feel your mind completely blank out at the sensation of Song Mingi stretching you out. 

You swear that the wet sounds of Mingi’s fingers fucking your sopping cunt were louder than the music, but for some reason, and thank fuck, no one else seemed to notice. Yet. 

His other hand clasps over your mouth as he watches your eyes roll back, your desperate and satisfied moans muffled every time his thumb presses against your clit while his fingers fill you up again and again. 

You shouldn’t have agreed to stay quiet. 

Mingi’s legs are strong as fuck because his knees keep your legs from snapping shut as you let the feeling build in your stomach. Your hips are involuntarily bucking against his fingers, craving for him to fuck his fingers deeper. Shit. You can’t seem to get enough. He releases his hand off your mouth for a while, letting it wander to your tits, rolling your nipples over your dress with his fingers, listening to you pant and whimper.  

“Can’t wait to fuck your tight cunt once we get off”, he mutters into your ear, increasing his pressure on your clit. 

“Please… fuck! Mingi…” you trail, not even sure what you’re begging for at this point. But the knot tightens hard and taut. You’re about to snap anytime soon. 

“Cum on my fingers for me, y/n. Show me how your cunt is gonna feel like when my cock is gonna stuff you full.”

His hand goes back to clamping over your mouth to muffle your cries while your orgasm rips through your body. Your eyes roll back, and your back arched against his abdomen, the pleasure spreading through every nerve while he’s still fucking you with his fingers, enjoying the way you’re completely undone because of him. Your cunt can’t seem to stop spasming and it’s only from his fucking fingers. 

But it slowly wears off, and he releases his hand from your mouth, letting you catch your breath. 

His fingers slowly leave your spent and creamy cunt, and for a split second, you’re almost disappointed. You turn your head, watching Mingi slide his stained fingers past his lips, licking them clean, and his eyes locked onto you. 

“You taste so fucking good, Princess”, he whispers, before his hands are on your throat again, pulling you in for a wet kiss, and you taste yourself on his tongue, your face heating up at his words once more. 

The split second you pull away from him is when the music stops, and you hear your name being called.

“Y/n!”

Your eyes widen, and Mingi lowers his knees, letting you quickly shut your legs, letting his arm rest close to your legs, blocked by his fur coat. Thank fuck you’re in the dark. 

“This is your stop right?” Your friend asks before she turns on the interior car lights. You glance at the apartment building and sure enough, it is your apartment building. 

“Right”, you manage to answer with a forced smile. 

And as you are about to leave the car, Mingi suddenly announces, “I’ll send her up. Don’t wait for me.” He takes off his fur coat, draping it over your shoulders, quickly turning away as he pushes the car door open, ignoring the suggestive looks his group of friends were giving him before curtly saying his goodbyes and shutting the car door. 

Mingi is pretty much gentle with you as the both of you head up to your apartment, asking if you’re feeling cold, even though he’s only in a black tank top. You can’t help but gawk at how he looks even under shitty elevator lights—still so fucking hot. His fingers haven’t let go of yours yet since the both of you left the car, and he sure isn’t letting you go when the both of you reach to the door of your apartment. 

You feel so ridiculous in this oversized fur coat, but the fact that Mingi’s smell is just all over it makes you turn a blind eye to it. 

You unlock the door, pushing it open, the post nut clarity hitting, but the realisation of Mingi in a private space with you sending you mind into the gutter. 

And suddenly you feel your cunt throb again. Fuckin hell. 

“Cute place you have there”, he comments, slipping his shoes off. 

“I try to make the most out of it”, you return, taking off the fur coat, handing it back to him. 

Mingi pauses, staying near the door.

“I got no clue why I left the car like that, y/n. If you want me to leave, I can just call a cab and-“ 

His mouth runs, watching the way you’re walking towards him, and his lips snap shut when you pull him in for an open mouth kiss, his thoughts completely disappearing like they never existed. 

“Finish what you started, Minki”, you whisper when you pull away. 

For once, you like the way red looks on his pretty face, the red that disappears when he catches on, eye fucking you while thinking how fucking hot you look under normal apartment lights than the dim lights. 

His hands cup the back of your neck before his fingers are on your scalp, tugging your hair to face him, letting his lips collide with yours. You taste him so much more intensely now, and fuck does he taste like heaven. 

You feel his hands leave your head, going for your wrists instead, and he backs you up against the wall, deciding to pin your fucking wrists against the wall while stealing all of the oxygen you have left in between pants. 

His fingers trail down so lightly across your skin, you feel like you’re about to combust. 

“Is the couch fine for you?” He asks. You nod, just internally begging him to do anything to you. 

His hands slip down to your thighs, carrying you up in his arms, kissing and sucking against the skin of your neck while he navigates through your apartment. When he does find the couch (rather quickly), he lets you fall onto it, watching the way your dress rides up higher to your hips, your soaked panties coming into view, and his cock growing hard once more. 

“You know, you’re honestly killing me with that dress”, Mingi comments, his fingers tugging off your drenched panties, almost salivating over your glistening cunt. “Had to hold back from just pulling you out and fucking you.”

Oh, fucking gods. 

“That’s why we’re here now, aren’t we?” You tease, watching his satisfied grin grow bigger. 

You can’t wait for him to fuck your brains out. 

Mingi squats, letting his face press against your bare cunt, giving licks up, his tongue pressing against your clit while holding your legs apart. He thinks your whimpers and begs are like a fucking symphony—and he could listen to them over and over again while he breaks you, over and over again. 

It doesn’t last long, unfortunately, because he feels like he’s about to burst the longer he waits, his cock bulging against the fabric of his pants. 

So Mingi unbuckles his pants, pushing them down along with his underwear, his thick and long cock springs from his apparel, wet and decorated in thick precum. He gives himself quick strokes, amused by the way your face is turning a soft shade of pink. 

His thick fingers once again hold your wrists above you, lining his cock up to your pretty hole and pushing himself in, his girth taking up all space instantly. You see stars splatter beneath your eyelids as his cock stretches you out—thick and heavy. 

“Fuck. Song Mingi-“ you cry out, struggling against his grasp. 

“So fuckin tight, princess. Fuck, you feel so fucking good”, he sighs, letting himself bottom out in you, relishing in the way your face completely contorts into pleasure when he’s fully seated in you. 

And when he starts fucking you, your eyes roll back—the feeling of his cock pumping in and out of you switching off most of your senses. 

You sense his arms pining your wrists are growing tired, so you do your best to tap his arm, and Mingi lets go, watching you slide his wrist down to your throat. 

You sure know how to push his buttons. 

He applies pressure and it hits all the perfect spots. A choked moan escapes you while he fucks you dumb. 

“I’d love to choke you more, princess, but I really need you to ride me right now”, Mingi whispers, his fingers leaving your throat, and he pulls his cock out. 

You climb onto his lap, lining his cock before you push yourself down, his fullness knocking the wind out of you once more. 

“Are you gonna take all of my cum like a good girl?” He hums, wiping away the tears from your eyes. You nod weakly, biting your lip. 

“That’s my good girl”, he compliments, and it makes your heart fucking soar. Mingi bounces you on his cock, groaning at the way you’re squeezing around him. “Fuck, squeeze me just like that. God, your pussy feels so fucking amazing, princess.”

“Mingi, I’m so close. Oh fuck I’m gonna-“

Mingi only holds your thighs down, watching you shake, feeling your cunt just clenching down and flutter on his cock, cream seeping down his shaft, and he groans in your ear, keeping himself deep in your pussy, his thick cum flooding into your tight cunt, listening to you curse while he forces you to ride out your high. 

