#Silk pyjamas Pants | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reignpage · 20 hours ago

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How the JJK men sleep

Satoru

Gangly limbs spread, he takes up most of the space as he snores incredibly loudly (and in the morning, he’ll deny ever having done such a thing with an insulted gasp). He’ll be in luxurious pyjamas made of the finest silk imported from the valleys of somewhere he can’t even pronounce, with delicate embroidery and a deep blue shade that he swears brings out his eyes.

He’ll have a hand in your face, a foot up your ass, a limb hanging off the bed, and drool dripping down his chin and soaking the pillow. Satoru is not a pretty sleeper at all. And he moves around a lot, too. God, does he ever.

One minute he’s spread eagle; the next, he’s ass up and cheek smushed against your pillow. When he wakes himself up snoring, he frowns and reaches for you, snuggling into your neck and muttering something random like date plans or how nice you smell. However, that lovey-dovey display never lasts very long before he’s practically kicking you off the bed and stealing the covers simultaneously.

Then, in the morning, he smiles, completely refreshed and ready to tackle whatever the day throws at him. He playfully pouts at your grumpy face and asks, “Hey, didn’t sleep well? Told you screen time right before bed isn’t healthy.”

Suguru

Very pretty.

He sleeps with his hair tucked into a silk bonnet and lips coated in an overnight moisturising mask, Sleeping Beauty style. On his back, he worries not that the position is giving him nightmares because he knows he’ll get them regardless. There really isn't a cure. He sleeps in a plain T-shirt and comfortable pyjama bottoms.

On good nights, he’s still and quiet. He might mutter here and there but mostly, he keeps to himself and doesn’t take up more space than he needs.

On bad nights, though…he’ll wake with a jolt, sweat-soaked and panting. His hand darts towards your body, feeling for heat, for smooth flesh, and he sighs when he finds it. Sitting up, he rubs a hand down his face and tries to catch his breath. Most nights, he can calm himself down by simply watching you sleep peacefully, but on his worst nights, he needs to get out, release his frustrations and do something. Anything.

You’ll find him out on the balcony, smoking or sometimes just watching the fire of his lighter flicker and dance. He can’t lie to you when asked if he’s okay; the dark circles under his bags and the strain in his movements say it all.

But, as he beckons you over and you sit in his lap, he soaks up your warmth and listens to your voice, eyes trained on the sunrise, feeling somewhat relieved of the heaviness in his body.

Choso

He’s a backpack. Pressed right up behind you, you try, even asleep, to shake him off, to no avail. The man is clinging to you like you’re a tank of oxygen. Wearing no shirt and just plaid pyjama bottoms, he shivers and shudders in his sleep when you force him to his side of the bed. You can’t sleep with the sound of teeth chattering, so rolling your eyes, you let him scoot back up with you, limbs wrapping around your body.

Not the loudest of sleepers, he makes cute little noises as he dreams of whatever he’s dreaming of, his hands wandering and groping what they can. It’s not quite sexual; it just seems like he likes to know, even deep in REM, that you’re there.

No matter the temperature, Choso is always cold without you. As soon as you get up to do whatever, he’s following, half-asleep and grumbling complaints. When you return to bed, he’s right behind, sighing into your hair and getting real comfortable on your side, leaving a huge space big enough for two other people.

In the morning, you’re practically falling off the bed, held up entirely by his arm as he snuggles you off the bed. He smiles when you sigh and pinch his cheeks. Spending twenty minutes trying to convince you to stay in bed for longer, you’ll have to drag yourself and him out of bed for breakfast, which you spend the entire time cooking with him wrapped around you.

Toji

Wears only boxers. Well, he used to go naked, but after an argument, or two, he’s learnt his lesson. Something about feeling claustrophobic at night and a man’s right to be in his birthday suit in his own home. Well, anyway, he runs hot, so boxers make sense. He’s the type to be able to sleep on top of the covers in the dead of winter and still get sweaty. He runs so hot, in fact, that cuddling with him can never last too long because soon you’d start feeling suffocated by his body heat.

