#Scorched Preview

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[dragaliareferencearchive]

Flowers Resplendent on the Sun-Scorched Sojourn - Genshin Impact (2/2)

[celestite-caroline]

still can't believe I got to participate in this zine!! it's gonna be a digital one, hosted by @turbofox-zines :] you can check out their page for more information

[dispatchdcu]

Batman/ Catwoman: The Gotham War - Scorched Earth #1 Preview

Batman/ Catwoman: The Gotham War - Scorched Earth #1 Preview #scorchedearth #gothamwar #battlelines #batman #catwoman #batandcat #tomking #brucewayne #selenakyle #gotham #DC #dccomics #comics #comicbooks #news #DCEU #dcuuniverse #art #NCBD #previews #reviews #Amazon

Batman/ Catwoman: The Gotham War – Scorched Earth #1 Preview: The final chapter of this epic crossover is here, and Batman and his family must find a way to overcome the endgame of an ancient enemy! Can the Bat and the Cat set their differences aside? Is this the end of the Bat-Family? Lives change forever in this action-packed conclusion! Written by CHIP ZDARSKY and TINI HOWARD Art by MIKE…

[gildead]

@dayfourwmv asked:

TACKLES Gold to the ground, locking him in a bear hug. [ CONGRATS ON THE MOD REVIVAL. ]

Gold yelps happily as Ben tackles him, slowly morphing his cry into an infectious giggle as he wraps his sleeves around Ben in his own bear hug. The two roll around on the ground for a while, Gold laughing all the way.

"T-Thank you, Ben!" Gold's voice cracks as he tries to calm himself down, his sleeves flapping in excitement. "I can't believe it's gonna be back for real this time!"

He sits up. "Are you gonna be at Pasta Night again? I think they're gonna change out the song on the jukebox..."

[1800titz]

LIQUID SMOOTH | Best friend’s dad

age gap. 6.9K on patreon

You tell yourself, it’s not because he’s older— not the way you linger in the crows feet by his crinkling eyes when he beams like sunshine, or the way his hands look (not the way, you know, he knows how to please a woman inside out)— but because he’s him. You tell yourself that you aren’t chasing after the placeholder in the shape of the mangled wound you have (need to fill it), and still spend your time taking insubstantial surveys on the internet— daddy issue symptoms in your search bar. (The results are always the same.) (The downfall, culminated, is that he fills a gap— but you’ll never admit it.)

preview

His mouth is a dogged line under his scruff. Mullish— like even in the insober dew coating his eyes, Harry feels that ripple of the undertow. Wrong— right— you want him to chew into your collarbone. Latch on, never let go. 

Something just for him— anything— trapped in the orbital chimera of an impermissible wet dream, all consuming.

He doesn’t, but he tucks his other hand along the side of your neck— fingers at your nape— palming, swallowing, huge (sacrosanct; you freeze, lungs clotted, and let him, let him, let him—), and he pastes his mouth to your jugular. His stubble scratches an itch that stems from pool parties, your gaze coasting the pool decking to savor a glimpse of his supine shape, thighs split, on a chaise lounge in six-inch inseam trunks. 

It’s wet. Muricate, his tongue drawing a hot, slick line. Hungry, sloppy; a roily forerun to a bastardized rendition of lovemaking. Animalistic, nearly— drooling along your neck before taking a bite.

And you think, maybe— bastardized rendition of lovemaking— he’s going to fuck you like this. Tuck his fat cock deep behind your navel on the creaky couch in the garage, hammer up, in, until you’re mewling, dripping all down his balls. Until your orisons feel like crumbled, shedding stars across your shoulder blades. 

Thinking is a rickety concept. Exhausting, feels like wading through the slush of a knee-deep morass, clinging to bald cypress; conversation starters, what-ifs, contemplating mini-skirts over teeny gym shorts. And you wonder how long he’s felt it too. How long his fingers have been aching to find purchase in your proscribed, soft sinew, how long he’s been waiting to score scorching lines along the column of your throat with his tongue. A while, maybe, you decide. He clings like it’s centuries, scrapes with the blunt flats of his teeth like it’s eons.

You stick to his lap like it’s a plinth, mold around his thighs, split legs, and it’s molten. Fever in the blistering revelation, forbidden, denim rough against the skin bared under the flimsy length of your sleep shorts. He paws at your ass, climbs the stretch of your thigh to seal curvature in a palmful, and under you, he’s achingly hard. It makes you ache.