“So fucking good. Mingi…” you mutter through tears and hiccup, letting Mingi kiss your tears before he slowly pulls his wet cock out of you, satisfied at the way his cum slowly trickles out of you while you catch your breath. 

Mingi waits for your mind to slowly clear, and you climb off him, but your fingers stay interlocked with his. 

“We can wash up and order food if you want”, you say, trying to avoid the fact that you’re still flushing slightly considering Song Mingi made a wreck out of you. 

But he pulls you along with him. 

“An invitation to shower together? I’ll gladly fuckin take it, princess.”

[goodgarbs]

Events|@DonToliver Announces Thee Love Sick Tour 23 w/ Special Guests

A day ahead of the ticket sale release, Don Toliver has officially announced his North American tour dates. Following the release of his latest album release “Love Sick“, the Houston based hip-hop artist Don Toliver is taking his musical experience on tour. This Live Nation production dubbed Thee Love Sick Tour 2023 featuring special guests Pi’erre Bourne and more, will journey across 17 cities…

[clivechip]

Tuesday Tunes 140: Food - A Second Helping

I’m sure you won’t remember but I did one of these posts on the theme of food back in January last year – it was actually #87 in this series and you can find it here if you’d like to see it again. So why am I doing it again? Today’s date, 14th March, is in numerical format 14.3. Except in the US that is where, due to their totally illogical custom of putting the month before the day, they know…

[writing-prompt-s]

The Don of the New York Mob has brought all his most trusted lackies to a party, as he believes one is a rat. Since none of them fess up to being said rat, the Don pulls out a flute, said to have once belonged to the one and only Pied Piper.

[lady-nightmare]

Well, I am trying stay away from all the drama and look at this with cool head.

Unfortunatelly, "pisiory" have currently only thing in mind: ELECTION. They are ready to destroy everything that could prevent to win it. They messed with grain from Ukraine from the beginnig (the opposition warned with accepting grain because we had no space for it and when the harvest began, Polish farmers would be left with nothing). Of course, they didn` t listen. In my opinion, if they had good relation with EU they could help locate the grain in EU countries. But of course, "pisiory" don` t have good relation with EU and they even didn` t try to do it because it would be against their narrative for electorate that EU are bunch of agressors who are willing to destroy our "polishness" and economy. They messed up and now are playing the victim.

My explanation is very general and short. You even have no idea on how many areas they messed up. There is total mess.

How serious is Poland about no longer giving weapons to Ukraine? Should we be worried, or is this just pre-election theatre?

Polish people would probably better answer this question, but yeah I think PiS is just trying to appear protecting the national interest to get more votes. The choice to make the conflict into the public show instead of solving it behind the close doors seems... intentional.

[deepinsideyourbeing]

Movie Night - Enzo Vogrincic

+18! Friends to lovers, un poco de Dom!Enzo, sexo oral (fem!reader recibe), fingering, sexo sin protección (don´t do that), posible alusión a size kink/size difference, breve orgasm denial, begging, creampie, dirty talk, edades no especificadas, uso de español rioplatense.

Es viernes por la noche y llueve, diluvia, pero Enzo insistió en ver una película.

Es una tradición que mantienen hace tiempo, pero la costumbre se vio interrumpida por el casi interminable rodaje de una película y un sinfín de eventos y premieres. Naturalmente estás feliz por él, por su éxito profesional y personal, pero extrañás a tu mejor amigo y tenerlo cerca.

-¿En qué pensás…?

Su voz te saca de tu ensimismamiento y cuando volteás a verlo notás el atisbo de una sonrisa en sus labios, pero te forzás a mirarlo a los ojos y negás con la cabeza, sin saber qué explicación dar. El silencio se apodera de la habitación pero lejos de ser incómodo, es reconfortante.

-¿Qué querés ver?- pregunta, luego de un rato de ojear las opciones disponibles en Netflix.

-Lo que quieras.

Ambos se acomodan en el sofá, sus cuerpos en sintonía adoptan la posición usual: cada uno en un extremo, tus piernas sobre su regazo y uno de sus brazos aprisionando tus pies cerca de su abdomen.  Por un segundo te preguntás cómo es que después de tanto tiempo todo sigue igual, pero te distraen los créditos iniciales de la película y la trama te absorbe en poco tiempo.

Enzo arroja algún que otro comentario, se ríen de escenas que conocen de memoria, y es casi suficiente para olvidar la tormenta y el sonido del viento tras las ventanas. Casi… Cuando te sobresaltás una, dos, tres veces, él decide que intentar calmarte con palabras no basta.

-¿Tomamos algo?

Se ponen de pie al mismo tiempo y se dirigen hacia la pequeña cocina de su departamento. En algún momento entre tu llegada a su hogar y el inicio de la tormenta, la temperatura bajó y Enzo te prestó un suéter, pero ahora tus pies descalzos sufren un poco el frío de la cerámica; esperás a su lado mientras él prepara todo y se distraen repitiendo los diálogos de la película, él imitando las escenas al pie de la letra y vos adorando su interpretación, las muecas que transforman su rostro y cómo se ven las líneas de su cuerpo bajo la tenue iluminación.

El destello de luz proveniente de la ventana pasa desapercibido y segundos más tarde el fuerte estruendo de un trueno provoca que te asustes e intentes cubrir tus oídos. Tu mano golpea una taza (tu taza, esa que él compró exclusivamente para vos)  y cae directo al suelo, haciéndose añicos y arrojando sus restos en todas las direcciones. Apretás las labios y comenzás a disculparte, pero Enzo te interrumpe.

-No es nada, nena. Cuidado ahí- te agarra de la muñeca para evitar que te muevas, su mano cálida te provoca escalofríos y un temblor te recorre de pies a cabeza. En un rápido movimiento te sujeta por debajo de los brazos y te sube a la encimera para evitar que te cortes.

-Perdón- susurrás, angustiada, por lo que se acerca para consolarte y te abraza.

-No pasa nada- asegura, masajeando tu espalda con delicadeza. Deshace el abrazo lentamente, acomoda un mechón de cabello tras tu oreja, pero su mano permanece sobre tu mejilla y su mirada se posa sobre tu boca. Su pulgar comienza a delinear tu labio inferior, tira de él casi sin fuerza mientras te sostiene la mirada de manera intensa. Tu respiración se entrecorta y tus pupilas se dilatan, pero aún así él necesita tu confirmación-. ¿Qué querés? Pedímelo.

-Enzo…

-Decime qué querés- repite.

-Besame.

Al principio sólo roza sus labios contra los tuyos de manera delicada y cariñosa, casi inocentemente, pero el beso comienza a tornarse más y más desesperado conforme pasan los segundos. Sujeta tu rostro mientras su lengua se abre paso entre tus labios, asaltando el interior de tu boca y transmitiendo la necesidad y urgencia que lo consumen. Rompe el beso para tomar un poco de aire, no sin antes morderte el labio y robarte un suspiro que te avergüenza un poco.

Aprisiona tus mejillas entre sus dedos para obligarte a mirarlo a los ojos mientras acaricia tu cintura, tu cadera y por último tu pierna, erizándote la piel y provocándote. Tus manos en su cintura lo atraen aún más hacia tu cuerpo y es entonces cuando lo sentís entre tus piernas, duro. Estás a punto de bajar la mirada, curiosa y excitada, pero la fuerza de sus dedos te mantiene estática, volviéndote espectadora de cómo cambia su rostro cuando comienza a rozarse contra tu centro: cierra los ojos, sus cejas se contraen y sus labios entreabiertos dejan escapar una respiración temblorosa.