It’ll be no surprise to anyone that he snores. He snores pretty loud, actually. When he’s not snoring like a train, he’ll grunt, react to whatever dream he’s having, and scratch his chest as his brows furrow. Sometimes you have to shake him awake to tell him to shut the fuck up, and when that happens, he’ll roll his sleepy eyes and throw a heavy arm over you, pulling you into his chest, partly because he uses you as some sort of pillow and partly to shut you up.

Thankfully, he doesn’t move around too much. He sticks to his side and doesn’t hog the duvet. But, what he does do instead is smother you. Heavy bastard lays on top of you because he thinks you’re softer than the mattress, and he holds you tight when he’s feeling chilly and needs your body warmth on top of all that ridiculous heat he radiates.

Not a morning person, he grumbles when your alarm goes off and has, on occasion, been guilty of turning it off and getting you in trouble for being late. You’ll have to jump on him and slap him awake if you want to get started with the day with him. Most mornings, though, he finds ways to persuade you to stay in longer, but not all of them are very PG13.

Kento

Before you, he used to wear sweaters to bed because he gets rather cold at night. But since you love to cuddle and slide over to his side of the bed, he’s learnt that going shirtless is perfectly fine and is, actually, preferred. Mostly by you, but who is he to argue with his wife?

He's a quiet sleeper. So quiet, sometimes you worry he’s not even breathing, and it sends you into a panic he rectifies when he’s shaken away. Cooing in your ear, he’ll hold your head against his chest so you can hear his steady heartbeat and feel soothed by his reliable heat. Lulled to slumber by the pats he gives your ass, you both find that nights are a very peaceful time especially as he doesn’t steal the sheets.

No, you often steal his share of the blanket, encroach into his space, and threaten to push him off. When that happens, he sighs and rubs his bleary eyes before grabbing an extra blanket, draping it over himself, and scooting an arm under you so he can carry you on his chest and ensure that you get the closeness you desire and he doesn’t fall off. That wouldn't be very good for his back.

Naturally, he wakes up first. He hates waking you up, but he has many things to do before you get up, like making a fresh pot of coffee, preparing breakfast and lunch, ensuring that your clothes are warming up on the radiator, and having a fresh pump of toothpaste ready on your toothbrush. Oh, and how he loves making sure that the first words you hear are, ‘Good morning, sweetheart’ or ‘Hi, darling, how did you sleep?’

Sukuna

Wears nothing. Why should he wear anything to bed when being naked is fine? Modesty? What a ridiculous mortal notion. It is precisely this shame revolving around every second of your existence that holds back humanity from achieving anything of substance.

Though he doesn’t snore, he is not a quiet sleeper. He sleep talks. Yes. Yes, he does. Mostly he mutters, and you can’t really make out what he’s saying, but sometimes he also makes proclamations of world domination and quenching his bloodlust. It’s kinda funny actually — he’ll even shake his fist in the air and yell out that he’s the King of Curses. Of course, he doesn’t believe you when you bring it up in the morning. He swears you’re lying or you’ve dreamt it.

He hates it when you steal his blankets. You should know by now that he is not above snatching it from you in the middle of the night and turning around all frowny. He’s righting wrongs, he says, but the truth is that the corner of his mouth twitches when you get upset and cuddle up behind him to share some of the covers as you should have been doing from the start.

Neither of you move around too much at night. Which is very odd because, although you fall asleep on your own side, somehow you always wake up up on his chest, cradled by one pair of his beefy arms, face tucked into the crook of his neck, and a hand on his heart. You don’t have complaints; his huge body is pretty comfortable.

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pinkmirth · 11 months ago

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i think adrian would get hard just from cuddling with you

MIDNIGHT CRAVINGS, adrian ‘alucard’ țepeș!