The way Harry licks a stripe across your throbbing pulse, the soft ridge of your jaw. The way his nose grazes your blistering cheek, still tingling from the liquid courage you found in tequila off the hutch. The way it bumps your own, once, twice, and then his mouth slots to yours. Hungry, wanting— throes tangible in the way you angle your head to let him consume, let him tangle his fingers in at the hair on your crown. Let him lead, roll slick into the gap between your teeth until you taste tequila, tongue, the dirty oneirism in the heat of his bulk under you, finally coming to fruition. Your fingers twist into the fabric under your hands. 

He says your name against your teeth. A surly, gravelly sound, like a cosmogyral confession— everlasting, recurring duplication along stardust, again, and again, and again, in every ulterior crevice of the cosmos where another version of this exists. Meant to—

Be. 

He says it again, like a plea. Eyes creased, crushed nephrite, like he’s begging under the notch of his eyebrows. And he’s still clinging like wet paper, like you’re— 

“Fuck,” Harry slurs. Peels away. Shakes you with the purchase he finds on your shoulders, shoving— away. “We can’t— I’m. Fuck.”

You fall in love with your best friend’s dad along the coast of Hurghada.

A trip you take over the summer months, highlighting the obelisk of an incoming senior year at university, dangling in the misty limbo between semi-childhood and something closer to his own footing. Meddle in the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes when he grins in your direction from under the callused awning of his palm against his brows.

You’re twenty-one, and he’s older. 

The kind of older that’s trussed to the unbudgeable anchor, something that festers under your footing— rooted in an issue that isn’t plaited with the seedy, broken thing inside of you. Something that makes him untouchable, throes in the noose of a friendship you plucked up mid-semester from study sessions at the crack of dawn and overpriced, cardboard coffee cups bought on campus. 

It’s perilous footing— tiptoeing along the crumbling bridge of what this was, what it’s become, and dry rot crackles in the flame that swallows the comfort (irreturnable) of pretending that he doesn’t make your guts itch. That you don’t wallow in the gazes he spares you, that you don’t cherish the nights you spend awake with him in the kitchen when the sky is still everdark, carving a world out of a dyad in the dead of night over murmurs across the peninsula. The shockwave of his eyes on you, his soft, sleepy voice (husky, rumbling), blistering under your skin, whitehot like thunderbolts rippling across the aether. You always pretended that you didn’t go back to your best friend’s hometown, every break off, to soak in the deluge of your derelict obsession, and now—

You face the revelation that you’re in love with him along the coast of Hurghada— cataclysmic, uneasy in the way that this puppy crush has metastasized. Grown staunch, irreversibly loyal, searching for him in every man that looks your way at a bar, miles out of his radius. Trailing across the cobble in a burnt orange alleyway off the nook of bars, latched onto the rigid muscle of his arm, the way your best friend is, on the other side. Only for you, it’s different. So different, for you, it’s—

Sloppy steps, head pasted to the sinew there, eyes half-mast. You tip your chin up and stare—

You realize then, but it starts long before. Starts as an ache in your gums to gnaw in the first time you meet him. Swells in the seal of your bubble when you catch glimpses, collect them, like trinkets— shirtless in the kitchen over the stove when you emerge in the morning, climbing out of the jacuzzi while you’re sprawled on the sunbed, the first time he taught you the geometrics of pool, strategy in the aim, on the table in the garage. So respectful. Abiding, untouchy, daughter’s best friend ingrained like crime-tape scratched into his bones, off limits, to the forerun of every action. 

You fall in love with him somewhere in the gully between Hurghada and peanut butter pancakes, and now—

Now—

Now your stomach is churning, because his hands are cupped around your forearms— brassbound, aborting— pressed to his pecs, and his head is turned to the side like he can’t look at you. Like he doesn’t want to face the origin of the taste on his teeth.