Sentís el calor emanando de su cuerpo a pesar de las prendas que separan su piel de la tuya y su agarre en tu muslo tornándose cada vez más fuerte, bordando esa línea que te causa más placer que dolor. En el instante en que cerrás los ojos, presa de las sensaciones, sus movimientos se detienen y él se aclara la garganta. Lo mirás, tus ojos suplicando, pero él sólo sonríe.

-¿Qué?

-Sos hermosa- besa la comisura de tus labios-. Pedime lo que quieras.

-Ya sabés lo que quiero- contestás, casi sin aire y un poco molesta-. Por favor.

-Por favor…,  ¿qué?- sus besos comienzan a descender por tu mentón hasta llegar a tu cuello y tus clavículas, alternando entre tus puntos más sensibles-. Decilo.

-Cógeme, Enzo, por favor.

Captura la piel de tu cuello entre sus dientes haciéndote gemir con fuerza, su cadera chocando una vez más con la tuya, antes de pasar sus manos por debajo de tus muslos para levantarte y poder llevarte hacia su habitación. Te recuesta en su cama, las sábanas limpias están impregnadas con su perfume y tus sentidos repletos de él, pero nada es suficiente para opacar el rastro ardiente que dejan sus labios en cada centímetro de piel que tocan.

Te despoja de tu short y tu ropa interior en un segundo y se recuesta entre tus piernas, comienza a regar besos en el interior de tus muslos y muerde tu piel hasta dejar una que otra marca, tus gemidos y suspiros incitándolo a continuar con su tortura por un tiempo prolongado. Su rostro es de concentración absoluta o devoción, no lo sabés con exactitud, pero eso deja de importarte cuando sentís su boca cada vez más y más cerca de tu entrepierna.

Uno de sus brazos te inmoviliza al rodear tu cadera, su pulgar traza una línea desde tu entrada mojada hasta tu clítoris para así lubricar la zona antes de comenzar a dibujar círculos sobre este. Observa atentamente tu reacción, casi perdiéndose en la imagen frente a él, y sólo aumenta la velocidad de sus movimientos cuando suplicás por más. Ahogás un grito cuando por fin sentís su lengua en vos, aunque es sólo sobre tus pliegues, y tus dedos se enredan en su cabello sedoso.

-Todavía no…- susurra, cesando sus movimientos.

Estás a punto de reclamarle, pero introduce un dedo en tu entrada y en lugar de una queja, de tu boca escapa un gemido. Sus labios encuentran tu clítoris y comienza a succionar con fuerza, alternando con su lengua, mientras continúa moviendo el dígito hasta sentir la forma en que te contraés. Introduce otro dedo, extasiado por el sonido que producen en contacto con tu humedad, y continúa asaltando tu interior hasta que tus piernas comienzan a temblar.

Tu orgasmo te golpea como una avalancha: cerrás los ojos con fuerza al sentir el placer extendiéndose hasta las puntas de tus dedos, tu espalda se arquea y repetís su nombre una y otra vez. Enzo no separa sus labios de vos y continúa moviendo sus dedos, cada vez con más lentitud, hasta que tu respiración vuelve a la normalidad. Retira sus dedos y observás casi avergonzada la forma obscena en que los introduce en su boca para probar tu esencia.

Comienza a desnudarse y notás, además de su bulto, que su ropa interior está humedecida con líquido preseminal. Se deshace de sus prendas rápidamente, pero incluso así percibís una sombra de inseguridad atravesando sus facciones y tu corazón se encoge por un instante. Cuando vuelve a la cama se posiciona entre tus piernas y entrelazás tus manos en su nuca, acercándolo para poder devorar sus labios frenéticamente: sentís tu rastro en su boca, en su lengua, y la idea te fascina.

Tus dedos se deslizan por su cuerpo ardiente, delineás con lentitud su pecho y su abdomen para luego tomar su miembro caliente con un firme agarre. Su respiración se torna agitada y jadea producto del placer que tus movimientos le otorgan, muerde tu cuello y tu hombro mientras la palma de tu mano y tus dedos se humedecen con su excitación. Tu pulgar juega con su punta, de un rojo furioso y tan tentadora, hasta que echa la cabeza hacia atrás. Una de sus manos se cierra sobre tu muñeca al tiempo que descansa su frente sobre la tuya, su cabello te hace cosquillas.

-¿Qué…?

 -Necesito cogerte- deposita un beso en tu sien antes de estirarse para tomar algo de la mesita de noche-. Eso es lo que querías, ¿no?

Asentís enérgicamente y ahogás un gemido cuando ves la forma en que el lubricante cae sobre su miembro, su mano masajéandolo para distribuir el producto, antes de dirigirse hacia tus pliegues y tu entrada para darles el mismo tratamiento. Coloca una de sus manos al lado de tu cabeza y descansa todo su peso en ella, bloquea tu visión del techo con su cuerpo haciéndote sentir pequeña y completamente a su merced, una sensación que adorás.

-Por favor- suplicás-. Metémela.

Desliza la punta de arriba hacia abajo, juega con tu clítoris por unos instantes antes de centrarse en tu entrada y comenzar a introducirse. Su tamaño es mucho mayor al que alguna vez experimentaste y provoca cierto ardor, así como un par de lágrimas que mojan tus pestañas antes de sentir sus besos sobre tus párpados repetidamente.

-Sh, yo sé que vos podés- susurra para calmarte. Sus caderas se mueven casi milimétricamente para permitir que te acostumbres a la intrusión, la sensación es suficiente para hacerte perder la cabeza y hundir las uñas en su piel-. ¿Así te gusta? ¿Sí…?   

-Más, Enzo, por favor.

Se adentra por completo y gritás de placer cuando sus embestidas se tornan brutales, abusa de tu interior mientras una de sus manos se cola sutilmente por debajo de su suéter y comienza a jugar con tus pechos: sus dedos se cierran sobre tus pezones, los pellizca, tira de ellos hasta hacerte llorar y pedirle que pare, que siga, suplicando hasta que tus palabras pierden todo sentido.

Se detiene por un segundo para adoptar otra posición y toma tus caderas con fuerza, acercando tu cuerpo al suyo tanto como le es posible y moviéndote completamente a su antojo. El roce de tu centro con su pelvis causa estragos en tu ser y te sentís al borde de otro orgasmo, pero lo que finalmente te lleva al clímax es su mano presionando sobre tu abdomen bajo, justo donde su miembro provoca un bulto. Tus manos encuentran sus muñecas y el placer es tan intenso que por un segundo intentás detenerlo, incapaz de tolerarlo, pero él continúa con sus movimientos.

-Dios, cómo me encanta tu conchita apretada- dice entre dientes, capturando tus muñecas con una mano y tirando de ellas hasta que quedás sentada sobre él-. Me encantás.

Su mano acaricia tu cabello, tu rostro y se desliza fugazmente sobre uno de tus pechos cubierto por su suéter. Se recuesta y colocás tus manos sobre su pecho desnudo para ayudarte, creás un suave vaivén con tus caderas mientras sentís las yemas de sus dedos recorriendo tus muslos y cómo la fricción con su piel amenaza con llevarte al borde de la sobre estimulación. Tus piernas se fatigan rápidamente y tus músculos protestan, pero aún así continuás con tus movimientos hasta perder el equilibrio.