❤︎ ₊ ˙ ⊹ 900+ words of . . . nsfw/smut, alucard x fem!reader ( black coded! ) established relationship, spooning, unprotected sex, creampie, minors shoo!

the simplest of affections are enough to rile up the poor man. what can he say? he’s a devoted lover! when you’re underneath the silken sheets of alucard’s grand bed, with him spooning you from behind, his arms wrapped around your middle as your body heat radiates off of him, he can’t help but grow . . . excited. he doesn’t think he could react any other way, being this close and intimate with a beautiful woman he loves.

adrian’s lean hips shift a little against your backside, and it isn’t long until you notice the his stirring cock prodding at you, settled between your clothed asscheeks. you can feel the subtle, steady pulse of his underside through your flimsy nightgown. you hum knowingly, feeling your own arousal grow, and he meekly apologizes with a deep, airy whisper to your ear. you welcome it, though; reaching behind you to slink your arm between your bodies, all to grab hold of him through his pyjamas.

adrian’s breath catches in his throat, holding back a rising groan, and you turn over a little to send him a sweet smile, one that embarrassingly makes his cock jump. god, he always reacts to every little thing you do; you just seem to have that effect on him. your fingers curl around the length of him, tugging down and swirling back up with a pace that makes his hips buck into the warmth of your soft palm. there’s a glint in your eye as you work him, one that shows him you want this— want him.

you steadily jerk his throbbing cock, and his grasp on your hips only grows tighter with every stroke. slippery precum spurts out from his mauve-pink tip and dribbles down, wetting your fingers as they massage his shaft. adrian doesn’t think he can take this for much longer— at this rate, he’ll end up orgasming from your hand alone. alucard pants into the crook of your neck, licking and nibbling at the skin there. his moans have a delicious rasp to it, and the shameless sound makes you throb.

“wanna put you inside,” is your soft confession, and who is he to deny you? the thought of being enveloped by your warm, tight cunt is enough to make his mouth water. he flits out his tongue to swipe over his fangs, releasing a shaky breath.

“of course, my love,” adrian gives in, flipping up the hem of your silk-white nightdress. his large palm encompasses the fat of your ass, kneading and squeezing before he goes to hold his cock at the base, lining up with your quivering hole. he starts slow when pressing it in, your wet entrance kissing his sensitive cockhead. adrian sinks in deeper, and he swears he could cum solely off of hearing you whine out his name so sweetly.

alucard kisses the delicate skin of your neck, his hand lifting up your side to cup your left breast and graze over your pebbled nipples. he starts making good work of you; fucking into you from behind, sucking love marks onto the delicate canvas of your flesh. he’s panting into your neck, and the feeling of his cock driving into you with such an undoing pace has you moaning out, rutting your ass back into him as a feeble attempt to match his thrusts. the momentum of his pistoning hips soon grows restless, almost overpowering.

resounding smacks of his pelvis to your backside begin to fill the room and echo off the walls. it’s almost as loud as both your sounds combined; his shuddering breaths and your broken mewls. his quickened pounding makes your back arch further, ass jutting out and rippling against his plunging hips. he slinks his hand forward, swiping the pads of his fingers against your needy clit, pressing tight circles into the puffy nub. “a—adrian!” you cry out, trying to pivot your face around to kiss him.

you’re then blessed with the sight of your beautiful husband. there’s beading sweat built up at his hairline, stray blonde hairs that have fallen into his face, the seductive flutter of his lashes, a scatter of blush that’s overtaken his cheeks, and his pale-pink lips that are trapped underneath his sharp gleaming teeth before your mouth desperately collides with his.

you moan into his mouth, and adrian takes the opportunity to slide his tongue inside, his thin blonde brows drawn downwards when he feels you clench around him. he pulses in return, swapping spit and suckling at your lower lip, swallowing up all the pretty sounds that pour from you. you feel yourself toppling over the edge, and it isn’t long until you’re creaming all over his cock. you let go with a silent gasp and your eyes screwed shut. he fucks you through it and lovingly coos into your ear, staring into your face when you convulse around him; your plush, agape lips, the cute furrow of your brows, and he glances a bit lower to ogle the delicious curve of your spine down to your butt.

a few more pumps and adrian finds himself unraveling. a raspy moan is what marks his climax, lowly whines falling from him when he cums. his tight grasp around your waist is still there, though it loosens with the dazed sensation that comes tug an orgasm. you bask in the feeling of his warm cum spurting into your womb, filling you up nicely. you pout once he slips out of you, a stream of cum spilling down your puffy cunt.

alucard frees out a deep sigh; one of content. again, you tip your head back to kiss him, a calmer one this time. he returns your affections with gentle pecks, mumbles “i love you’s” onto the soft pillow of your lips, caressing the curving plane of your hips. he’s sure that you both know he couldn’t possibly get enough of you.