Stupid—

Stupid. Finding debauched bait in vinyls and hard liquor, sleep shorts short enough for his eyes to crawl, wander, loose enough for his fingers to slip under, and now…

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[orphicmusings]

a preview (?) of this | 18+

and he realizes, he could still smell you on his coat. cigarette smoke underneath something sweet. artificial fruity syrup, he guessed, as there was no way that bar had access to fresh produce. his breathing quickens as he puts it back on, unbuckling his pants and leaving the bottom half of his body bare. the only thing worn is the smell of you mixed with him— the coffee and oil grease lingering from working the day away at the lab. he chews down on his lip hard enough to break the skin as he wraps his hand around his length, scolding himself through mumbles and pants. but he turns his head and buries his face in the cool leather collar against his scorching rosy cheeks and groans, something deep, something breathless, something pathetic, something heavy. you’re tucked there, scratching his cheekbone with the scuffed material. you’re there, with your lopsided smile and eye rolls and dexterous fingers and—god, your hands—a sharp inhale of breath, his flushed chest rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm. the way you say his name so stern, so bitter, with your eyes narrowed almost as a taunt opposed to the nicknames you once held for each other. he would take his name on your lips dripping poison, if it meant having him grace your mouth at all. the thought sprung from his groin to his brain as he made a noise all too unfamiliar to him behind his teeth. he threw his head back as he hit his peak, your smug expression still painted behind his eyes. he can’t wonder what you would think if you saw him like this, a flushed, panting, whimpering, filthy mess, all because of you— he knows he does not have the energy to go another round with his fist tonight.

[tempests-bards-and-birds]

Flowers Resplendent on the Sun-Scorched Sojourn | Preview Page

[schluttandco]

𝖶𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖥𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗂˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ Highschool!Schlatt x Reader ༉‧₊˚. PREVIEW

Hey! I wrote this twenty chapter fic like 6 months ago and now I'm reworking it⋆.ೃ࿔*:･I am like totally new to Tumblr and this concept genuinely keeps me up at night.

Reader and Schlatt are both eighteen, eventual smut, angst always.

The schools star baseball player and virgin Schlatt can't help but befriend the grunge girl with no friends who has a bit of a reputation.

Schlatt was leant back in his gaming chair, fingers lazily moving over the controller of his Playstation as he focused on the game of Call of Duty in front of him. A great use of his allowance. The noise of something banging against his window drew him out of his technology driven haze, pausing the game to throw open his curtains. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you, clinging to the trellis that ran the length of his house, a grin painted on your face as you motion for him to open the window.

"Hey there..." You say, with an air of faux casualness. "You come here often?" Schlatt shakes his head at the sight, yout chipped black nails clinging to the wood like an insane person, giving him a stupid grin that made the skin of his palms sweat.

"Ha ha, very funny doll..." He says, with a small huff of laughter. "You're going to break a bone or somethin'." Your face peels into a smirk at that, rolling your eyes at him.

"Wanna go get drunk?" You ask, gesturing to the vodka bottle poking out of the top of your denim shorts. He lets out a small groan, which turns into a nod.

"When don't I wanna get drunk?"

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

After scaling the trellis with practised ease, the two of you fall into step with each other. The evening air is cold as you make your way to the small wooden area at the edge of Schlatt's neighbourhood. You settle in the slightly dingy den, which you built in freshman year. It's not much: just a few big sticks tied together with rope, but it was secluded and a good place to get drunk away from the eyes of parents or kids from the neighbourhood.

"You stole the vodka, didn't you?" Schlatt asks, slightly amused as you sit cross legged opposite each other.

"Obviously." You reply with a small smirk, twisting off the cap, taking a swig and then passing him the bottle. "How'd it go after the game?" Schlatt considers the question, taking a sip from the bottle with a small wince.

"Same as every other game, I guess..." He shrugs, passing the bottle back to you.

"Get with Kelsey?" You say, wiggling your eyebrows, taking another sip and sticking out your tongue in disgust. "I overheard her talking about you." He rolls his eyes at that, shaking his head as he lets his back rest against the sticks of the den.

"Nah... she was all over me after the game but I..." He trails off, unable to meet your gaze properly, his fingers playing with the dirt below him. "I ditched her. I guess."

"Still a virgin then?" You grin, passing him the bottle as you place your satchel bag onto the ground in front of you, pulling out a tube containing a joint, taking a moment to fish out the lighter from the bottom.

"Says the one that keeps sleeping with half the seniors in the school." Schlatt bites back, his eyes studying your fingers as they pop open the tube, pulling out the joint and placing it in between your lips. He's mesmerised  by the sight, able to watch over the top of the vodka bottle as the alcohol scorches the back of his throat.

"You calling me a slut, Johnathan Schlatt?" You say with mock offence, lighting the end of the joint. You take a hit, then you pass it to him, watching as he places the vodka bottle haphazardly in between your legs.