-No puedo…- lamentás, avergonzada, pero su sonrisa es tranquilizadora al igual que sus caricias en tu costado. Incluso en un momento así, sus pupilas dilatadas no impiden que su usual calidez siga reflejándose en sus ojos oscuros y en los gestos que te dirige.

Apoya las plantas de sus pies en el colchón para darse impulso y comienza a embestirte con tanta fuerza que caés sobre su pecho. Besás su cuello, sus clavículas y cada centímetro de piel que encontrás hasta llegar a su boca y confesar entrecortadamente cuánto te encanta, cuán profundo se siente dentro tuyo, le otorgás permiso para hacer con vos lo que él quiera.

Tira de tu cabello para obligarte a mirarlo a los ojos, su mano desciende hasta tu cuello y te besa desesperadamente. Entre besos te ordena que te toques y cuando lo hacés sabés que no vas a durar mucho más: no con la precisión de sus movimientos, dando en tu punto dulce repetidamente, o con la forma en que su mirada busca la tuya constantemente.

-Voy a…- un gemido le impide terminar la oración.

-Adentro, por favor- suplicás.

El ritmo de sus caderas se vuelve errático, ansioso,  pero cuando te escucha gemir su nombre y siente tus paredes contrayéndose no puede evitar salpicar tu interior con su semen. El calor de su orgasmo prolonga el tuyo aún más y te movés levemente sobre él, disfrutando la forma en que se queja a causa de la sensibilidad. Tu oído descansa sobre su pecho y oís sus latidos.

-Enzo…- cerrás los ojos por un momento al sentir sus dedos dibujando formas sobre tu espalda, alzás la vista para encontrar sus ojos-. Te quiero.

Una sonrisa se apodera de sus labios, su belleza te hace suspirar.

-Yo también te quiero- besa tu frente-. Muchísimo.

Sentís tus fluidos y los suyos sobre su abdomen, goteando por tus muslos, pero permanecen así durante largo rato mientras repiten te quiero un sinfín de veces.

taglist:

@madame-fear @creative-heart @recaltiente @llorented @chiquititamia

[julietsbody]

cherry cream pie

words : 3,142

tags : 18+!!!!!!!!!! mdni , p in v sex , semi - public sex , fingering , sadism , yes coriolanus is a pervert… peacekeeper!snow , district 10!! no aftercare mentioned!!! coriolanus is also just an asshole in this , per usual

p.s. : this is also posted on my ao3! ( divider by s-hyia btw )

it’s safe to say some of the peacekeepers got drunk on their power. 

one of them, especially, was the one with a platinum blonde buzzcut, you didn’t know his name, but often times he would stop by your shop and either be extremely kind, or a complete asshole. 

coriolanus dreamed of control, craved it. a sickening thought, to imagine the bruised skin, deep purples, burgundy reds, bright yellows. the ideas of making someone cry, hot tears rushing down their flushed cheeks, he imagines his fingers dipping into their skin, leaving dents. 

the idea of someone scarlet from his touch. 

sadistic, that’s what many would call it, call him. 

but he denies it, heavily, even though deep down he knows he has a certain hunger for corruption, for control. his gaze is calloused on you, he tends to always station himself near your stand, watch you smile at the costumers, greet them with warm words and soft exchanges. 

he watches your skirt threaten up your thighs whenever you bend over, chastely grabbing items without any knowledge of the man who’s imagining fucking you from behind. 

sometimes you do acknowledge it, though, you never share the looks, but he watches you shift uncomfortably under his gaze, the edges of your lips dipping to a frown. 

he imagines what colors he could paint on your skin from his harsh touches, when he grabs your jaw roughly, would it leave dents of white where the pads of his fingers dug into your skin with pink outlines? when he slaps your ass, would it leave a hand mark? when he bites your neck, would it leave teeth marks? when he makes you bleed, how long would it take for you to heal? when he bruises you, what colors would appear to haunt you? 

it was a priority for coriolanus to find that out. 

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

“do i scare you?” coriolanus questions once, noticing the way you immediately glare at him whenever he’s around. 

you shake your head slowly, lips barely parted, he wants to shove his fingers between those lips, pry your mouth open and spit down your throat. 

the skin under his right eye twitches, and he continues, “you sure?” 

you hesitate, “yeah—“ 

“you don’t like me?” he swipes a finger on the vanilla cream you always top the pies with, bringing it up to his lips, “i keep you safe, you know.” 

“you intimidate me,” you respond reluctantly, watching his lips move around his finger, relishing in the taste of the buttercream. 

“so i scare you,” he corrects, and curtly smiles when your frown deepens. 

“you don’t,” your southern drawl, with that sweet sugar - coated voice, it’s enough to have him imagining you moaning out his name. coriolanus, don’ stop, ‘m gonna cum… suddenly, his uniform is tighter, and the air is hotter. 

“why do i intimidate you, then?” 

he acts as if he doesn’t carry a fully loaded machine gun with him at all times, but you ignore that, “no.” 

you don’t want to entertain him, you see it in his eyes that he thrives off of this, he adores to see people cower underneath him, fear him. 

“say it,” his voice is firmer, he’s trying to scare you into saying it. 

right, power trip. 

“if i tell you, you’ll use it against me.” you confess. 

his head tips up, a new tint shading over his eyes, “how do you know that?” 

“it’s just what i know,” you cross your arms, and he notices the way it accentuates your breasts, pushes them together and pulls them up, making the plush flesh more noticeable, nipple threatening to peak out from your dress, “it’s just the way you are.” 

coriolanus doesn’t say anything, his eyes moving up to your collarbone, he imagines biting it, teeth sinking into the thin flesh and grazing the bone. bone against bone. 

“you’re trying to find what makes me vulnerable, what makes me scared,” your tongue moves out your mouth, wetting your chapped lips. 

“is it working?” he wants to reach in, to touch you, to pull your soft flesh onto him. 

“no,” you move away, and again, coriolanus is stuck there, alone, with his fantasies. 

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

coriolanus doesn’t like to lose, especially when he’s obsessed with something, he doesn’t like to let it go. his recent obsession was you, in your gingham prints, thin denims, your sweet scents, and the way your pupils always dilate when you see him. 

“is your father here?” he startles you, at your own home, watching you jump in fright and your hand quickly moves onto your chest to ease your pulse when you realize it’s just him. 

how did he know where you lived? 

“no,” you exhale, humiliation heating up your cheeks. you were wearing more casual clothing, not your fancy dress, just some shorts and a gingham top. he wants to rip the fabric apart, to wrap his fingers around your throat, leave bruises, “how do you know where i live?” 

he shrugs, “someone told me.” 

so he was asking about you, you glare into his cocky smirk, “who?” 

“i can’t say, doll,” he memorizes the way your ass peaks out from the denim of your shorts when you try to turn away from him, and he moves closer to grab your wrist, “why do you hate me?” 

you inhale, staring up at him, “i don’t hate you, let go—“ 

he doesn’t let go, “you do hate me.” 

“you’re tryin’ to make me vulnerable, officer, please—“ 

“do i make you vulnerable?” 

and suddenly you stop, you stop trying to resist his touch, you stop staring at him angrily. and it becomes unbearably clear why you hate him so much, you hate him because you’re attracted to him, you hate him because you desire him, because you blush every time his teal eyes crawl down your frame, because you get shy every time he’s around— and being aggressive is your way of hiding it. 

“you do more than that,” you admit, swallowing. 