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 8 months ago

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LOGAN HOWLETT 18+ thoughts about late night sex in the kitchen of xavier’s mansion

[fem!reader, mdni]

last one for a bit (this might be a lie bc I have another wip )

It’s late, the school quiet. Everyone asleep for the night.

Or so you thought.

Your late night trip to the kitchen for water taking a detour when you see Logan at the island, a secretly bought beer clutched in hand. It’s dark, the kitchen dimly lit by the moon’s cast through the window. You didn’t see him at first, nor did you expect anyone else to be up at this hour – the silk, slinky robe you threw on all evidence of that.

The supposed, simple journey to fetch a drink after some alone time escalating into something else. Something like you were picturing during those thirty-some minutes in your room.

The trip downstairs turning into hushed, hasty sex against the counter – the force of his front against your back pushing you further into the worktop ahead. Your hands situated firmly on the edge, fingers digging into the wood as a means to keep stable. His hold around your middle just as tight – his grasp only further aiding your stability.

He fucks into you testingly, the waistband of his pyjamas tucked just under his cock. His clothing revealing only what it needs in the same way yours does; robe flowing freely, fabric covering all of you except the parts that raise and crumple and ruche with his touch.

You lift a leg, resting your knee on the counter to make more space for him behind – the new positioning opening you up further. The deeper angle allowing more strangled, hoarse, strained noises to fill the space. His fucking never once faltering with your struggling sounds.

Your back arching away from him and head falling onto his shoulder as a means to feel him just that bit more.

“Keep it down,” he whispers behind your ear. “Don’t want them hearing too much,” he teases, referring to the whole school of gifted individuals.

He was getting under your skin, trying to shame you for your shared urges. But it only made it that much hotter – the thought of being caught making it all the more thrilling.

And he knew that, he could feel it. The unknowing tightening of you around his cock acting as a tell. Like one big giveaway.

“Afraid of how much you like it?” he says, voice low and quiet as he speaks into your ear. Like before, only this time he’s closer. Lips practically grazing at your lobe.

You nod, body reacting before your mind gets a second to fight it. And when he feels you mere moments away from giving up all sense of quiet —your climax in the midst— he places a hand over your mouth, palm large over the bottom half of your face. His other moving to grab a handful of tit, fingers pawing and kneading into the squidge through the thin fabric.

His mouth on the back of your neck, lips pressing the faintest of kisses into your skin. The act spurring you along.

And when you both reach your end, panting over the edge of the counter, you’re quick to pretend as if it never happened —like those dozen secret encounters before— making yourselves busy when you see Scott appear in the doorframe.

Your uneasy, darting eyes and Logan's messy hair and discarded tank acting as yet another huge giveaway.

this is lowkey ass, sorry guys. forgive me😫🙏

had this idea all week and needed to put it into words before I do a comfort blurb. k cool bye x

#thot #logan howlett #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett xmen #logan howlett fanfiction #logan x reader #logan xmen #wolverine smut #wolverine x reader

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chrattho1 · 2 months ago

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matt sturniolo blurb

craving

warnings: titty sucking,dry humping,sub!matt,clingy!matt (?) ,coming in pants,mentions of pussy eating idk,established relationship

inspired by this ask

matt doesn’t know what to do,doesn’t know if he should wake you up from your precious sleep so he can relieve himself of the agony he is in right now by just watching you sleep,or if he should go to the bathroom,rub one out and call it a night.

matt watches you move in your sleep,your tits pressed between your arms-almost falling off your silk shirt. he can clearly see your nipples trace outside the shirt,wanting nothing but to feel them-you see his hard on is not the only thing he wants to get rid off,he wants to feel you more than anything right now.