"Well..." He hums, taking the joint from in between your fingers. "I'm not wrong, am I?"

"So you are pissed at me for sleeping with Ben then." You say, watching him closely as he exhales a small cloud of smoke.

"I don't care what you do with who doll." Liar.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Chapter One comes tomorrow! Idec if nobody likes this fic, I simply just need to pour out my inner feelings- lmao.

[seospicybin]

TASTE PREVIEW.

CHAPTER IV: DECADENT.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen.

This is a preview for chapter III of Taste series. Full fic will be posted this Friday, January 24.

...

This is how Minho makes a grilled cheese, and it’s nothing short of an art form.

He starts with sourdough, its tangy undertone the perfect match for the richness of the cheese. The slices are perfectly even—not too thin to fall apart, not too thick to overwhelm the balance. He spreads a generous layer of salted butter on each side of the bread, ensuring every bite will have that golden, crispy finish.

The pan is preheated just right, warm enough to coax a gentle sizzle from the bread but not so hot as to scorch it. Minho places the first slice into the pan, the buttered side down, and the kitchen fills with the warm, inviting aroma of toasted bread. After a careful sear, he flips it over—this is where the magic begins.

He layers the cheeses with precision. First, thin slices of vintage cheddar, their sharpness a bold foundation. Then, a snowfall of freshly grated gruyère, its nutty, salty richness promising the ultimate melt. The combination is decadent, balanced, and undeniably tempting.

He places the second slice of bread on top, creating a perfect sandwich, and gives it a gentle press before covering the pan with a lid to trap the heat. The cheese begins to soften and melt, binding the layers together. When the bottom is golden brown, Minho removes the pan from the heat, letting it rest for just a moment before flipping the sandwich with a practiced ease. He returns it to the stove to crisp up the other side, ensuring both sides are evenly golden, the crust crackling just right.

When he’s satisfied—because perfection is the only standard—he transfers the grilled cheese to a plate. The crust glistens with buttery golden-brown specks, and the edges of the melted cheese ooze slightly, teasing with its gooey promise.

As Minho places the plate in front of you, the aroma hits you like a warm embrace: toasted bread, melted cheese, and a hint of nuttiness. Your mouth waters at the sight, and your stomach growls in anticipation. One bite and you know—it’s not just a grilled cheese. It’s a masterpiece.

Minutes later, you set the empty plate down on the coffee table, leaning back with a contented sigh. Then reality hits, and you groan. “Ugh, I still have to finish the ravioli tomorrow morning.”

Minho, lounging beside you, raises an eyebrow. “So?”

You turn to him, giving him your best pleading look. “Help me with it?”

His response is instant and firm. “No.”

You pout, but he doesn’t budge. “Why would I waste my energy making ravioli for Sara?” he adds, sounding almost offended.

Your shoulders slump in disappointment. “Mean,” you mutter under your breath.

Minho leans back further, running a hand through his hair as he lets out a low sigh. “And why should I waste my energy on people who want to leave me anyway?”

The words hang in the air, and your ears perk up. Something in his tone—calm but heavy—gives you pause. It hits you then: he indeed knows about Souschef Seojun.

You turn to him sharply. “So, you knew about it?”

His gaze shifts to yours, and his eyes are piercing. “And you didn't tell me about it.”

You hesitate, feeling cornered. “I like Souschef,” you admit. “I want to keep working with him, but… I also think he should take this opportunity for himself.”

Minho clicks his tongue, his expression darkening. “You’re a professional two-timer,” he says with a scoff.

The jab stings, but before you can respond, he stares at the ceiling, his voice quieter now. “It’s the hardest thing... moving up to chef from sous chef. Most don’t make it.”

You study his face, the frustration he tries so hard to mask. He’s bothered, even though he won’t outright say it. The fact that Minho thinks about it means he actually cares more than he let on.

A question forms in your head and in a softer tone, you dare yourself to ask but keeping your tone soft, “Why do you push away the people who like you and push even harder the ones who don’t? Who’s going to stay by your side if you keep doing that?”

Minho turns his head, his eyes locking with yours. A smirk tugs at his lips as he answers, “I have you.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, your heart skipping a beat. Without thinking, you slip your arm around his, holding it close to your chest.

“That’s true,” you whisper, smiling softly. “I’ll always stick by your side.”

Deep down, you hope he believes you and that it's not some words you said to please him. You hope he knows you’ll stay by his side, no matter what.