“yeah?” his other hand moves to hold your jaw, pads of his fingers squishing the skin together ever so slightly, watching the way your lips pucker when he does. 

“offiicer—“ you exhale, and he only smiles. 

“do you think about me, doll?” 

“yes, and i hate you because you won’t leave my mind.” 

truth, all you think about is the officer, the way his hands flex and his joints pop when he does, the way he grips his gun with ease, the way his muscles flex underneath his uniform. the way he’s so, so strong— strong enough to throw someone around with ease, the way your thighs rub together whenever he stations himself near your stand. 

“what do you think about, when you think of me?” 

his jaw ticks, and yours loosens, “how strong you are.” 

“is that so?” his eyebrow cocks for a second, and your eyes flicker to the hand wrapped around your wrist, engulfing it with ease. 

“yes, and the way you look at me— like you want to eat me, to hurt me, to do things to me,” the things in question, to fuck you. 

“do you want me to?” he admires the way your cheeks flush. 

“yes,” you hush out, barely audible. 

“what was that?” 

you glare up at him, again, “officer.” 

“doll,” he threatens, nails digging in to your skin, immediately making you grow submissive, “repeat it.” 

you hiss at the sharp feeling of his nails drawing crimson from your skin, “yes, yes— officer.” 

“did you touch yourself, thinking of me?” 

you nod. 

coriolanus’ lips are against yours when he slots his against yours, teeth clashing against teeth, a hungry kiss. he was biting at the delicate skin of your lips in a way that makes your body writhe, prying your lips apart and forcing his tongue into your mouth. he wants to brand you as his own, wants to carve SNOW’s into your skin and watch the blood drip from each letter. 

his tongue curls as it moves around your mouth, a possessiveness to it, a desire to taste the sweetness that coats you. his lips were unrelenting, taking advantage of the way you melt into his harsh touch, the way you fall pliable in it, the way you become obsessed with every way he manhandles you. 

his lips chase yours when you pull away, “my pa’s gonna be back any minute, officer—“ 

“better be quick, then, hm?” he removes his fingers from your jaw, pulling them down to your breasts and gripping them through the poorly made fabric. 

his lips move to press open mouthed kisses onto your neck, teeth nipping at the delicate skin. 

he rips the fabric apart, easily, hearing you gasp at the feeling of your breasts against the cool air, the way he takes your nipple between his fingers, rolling the delicate skin across the pads of his calloused fingers. then he pinches, and chuckles when your hips buck into him, a whine slipping from your lips. 

it was pathetic, for such a hard - headed woman like you to be brought down to being so submissive for him. 

he moves you back against a counter, his maw spreading open until his teeth are caught on your neck, biting down. your fingers clench onto the wood of the counter, hissing from the pain of his bite, “officer, that hurts—“ 

he only hums, he was glad it hurt, and when he pulled away, a metallic taste burns on his teeth. 

he kneads the flesh of your breast, pressing a gentle kiss to where he had bit you, watching the crimson that ever so slowly bubbles to the top of the broken flesh and seeps out. 

oh, how could you explain this to your pa? 

he smiles at the thought of you crying in front of your father, saying nothing happened, saying it was an animal that bit you. 

your doe eyes peer up at him, glossy from your tears, and his head only tilts to the side, finding no sympathy for the pain he inflicted upon you. his hand dips down from your breast to your denim shorts, “you okay, doll?” 

yes, coriolanus didn’t feel any guilt, but he still wants to make sure you’re okay enough to go on. 

you nod immediately, “yes, just hurts.” 

he presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, catching one of the salty tears rolling down, “i’m sorry.” 

he isn’t sorry. 

his fingertips dip underneath your layers of shorts and panties, reaching to your cunt while he mumbles sweet praises, like how beautiful you look when you cry, how wet you are for him, how he’s always thought of this. 

his lips fall to your shoulder, fingers rubbing circles on your clit as his lips part again, first planting a soft kiss, then biting again. a masochistic moan slips from your lips, and he feels your wetness grow. you liked this, you liked the pain, and it makes him smile against your delicate skin. 

his fingers tease against your entrance, and when he feels your hips buck against them, trying to pull his fingers in, he moves them away. your desperate whimper only makes him laugh, admiring the way your thighs shake. 

“you’re desperate, aren’t you, doll?” his lips trail with sloppy kisses down to your breast, taking your nipple between his lips. 

“yes, yes— officer, i want—“ you exhale, a hand moving to pass through his buzzed hair, “want them inside me, please.” 

“is that so?” he’s trying to ruin you, his eyes moving up to your face, watching more tears spill from your doe eyes, the desperation all too much for you. 

“yes— i’ll be good, officer, i promise.” 

and so he plunges two fingers into you without hesitation, admiring the way you suck him in so easily, swallowing the flesh through your puffy walls. it was obscene, to hear you moan from the feeling of his long fingers moving inside of you, the wet squelches as he pumps them into you and curls them against your sweet spots. 

it was as if he knew your body better than you, yourself did, he knew how to make you cry out, how to make your back arch, your eyes squeeze shut, and your legs shake. 

he bites your tit, and your back is arching against him. 

in this moment you realize why he’s biting so much, not only does it seem like he’s trying to consume you, it’s also that he’s marking you, claiming you as his own, branding you through his teeth with every bite.

his pace quickens, making your eyes flutter shut and have your hips grinding against his fingers. 

as soon as he feels the movement of your hips, he stops. and your eyes immediately flutter open, frowning at him, “officer—“ 

“hm?” he moves up, carefully ripping off your shorts, nearly tearing the fabric when he takes your panties down as well, causing a pile of your fragmented clothes on the floor. 

he then forces your legs apart once more, delivering a harsh slap to your cunt. you whimper, forcing yourself to keep eye contact with him, to find some kind of mercy in his eyes, some part of him that wants to treat you good. you find nothing.

instead, his hand is back on your jaw, fingers trying to pry your mouth open, “open, princess.”

so your lips part, and he immediately spits down your throat, “swallow.” 

and you did, you swallow the liquid coated in his dna, and his fingers return inside of you, pounding into your cunt immediately. his hands turn mean, painful as they move onto you, nearly bruising your walls as his fingers fill you up so well. 

your body jolts with sparks of pleasure, a satisfaction you fear may be unbearable, and the fear of someone catching you seems to dissipate underneath his touch. 

his nails find themselves digging through the skin of your face again, the delicate flesh becoming bruised from him. it’s hot, the air is humid, the lava that coats your skin. it was as if you were in front the gates of hell, being tormented by your sins, and coriolanus’ mumbles of you being a filthy slut is what makes him the tormenter. 

you gasp, fingers finding his wrist and grasping it, “officer— ‘m gonna cum.. please…” 

he smiles, sharp teeth appearing underneath his lips, a wolf and a bunny, “yeah? gonna cum for me, doll?” 

you nod, whimpering in agreement as he shows absolutely no mercy for you, even allowing his thumb to swipe against your swollen clit, making your eyes roll back. he doesn’t stop until your walls are fluttering around him, legs violently shaking from the orgasm that wracks your body. 

you were sure he would be done there, but he wasn’t. his fingers pull out, and he immediately delivers another harsh slap to your cunt, making you jolt as maroon continues to pour from your neck, tracing down your collarbone and falling threatening close to your breasts. the same crimson that coats his teeth, the teeth that bit you, that wanted to consume you like you were just another one of those pies that you make. 

he moves to undo his belt, ignoring the way his gun clatters to the ground, he could care less if it went off, too. 

he was too busy drunk off the idea of what you’re going to feel like around his cock, how your walls will suck him in with pure ease, like you were molded to fit onto his cock. molded just for him, he licks the metallic crimson on the crevices of his teeth as he frees his cock, lining it up with your entrance. 