“baby?” matt spoke in his soft yet hoarse voice,trying to see if you will wake up to help him in some way.

“mhm” all it took was for him to call you out once before you responded in your sleep,eyes still closed shut.

“i need you—however-just help me please?” matt brings his hand to rest on yours,slightly shaking it to wake you.

you open your eyes,kind of,to look at his state-he is laid beside you,his eyes begging for something. his brows knitted in worry of your response.

“what do you want baby?” you spoke making him release a breath he didn’t realise he was holding in,matt’s hand that was rested on top of yours slowly but desperately reaches under your shirt,rubbing circles on your smooth skin,hoping you’d get the idea.

you scoot closer to him,encouraging him to do whatever it is that he wants. and he immediately drops his head down in your neck,laying hasten and desperate kisses everywhere,all over your neck down to your cleavage and back up again on your face-cheeks,nose,lips-just everywhere.

a small chuckle leaves your mouth,seeing him like this and he stops what he is doing,looks at you for a second before his cheeks start reddening,and a small smile on his face before he drops his head into the crook of your neck-he is embarrassed.

“aw baby its okay come here” you pull him closer,draping your legs over his,one of your legs between both of his thighs and one wrapped over his legs. you can feel his dick rubbing up against you.

matt is too embarrassed to pull himself up to look at you anymore,so you grab the hem of your shirt pulling it up in a swift motion,revealing your bare breasts. matt’s head snaps at your action.

you smirk at him and before you know it,his face is in your tits,kissing,sucking,nibbling doing everything that his mouth can possibly do.

your head falls back a little,your hands roam around in his hair occasionally pulling on some. matt moans and whimpers into your skin.

this is what he wanted,he wanted to kiss you all over,suck on your tits,this is what he was craving.

he worked his tongue like magic on your skin,the heat between your legs growing with each of his movements. you groan in wanting more friction.

“you’re so beautiful-” matt spoke between kissing and sucking,he kept whispering praises into your skin,paired with whimpers.

matt takes the liberty to start grinding on you slowly,his mouth never detaching itself from you. his hands find a way to your ass squeezing it through your pyjamas shorts.

he was so lost in your skin,didn’t even realise how many marks he’s left all over you,and how the pace he’d been grinding at had increased by alot. it was only when he heard you whimper loudly,he took his lips off of you to speak to you.

“so pretty—i can do this all day” matt said before crashing his lips on yours,his lips wet and swollen from all the sucking he did earlier, he holds onto your hips, humping you,his covered dick grazing your clit perfectly,making your eyes roll back.

“fuc-i cant-im gon” matt’s eye’s pressed closed,eyebrows knit,his grip on your hips tightening,and his movements sloppy as he crashes down with his orgasm. painting his pants and yours along with the bedsheet under.

his head falls on you,you can feel his fastened heart beat,and his heavy breaths.

matt pulls away,to look at you before realising how many hickeys and marks he’d all over your tits,neck and abdomen. he gasps slightly with his wide.

“shit baby-im sorry i didn’t even-” his eyes roam all over you before you shushed him,assuring him that its okay.a smile grows on his face.

“can you please sit on my face now? please? i’ll try not to cum in my pants this time” you giggle at his words,nodding.

taglist: @espressqe @ginswife @sturnsburna @carolina454 @hope2244 @hotgirlbl0gger @violetstxrniolo777 @riggysworld @verycoolmiyah @fadedstvrn @purpledreamertyphoon @mattsplaything @whore4chris @chris-halleluja @annsx03 @mattsdemi @chrislittleslut @poolover123 @luvvnai @chrissturniolossidehoe @pompomprrin @harmonysturniolo @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @soph-loren @ccsturns @lovesturni0l0s @chriss-slutt @wysmols @sturniolosluttt @mattsdillion @alyssa-sturn @bilssturns @sturnobessed @mxnsonn @izzylovesmatt @sturniolosymphony @chrissturnioloswife88 @sxphiee3 @purpledreamertyphoon @whoreforchrissturnniolo @slutformatt17 @realuvrrr @sweetxcheeryx @sturnl0ve @estellesdoll @glitterybtch @courta13 @mattsbitchh @slvtf0rchr1s @trevorsgodmother

tai’s notes: divider by me but feel free to use it💋

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scealaiscoite · 6 months ago