...

Check Taste Masterlist for more!

[kingdomcomicscenter-blog]

[dragaliareferencearchive]

Flowers Resplendent on the Sun-Scorched Sojourn - Genshin Impact (1/2)

[peachy-writings]

PARADOX [Preview] Viktor x Reader AU

Full one shot here (~_^)

Summary: Reader receives the shock of their life when Viktor essentially materializes into their world, forever altering their version of reality as he tries to get back to his own.

Content Tags: Gender neutral reader with They/Them pronouns (no use of Y/N), Kinda follows S2 Pt. 2 canon, Angsty, Strangers to Friends?

Sulfur.

That tang has always sprinkled pockets of air in the Undercity, to the extent that those dwelling within barely take notice anymore. Therefore, when you do, it takes you by surprise. You glance around the room, troubled. Had the ventilation system halted? Or worse—had Piltover’s best decided to poison your already polluted oxygen with sewage, or something similarly offensive? And then a sharp, metallic singe punches you square in the nose. So sudden that your eyes squash shut, overwhelmed.

After taking a moment to reorient, you are shocked by the sight of a man scorched onto the coarse floorboards of your shabby homestead. Like a meteor had cannoned through the building, but a cursory glance upward reveals no such destruction.

Even more curious is the man’s appearance; he is a sinewy splat, draped in a white robe, crumpled on his side and perfectly pristine. Despite the edges of his garment and the surrounding space having been kissed with char. Mahogany tresses cover most of his pale face, shifting over sharp peaks as he stirs to consciousness. All the while, you are struck statuesque with bewilderment and a whisper of utter captivation.

How?

Who?

Why?

The stranger groans, a hand coming up to soothe his head that must be pounding from such a sudden entrance. Amber eyes blink open slowly into a squint. Confusion, then some kind of realization has his eyes widening when they meet your own. Your expression must match his as the two of you scrutinize one another, a pregnant pause scribbling the walls of your mind with even more questions that you cannot fathom one single answer to.

“Tell me…” He breaks the silence with an accent that tells you he is a Zaunite, in spite of such an odd appearance for this origin. “Do you know who I am?”

“No,” you reply softly, cautiously. And then your walls come up, as though your subconscious punches an internal panic button. No matter how otherworldly this materialization has been, this is still a stranger. “You better explain whatever the hell this is before I manually eject you from my home.”

A nimble hand reaches for the nearest weapon: a knife you’d left out on the counter to be washed. In his direct line of sight, you hold the flat of the blade against your thigh, posed to get rid of any threat quickly and efficiently.

“There is no need for that.” He says your name. Your real, given name. You almost don’t react since it’s been eons since the last time you’ve heard it said aloud. That hand at your side clenches the hilt of the blade—Not in anger, but petrification. “You don’t seem to know me in this timeline. I promise I am not here to hurt you, but to ask for your help. You are the only person I can trust.”

“How do you know my name, and what do you mean by in this timeline?” You take a step backward, bumping into the counter and jolting when the rough surface meets your clammy skin.

“I will answer all of your questions, but first,” he clears his throat. “May I have some water?”

Viktor nation, please let me know what you think! I’m still working on the full one shot and should have it out by the end of next week.

[feyhunter78]

HOTD Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen:

OC fics: Poisoned Tears and Scorched Tongues Series ⇾ Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, read the rest of the chapters here!! Look of Love 💕 Reader Inserts: But Darling (I'd Still Die For You) The Prince and His Musician 💕 Tourney Injuries and a Proposal Study Sessions You Know Other Men??🔥 💕 Fantasies and Restraint🔥 Spy!Aemond Headcanons The Despair of a Dragon's Wife💕 Liquid Lust🔥 Sub!Aemond🔥 Y/N's Birthday🔥 The Prince's Chambers🔥 Think I'm Gonna Call it Off ⇾ Cregan Stark X Reader X Aemond When the Night Turns From Dragon Shores🔥 Multichapter: The Scar on Your Palm (and the One on Mine)💕 Pt 2💕 The Innocent's Folly Masterlist (Finished!) The Trial of Tributes Masterlist (Finished/find on AO3)

Helaena and Jacaerys:

Moonflowers Series💕 ⇾ Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ch 8, Ch 9, Ch 10, Ch 11, Ch 12, Ch 13, read the rest here! Soulmate AU ⇾ Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7 (Finished!)