“this is gonna hurt, princess,” he murmurs out as he slowly eases in, teeth gritting at the feeling of your walls tightening around him. 

your eyes widen, pupils blown out and jaw hung slack, his cock stretching you out so much you were sure you were being split in half. 

his free hand presses against your stomach, other crawling to wrap around your neck, soaking with the pomegranate juice that poured from you. 

he feels how his cock pokes at your skin once he bottoms out, forming a bulge inside of you. cute, you were so small compared to him, he just wanted to rip you apart, to throw you around, shove you in all different positions and fuck you until you were just a drooling, sloppy, unintelligible mess. until all you could think about was his cock, and the fact that his cum was oozing from your cunt. 

his fingers pry into your skin, hips moving to snap into you with no sign of softness.  

“fuck,” you mumble out at the feeling of his cock spearing you. 

he watches the pain ridden tears slip down your cheeks, “you’re okay, princess, you’re okay.” 

this is the only time he will reassure you, hips slowing down to allow you to adjust. 

maybe he did have some mercy within him. 

it doesn’t take you long to nod up at him, signaling that he can move faster again, and he doesn’t take long to follow up with that. his hips start pounding into you again, wracking your body against the counter, he can feel it shaking, the way the floor creaks with every powerful thrust. his hand moves from your stomach, raising and delivering a sharp slap to your face. 

unprovoked? yes. but he adores the way blood rushes to your cheek, painting it a pretty pink as you sob out form the mixtures of pain and pleasure, and the overstimulation of your past orgasm following another. 

“such a pretty slut, just for me,” he mumbles out, delivering another slap to the same cheek, watching your face scrunch from the stinging pain. 

“officer,” you moan out, your orgasm fastening with each slap. 

“yes, princess?” he grits out through his teeth, nearing his orgasm as well. 

“‘m gonna cum, officer, please let me—“ he’s gripping your throat so hard, you can barely breathe, “—cum.” 

“you can cum, doll, cum on my cock,“ he spits out, admiring the way your body constricts at the lack of air. 

and you cum, right on his cock, and he follows with his orgasm as well. 

a creampie, that’s what you had become, just another pie full of cream. 

he pulls out, watching his cum spill out of you. 

“see you next time, princess.” 

[dusterbishop]

two thousand years of chasing taking its toll (and it's coming closer)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 2.5k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. i have crushed on gambit since the animated series in the nineties so the new movie brought back a lot of feelings.

part one. || part two.

An endless spread of worlds to wander into, and this is the one you choose: Gambit crouches next to you, his breath staggering out of him in pained wheezes, his hand clasping protectively over the nape of your neck.

It is getting harder to see past the blood dripping into your eyes and the sheen of unshed tears. Your abdomen throbs in intermittent waves of little agonies, needling deep in the pit of your stomach. The shots had gone wide, at first, until you had stepped right into them. Gambit had caught you as you stumbled, swearing too fast for your mind to unjumble past the desperate rush of French.

An endless expanse of possibilities, and you are living in this one, dying in his arms. It almost makes you laugh, except it hurts to breathe, and Gambit is supporting more of your weight than he was just a moment ago.

“Now don’ go doing that again,” he manages in English. One hand on your neck, his thumb pressed over your pulse, and the other pressed tight enough against your wound to make the shadows flicker around the edges of your vision. “Mais la, there ain’ gon’ be next time, chér.”

No. There isn’t. You know it as sure as you know how much he’s hiding his own hurt. He had been blown back twenty-five feet and hit the pavement hard enough that he had laid there, stunned, unarmed. His armor had been designed to take the weight of a blow, but he wasn’t dressed for a fight. Neither of you are. So they had aimed at him, and you had made sure it wasn’t him standing there when the guns went off.

Like one breath and the next. In, and you saw his impact, saw the weapons being raised towards him. Out, and you flickered across realities as smooth as Gambit shuffled his cards, every timeline fanning out before you in a sea of possibilities. Endless, countless possibilities.

This is your last Gambit, and you’re killing him just as sure as you’re killing yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out. Your voice trembles enough to make your lungs seize up. “Remy, I’m sorry.”

“Tant pis pout toi,” he shoots back. “Help Remy get you up, chér, ‘fore they shootin’ us.”

There is no version of you that isn’t broken that still keeps him alive, so you grit your teeth and let him haul you up, steadying yourself in this timeline. It has always been easier to tether yourself to one timeline when you have something to anchor yourself to. He sweeps you up in a bridal carry, and at this angle you can rest your heavy-list head against the warmth of his broad shoulder. He is a solid port of harbor beneath your tethering weight, a rock standing unyielding to the tide around it.

Your second Gambit had been like this, too. That variant had died with a blazing playing card in hand, his mouth twisted in rage, standing before you and the TVA headhunters with all of the bravado and confidence of a hopeless man. A final stand, he had called it. The two of you had gambled and gone all-in only for Gambit to be dead and you to be thrown into another identity.

You had told yourself that you would be better for this Gambit. No vigilante justice or petty crimes. You had gone on your first date to get po' boys and traded familiar barbs while you spun yourself into the web of a narrative that wouldn’t mark you as an oddity in this world. No strange time-skipping mutant here, only a human interested in a man with blackened red eyes and a smooth talking deck of cards.

Playing the odds, raising the bet. Your Remy would have loved that.

This Gambit, though, he dies holding you just like that, cradling you close enough that you feel the breath knocked from his lungs as the bullets find their mark against his unguarded back. You both tumble forward, the impact rattling your bones, your hands lashing out to catch desperately at the sleeve of Gambit’s coat.

Reality warps and trembles around you. You can sense the unfurling of this world’s integrity, like smoothing your hand down the ridge of Oliver or Lucifer’s back and feeling them arch expectantly beneath your touch. Of all your cats, Figaro had always preferred Remy, much to his triumph. This Gambit didn’t have cats; he admitted to being allergic during your third date, and you had to quash the rush of disappointment that rose in you. You had thought to find good foster homes for the boys, at least, in exchange for the sacrifice of loving Gambit. There is some sort of intrinsic symbolism in the fact that they exist just as you two do in every timeline you share.

Not that it matters, now.

“No,” you groan, dragging yourself towards Gambit’s body. Pain lances through your abdomen in arcs of lightning. It’s nearly as debilitating as the sight of him. He’s hunched over on his side, one hand still outstretched limply towards you, the other awkwardly twisted beneath his body. Your voice wretches out of you in a pained wobble. “No, no, no.”

You take his hand and close your eyes at the fading warmth. This is the third time you’ve watched him die. You don’t know what to do anymore. The pain in your abdomen is a vicious throbbing ache in beat with your heart, a clashing crescendo descending upon your head just as disorienting as the footsteps picking their way towards you. They will shoot you in the back and call it a well-fought battle. They will destroy your body with Gambit’s and never speak your names to anyone in this world’s timeline again. As if you are nothing.

As if this version of Gambit, with his purring accent and smooth-striking dealer hands, is nothing more than an obstacle in the way of the true prize of killing you where you lay bleeding.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper to Gambit. You have to let go of his hand so you don’t take his body with you, and then you let reality shift and expand around you, demanding the timeline to come to heel, shuffling the next five minutes into a ribbon-spread of flashing images.