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⋆˚࿔ clothing prompts 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

¹⁾ baggy blue jeans

²⁾ mismatched socks

³⁾ a wrinkled grey button-down

⁴⁾ patterned pyjama pants

⁵⁾ a borrowed hoodie

⁶⁾ a long, flowing skirt

⁷⁾ beaten track shoes

⁸⁾ a boonie hat

⁹⁾ a football jersey

¹⁰⁾ a weathered kitchen apron

¹¹⁾ a soft, expensive hotel dressing gown

¹²⁾ laddered black tights

¹³⁾ strong combat boots

¹⁴⁾ a poorly-knitted blue scarf

¹⁵⁾ black boxer briefs

¹⁶⁾ a green tie

¹⁷⁾ grey sweatpants

¹⁸⁾ tartan pyjama pants

¹⁹⁾ a knitted jumper with loose threads

²⁰⁾ a red sports bra

²¹⁾ a miniskirt

²²⁾ a pink whale tail

²³⁾ a loose graphic t-shirt

²⁴⁾ a sports-branded cap

²⁵⁾ cargo pants

²⁶⁾ one single mitten

²⁷⁾ a balaclava

²⁸⁾ cheetah print leggings

²⁹⁾ a fake fur coat

³⁰⁾ heeled leather boots

³¹⁾ a wedding dress

³²⁾ a blue flannel shirt

³³⁾ black slacks

³⁴⁾ doctor’s scrubs

³⁶⁾ a sleek, tailored suit

³⁷⁾ a white lace bralette

³⁸⁾ jorts

³⁹⁾ a cocktail dress

⁴⁰⁾ a torn wifebeater

⁴¹⁾ a biker’s leather cut

⁴²⁾ a silk singlet

⁴³⁾ a bloodstained uniform

⁴⁴⁾ gaa shorts

⁴⁵⁾ a leather belt with a silver buckle

⁴⁶⁾ a cheap costume feather boa

⁴⁷⁾ rolled up shirtsleeves

⁴⁸⁾ a little black dress

⁴⁹⁾ a polo shirt

⁵⁰⁾ a birthday suit

#mayhaps some outfits prompts would be cool too? idk. can you tell i’ve been enduring the hell of winter clothes shopping lately or no #prompts #clothing prompts #clothing writing prompts #prompt list #writing prompts #writing exercise #rp meme #otp prompts #fluff prompts #soft prompts #imagine your otp #otp writing

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girlygguk · 6 months ago

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which jk is this

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DARadnbs3fa/?igsh=MWxhY2M5cnpuMGt4ZA==

i could picture crazy! jk in my mind HAHHDHAHS maybe he'd be like 'baby stabbhh it i have r e p u t a t i o n!!!!!'

PLEASEEEEE no because... crazy!jk 😭

au: crazy timeline: crazy1 era content: tooth rotting fluff, softie subbyish jk, he’s sleepy n soft & oc shoots her shot, suggestive talk, yn plays with his butt (over his pants ya horndogs!!) . . . under the fabric is main chapter shit 😌

“you sleepy, baby?”

“mhm,” jungkook mumbles into your chest, his hair still slightly damp from the shower you both took, smelling faintly of your shampoo. your fingers run through his strands, a soft smile tugging at your lips as he melts into your touch.

his eyes are closed, his breathing soft and even, and you can’t help but coo, “look so cute in your pyjamas, my love,” you giggle, referring to the matching black silk his-and-hers pajamas you just bought and forced him into—because no cute pajamas, no cuddles. obviously.

his lips twitch slightly, a small grumble vibrating through his throat as your hand slides down from his hair to trace over his back. “makes your bum look good,” you hum, running your hand over the curve of his ass, giving it a soft pat.

jungkook groans halfheartedly, shifting a little but making no effort to pull away. you pinch his asscheek, adjusting your other hand to get the right angle with your phone.