Jacaerys Velaryon:

Reader Inserts:

The Servant who would be Queen 💕

Aegon II Targaryen:

Hold My Heart (Between Your Teeth) ⇾ Masterlist (on hiatus)

Reader Inserts:

Perils of Kindness and Lust🔥 Pt 2🔥 The Maester's Assistant 💕 Angel in the Marketplace 🔥💕 A Maid's Obsession 🔥

Multi Characters:

Apprentice!reader ⇾ Masterlist Bowling with the Modern!Targs HC Arcade Games with the Modern!Targ boys HC Sex Pollen with the Targ Boys🔥 Turn of the Tide, Call of the Sea ⇾ Masterlist (on hiatus)

Long Fics:

Targaryen Inc, Modern Au💕 ⇾ Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ch 8, Ch 9, Ch 10, Ch 11, Ch 12, read the other chapters here!!!

The Dowager Queen ⇾ Preview, series masterlist💕 Orange Blossoms (Alicent x Criston) Ch 2, Ch 3 (find more on my AO3) Vervain and Wolfsbane - Vamp AU ⇾ Ch 1, Ch 2 (find more on my AO3)

[genshin-impact-updates]

"Flowers Resplendent on the Sun-Scorched Sojourn" Version 5.0 Events Preview - Phase I

Hello, Traveler~ Version 5.0 is coming! Let's take a look at what kind of events will be in this new Version update~

[1800titz]

THE THRILL | Phone sex operator AU

preview

“God— I feel good, too. I’m so wet for you,” you hum. 

The confession is syrup on embers— a simmering, wet heat in the trench of his underbelly, and feels like liquified nirvana across his fibrils. 

It pries another grunt from the asunder seam of his teeth— gravelly, husking— the rasping growl of a faceless stranger on the verge of splintering. 

(Hunk of a man, precarious footing like the lip of a mountainside, toying at the sutures of pseudo-phone-sex— an automated script of moans and coaxes— and crooning please with your fingers dug under the cotton of your underwear and sweat on your brow.)

And maybe that’s the thrill of it. 

Chasing the dirty bliss on borrowed time— costly minutes— painting the monolithic bulk of an innominate outlander behind your eyelids when you pour your work ethic into doing the very best job, giving it your all, heel of your palm pressed tight to your clit and your fingers tucked deep. 

(Because, maybe, you both feed off the kick. Chasing the same buzz that’s molded off an intricately carved proxy of intimacy.) 

There’s something marginally less vulnerable (marginally more— parceled up in the seedy filth along the grooves of your fingerprints, saturated on the crumbling bulwark of melding scripts and vices), in evading the tangibility of sex through a phone. In pretending—

“Yeah,” Harry grunts, hips flexing into the nook of his fist. His shoulders quake with the shudder that rolls up his nape. The swivel chair creaks under the pressure of the motion. “Can hear it, dirty fuckin’ girl—“

And in the knurled grimace that graces his pink mouth (the guttural hiss shattering in his windpipe) you nearly taste euphoria off his bared teeth. The way you know they glint white. Soak in the scorching deluge of the same ecstasy when he ruts into his own hand at the way you moan. 

Your favorite regular. 

He was different. Chipped his way under your skin and sinew to make home in the hollow he carved from the moment he dialed. Heady timbre flowing like smoke; sultry, kerosene-soaked, rough-hewn in hedonistic pursuit. 

So unlike the other regulars or the one-timers rolling onto the line, scuffing their speakers against their clothes when they shuffle, voices low and brittle when they beg you to tell them how you’re going to step on them and call them filthy names. 

(You moan and purr how you’re so close, how bad you want them to cum inside, phone tucked to your cheek, sprawled with your legs kicked up over the arm of the couch, scrolling through Pinterest meal prep recipes on your laptop.) 

You should feel ashamed, maybe, at the startling ease it took for him to thaw you away and reverse the roles (leave you hankering for the sweet warmth of a gray haze— thick, smoggy, petrichor with your tummy buzzing and your breath caught in your throat— when he bid you goodnight with the murmur of we’ll do this again, sweetheart before the line clicked). The way it left you feeling like you were on the line with an operator on the other end, milking you for more. 

(“And what name should I have in my mouth when you make me cum for you, hm?”)

(Borrowed time, costly minutes; you soak in every cent he spills into your wallet.)

・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・。・・。・。・・

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