One minute: you come to your feet. This is almost the hardest part. You have to find a version of yourself that is stable enough to handle the staggering weight of the transition. Your body has been operating in survival mode for far too long, especially in this timeline where you met the new Gambit in the throes of angry grief. You hardly recovered before you threw yourself into society with a desperate hope to attract him back into your orbit. This version of your body feels calm and refreshed, which must mean it’s from right after your second date with Gambit, when he escorted you home and wished you goodnight and you fell asleep with a smile on your face.

Two minutes: you see Gambit. His eyes are half-open and glazed with death, staring far into a horizon you can never reach. He would still be alive if you had never crossed timelines to search him out. This world’s version of you had been killed while you were still young and unpracticed in hiding your power. It had been easy to slip into the vacant space and fill it up with a new identity. He had never known your real name, just the mask you wore to allure him closer to you. You see him, laying there, and all you can remember is his shocked laugh when he noticed the way you ate your sandwiches with a fork and knife. Chér, ought’a you honte, non?

Three minutes: you kill them all.

Four minutes: every single one of them. This is the easiest part.

Five minutes: you have to exchange your borrowed body with your current one, and that is the hardest part. You can feel the seams of your borrowed self strain under the weight of your rapid time-skipping, further stretched thin by the pain of your current self. A wounded body decays far faster when you aren’t occupying it. It’s a reluctant exchange, and you stumble beneath the sudden weight of your current self as it wraps around your consciousness. The impact to the ground is faster than your changing, too fast to feel the echo wave of pain. You retch blood and bile, turning your face to avoid choking on it.

You will be nothing more than another corpse beside Gambit’s in a minute. You can feel the timeline of death fogging your mind, muffling your reflexes. You have exacerbated your own death by orchestrating theirs. It’s not a surprise: when Gambit fell, his breath knocked right out from him, you had felt that same jarring finality.

Only this time, only for you, when you close your eyes in death, you open them in another world entirely.

It's a battlefield.

Not surprising. Your hand automatically goes to the small of your back, fingers curling around the cool polished wood of your bo staff. With one fluid flourish, you pull it out from its sheath and extend the length, timelines humming in your hand with the same buzzing tempo of Gambit's kinetic energy. Unlike his power, your staff doesn't glow blazing violet. In one moment and the next, it simply snaps into its full length, the air hissing with displaced energy.

Once, with your Remy, he had settled himself in an armchair in your shared apartment, half-drunk with one of the cats in his lap, and he had demanded to watch you cross timelines. It took small objects, at first. A coffee cup across the room, a pair of your underwear from the bedroom, the cat purring underneath his very touch. You had been a little less drunk from your night out together, but it had been exhilarating to perform for him in a way that affected you far beyond the influences of alcohol. The weight of his black-red eyes lingering over the curve of your figure could take you apart as sure as any timeline.

He had been mystified yet delighted at your display of prowess. Y’a natural Houdini, eh, chér?

 That wasn’t quite true, though. You didn’t disappear, you simply… rearranged yourself to exist in a state of your choosing, from a time of your choosing. You had explained it to Remy like this: like choosing the channels on T.V. until you found a show you liked. Except instead of old reruns of some sitcom, you were settling on a state of existence.

Your weapon of choice - the bo staff, much like the one Remy trained you with - comes from another version of yourself. It weighs a perfect balance in your palm because it was made for you, even if you were not the one to personally commission its design. The staff whistles sharply as it cuts through the air, singing its anticipation as you swing into action, adrenaline from the fight with the hunters still raging in your veins. It’s a relief to be distracted from the last image of Gambit, dead.

Instead, you revel in the finesse of an unfair fight.

There seems to be four men surrounding you, their faces a blur of distant familiarity. Some part of you had met them, before, in another time. You could have tried to find the names to their faces if they weren’t fully committed to trying to kill you. Battle comes to you easier, and perhaps you are indulging in the violence when you could have stepped away and gone to another time.

But, perhaps, you are so fucking tired of being anything other than a violent, selfish thing.

It’s all smooth motion, to fight like this. Alone. No need to worry about a Remy LeBeau by your side in case the reckless fool got himself killed trying to protect you. You think to your Remy: I told you nothing was going to happen to me, LeBeau. I exist in so many timelines that it doesn’t matter what happens to me.

It doesn’t matter what happens to you. Not even when one of them strikes you across the face with the sharp bend of their elbow, cutting your cheek against your molars and filling your mouth with blood. You merely shuffle the deck, pull another card, draw a version of yourself with no blood and just as much battle-hardened pain tolerance. So many versions of you can handle the aftershocks of pain that your stride hardly stutters as you swing your staff and sweep his feet out from under him. Another swing, a sickening crack of a wood impact to an unprotected skull, and you keep moving to the next target.

Another hit to your ribs, hard enough to knock the breath from you. Shuffle, pull, draw. Your new borrowed body takes the hit without notice and crushes the faceless attacker’s windpipe, cutting off his shriek of pain in a gurgling wheeze. The next one tries to make a move while your back is turned, and you move to meet him, staff swinging, mouth twisted in a grimace. You can feel the timeline bending to stretch thin around you, taut with the rapid succession of your draw. Your blood thunders in a raging crescendo in your ears. There is a limit to how much you can take before you splinter apart.

You just don’t know if you care to heed that limit, anymore.

Another swing. Shuffle, draw, pull. This version of you switches from the long reach of your bo staff for the more intimate versatility of twin blunt-ended sticks. It works well for close combat. So well that your opponent has to keep to the backstep to avoid your blows, shuffling out of range.

So well, that you forget that there were four.

The pain that cracks across the back of your skull sends you to the ground in an instant. Your hands spasm and release the sticks, but not fast enough to soften the blow of your sudden fall. The timeline whines a high-pitched whir around you, unsteady in the relentless time-skipping.

Too bad, you think distantly. This is a quick life for this timeline of yours. A violent, lonely one. It is grim, but there is a quiet relief in the end beckoning you closer. The quick ones are the easiest. It only really kills you when you have to linger in the shadow of your self’s presence. A living ghost. That’s all you really are. You just haunt the narrative of your own lifetimes.

You, and Gambit.

Blazing purple flashes across your vision, and the timeline whirs again, except it isn’t, because you haven’t used your dealer’s hand. It isn’t your power charging the air with magnetic energy. It is all Gambit’s. Of course it fucking is.

How ironic for you to find him now, in this timeline where he has never known your name, when you are already dead? You close your eyes to silently curse out whatever pathetic higher being found fit to orchestrate your life into this circus sideshow.

“Cherchez la femme,” he says. His accent is lilting in its coyness. “Found ya’, chér.”

[evilhorse]

Just as I expected!

[loki-us]

Out of all the places Loki time slips in 2x5, he really was just trying to get back to Mobius the entire time.

Time theater 25 where Mobius first took Loki in 1x1

The room with all the key lime pies where they shared a snack in 2x2

He appears at the store Don works at not once, but twice before finally going in

Out of all his friends, Mobius is the one he’s most relieved to see

And then finally finds him again, appearing right in Don’s front yard

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

I Saw Mummy Kissing Santa Claus.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

authors note - i feel like this idea is really cute and just had to be written down:)

word count - 1.4k

in which, when you and harry are putting the christmas presents under the tree on christmas eve, with harry dressed up in a santa costume just for his own novelty, and share a little moment to themselves, unbeknownst to them that there four year old son arlo, was watching the whole time.

00:13am. 25th December, 2023.

On this whimsical Christmas Eve, the air is infused with the scent of pine and anticipation as you and your husband Harry, donned in a jolly Santa suit purely for his own delight, tiptoe around the cozy living room.

The soft glow of twinkling lights casts a warm ambiance, enveloping the space in a serene holiday magic.

Upstairs in the master bed, your precious four-year-old, Arlo, is lost in dreams of sugarplums and toy-filled wonderlands.

As his dreams weave their gentle tapestry, you and Harry share mischievous smiles, conspirators in the clandestine mission to deliver presents beneath the twinkling Christmas tree.

In the quietude of the night, laughter bubbles between you and Harry, a shared joy that needs no reason. Silently, you exchange glances, finding amusement in the simple joy of being together on this enchanting night. The muffled laughter dances in the air, a secret language spoken in the hushed tones of love.

The presents, adorned with festive paper and ribbons, find their places beneath the tree like treasures awaiting discovery. With each shared giggle, you and Harry weave invisible threads of happiness, wrapping the room in the warmth of familial love.

The task at hand becomes a delightful game of stealth and joy. Harry, in his Santa suit, moves with a festive grace, and you follow suit, your hearts synchronized in the shared delight of creating magic for Arlo. Laughter, sweet and spontaneous, becomes the soundtrack to this festive ballet.

Beside the twinkling evergreen, Arlo's offerings for Santa and his reindeer beckon: a plate adorned with mince pies and a bunch of crisp carrot for Rudolph.

Harry, ever the good sport in his Santa attire, merrily takes a bite of the sweet, spiced pie, savoring the festive flavor with genuine delight.

Meanwhile, you opt for the crunchy carrots, enjoying their crisp freshness. The contrast of flavours mirrors the yuletide spirit, blending the sweetness of the mince pies with the earthy simplicity of the carrots.

The pièce de résistance, however, is the offering of milk. Harry, with a theatrical flourish, lifts the glass to his lips, only to be met with a cringe as the chilly liquid meets his tongue. The milk, left out for Santa's refreshment, bears the unmistakable chill of a night spent waiting. The internal wince is evident on Harry's face, though he valiantly soldiers on, determined not to let a bit of cold milk dampen the festive mood.

As you stand in the hushed glow of the Christmas tree, satisfied smiles exchanged with Harry, a sense of completion washes over you. The presents are arranged, the festive treats enjoyed, and the world outside is wrapped in a blanket of silent snow. It feels like the perfect moment to retire to bed, where dreams of sugarplums can join the night's symphony.

But just as you entertain the idea of slipping under the warm covers, Harry, in his Santa suit, wraps his arms around your waist with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His lips press gentle kisses against your neck, creating a trail of warmth that contrasts the cool air of the room. You can't help but laugh, a delighted sound that dances in the quietude.

"M’not quite ready f’bed yet," he murmurs against your neck, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "If I go now, I'll just get kicked in the back by ‘Lo, and I'll end up with no quilt."

The unexpected declaration sends a ripple of laughter through you, and you playfully turn around in his embrace. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you meet his gaze with a playful glint in your eyes.

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" you tease, your lips curving into a smile.

In the gentle dance of shared laughter and lingering gazes, you both revel in the magic of the moment. The Christmas lights cast a soft glow on Harry's face, accentuating the warmth in his eyes. His lips meet yours in a brief but tender kiss, a sweet punctuation to the unspoken joy that fills the room.

"M’suppose bedtime can wait a bit longer," he concedes, his arms tightening around you. "After all, who could resist the allure f’a quiet, magical Christmas night?"

In the gentle glow, Harry's eyes meet yours with a magnetic pull, and the world outside seems to vanish. His arms envelop you, creating an intimate cocoon that shields you from the outside world. The soft strains of holiday tunes linger, providing a subtle backdrop to the unspoken language of desire that fills the room.

The air is thick with a sweet tension as Harry's lips find yours in a series of passionate kisses, each one deepening the connection between you. Both of you smiling into each others mouths, your hands find the peach fuzz at the back of head neck, whilst his find habitat on the groove of your bum.

The room transforms into a haven of shared intimacy, where the only language spoken is that of desire, and every touch is a brushstroke in the masterpiece of this moment.

The heat of the moment intensifies as you lose yourselves in the magnetic pull of each other. The world outside continues its hushed existence, oblivious to the crescendo of emotions echoing within the room.

The bed, usually shared with the comforting presence of his parents, felt empty, and a sense of curiosity tugged at his tiny heart. Arlo, with his baby blanket in tow, embarked on a solo journey down the hallway.

The plush carpet beneath his little feet muffled his steps as he approached the top of the stairs. The house was still cloaked in the tranquillity of the evening, and Arlo, with wide eyes and tousled hair, peered down into the living room below.

A strange sound caught his attention, and he instinctively clutched his blanket a bit tighter.

At the bottom of the stairs, a tableau unfolded. His mother, adorned in her pajamas, was locked in an embrace with Santa Claus—or so it seemed. Arlo's innocent gaze widened, his imagination dancing with the possibility that Santa himself had arrived early to share a moment with his mom.

The festive glow of the Christmas tree provided an ethereal backdrop to the unexpected scene.

Unaware that the figure beneath the Santa suit was, in fact, his dad, Harry, Arlo continued to observe with a mixture of awe and confusion.

08:21am. 25th December, 2023.

The Christmas morning sun spilled into the kitchen, casting a golden hue on the day's festivities. As you walked in with Arlo nestled on your hip, the air buzzed with the promise of holiday magic.

However, a quiet tension lingered as Arlo, unusually reserved, gazed around the room with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty.

Harry, donned in a festive apron, stood at the stove, the sizzle of eggs providing a comforting backdrop to the scene. Arlo's silence persisted, his little mind undoubtedly preoccupied with the mysterious encounter from the previous night.

As you settled into the kitchen routine, the atmosphere held a subtle undercurrent of curiosity. Arlo's wide eyes shifted between you and Harry, his silence becoming a palpable presence in the room.

The bewilderment in his gaze hinted at the lingering confusion from witnessing the unexpected kiss with Santa Claus.

With each passing moment, the unspoken question hung in the air. Harry, flipping eggs with a practised ease, stole a glance at Arlo, sensing the inner turmoil of his young son. The parental instinct to reassure tugged at your heart as you navigated the morning, your steps mindful of the unspoken query hanging in the air.

After the hearty Christmas breakfast, Arlo, still harbouring the mystery from the previous night, toddled over to Harry.

His little arms reached up, a silent request to be lifted. Harry, ever the doting dad, scooped him up onto his hip, planting a cascade of playful kisses on Arlo's cheek. The room echoed with the sounds of affectionate giggles.

As Arlo settled into Harry's arms, he seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing around to ensure that you were nowhere in sight. Satisfied that the conversation would be just between him and his dad, Arlo took a deep breath, his eyes serious.

"I have something to tell you, Daddy," Arlo announced in a hushed voice, leaning in as if sharing a grand secret.

Harry, playfully intrigued, raised an eyebrow and encouraged him to spill the beans.

With an air of importance, Arlo whispered, "I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus."

The words hung in the air, and a mischievous sparkle lit up his eyes. Harry's reaction, however, was unexpected.

A loud, hearty laugh erupted from Harry's chest, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Arlo, momentarily perplexed, couldn't help but join in the infectious laughter. Harry, wiping away an imaginary tear, managed to compose himself and leaned in with mock seriousness.

Harry brought his face closer to his mini-me and brought his voice to a quiet mock whisper.

“Tell m’more.”