“look at your butt, babyyy,” you snicker, tapping your fingers over the fabric of his pajama pants. “so cute. i wanna eat it.”

he hums back, still half-asleep as his head burrows further into your neck. “yeah? y’wanna eat it, baby?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your skin.

“uh-huh,” you hum softly, sliding your hand over his ass again. “and you’ll let me, won’t you? let your girl do anything she wants, hmm?”

jungkook nods sleepily, a little noise of approval lifting from his throat as his nose nudges your jaw. “yeah, you will,” you grin, leaning down to kiss the top of his head, your fingers pinching his left cheek. “my good boy, huh?”

his breath hitches, his lips pressing lazily against your neck. “mm, your good boy,” he mumbles, his voice softer, melting into your praise.

you bite your lip, trying to stay focused as you lift the phone a little higher, capturing how utterly soft he looks resting on your chest. “yeah you are,” you whisper, giving his ass a light smack. his body shudders slightly, but he doesn’t protest, only letting out a soft grunt.

your fingers almost lose grip on the phone, the sensation of his lips sucking gently at your skin making you lose focus. jungkook’s eyes flutter open at the movement, catching sight of your phone in selfie mode. his cheeks are flushed, his hair a mess, and he stares at his reflection, seeing both of you in the frame.

“y/n,” he growls, pushing himself off your chest as you burst into giggles at his annoyed pout. his hair is all over the place, his cheeks still flushed. so fucking cute. “don’t post that shit.”

you can’t stop laughing, switching the camera to record him stomping away from the bed, his boner more than obvious in his thin victoria’s secret silk pants. “baby, come onnnn,” you cheese as you zoom in on his bulge, knowing damn well you weren't going to let anyone see the video anyway. his butt was in it, and that's yours. but you still liked to tease him.

“you’re so cute, kookie. wanna show everyone you’re not always a grumpy old man.”

he shoots you a look, crossing his arms over his chest, but the soft pajamas make him look so... sweet, you can’t help but coo.

“ahhhh, baby wait,” you gasp, switching to photo mode. “stay like that, i’m gonna take a picture instead.”

“no,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes and stepping toward the bed again.

“baby, stop! get back, or no more cuddles,” you whine, lifting your bare foot to push at his belly.

he huffs, his jaw ticking as he stands there, obviously debating if he’s just going to flop on you and force the cuddles anyway. “don’t post this,” he grunts, “people at work could see. ’ve got a reputation…”

you almost kick your feet at how adorable he looks, lips tugging at his lip ring, cheeks still flushed from his almost-nap. “i won’t, my love. but i want this as my new lockscreen. hurry up, baby, cross your arms again.”

he shakes his head but gives in, crossing his arms the same way, his tongue poking his cheek as he fights back a smile.

“yummmmmmy,” you groan, spamming the capture button. “twirl, baby, i want more poses.”

jungkook can’t help but laugh at your serious tone, his lips pulling into that crooked smile that makes your heart flutter. “babyyyyy,” you whine, snapping more pictures. “fuck meeeee, you’re so pretty.”

he shakes his head again, finally returning and flopping back onto the bed, resting his cheek on your chest as you scroll through the million photos you just took.

“gorgeous,” you hum, satisfied, setting one of them as your lockscreen immediately. you press a soft kiss to his forehead, your nose burying into his now dry hair.

opening the camera app once more, you switch it back to selfie mode. jungkook’s dazy gaze reflects in the screen, his face resting against your chest while your fingers brush through his fluffy hair. he doesn’t move—he knows you’re going to take your photos, and he’s long since given up fighting it.

you adjust slightly, taking a few different poses. one hand rests gently under his chin, tilting it up so you can peck his lips and snap a pic. then you cup his soft cheeks with your fingers, turning his head back toward the camera to snap another. then you lean in, pressing your lips against his right cheek while your hand rests over his left for the next shot.

he lets you move him around like a doll, smiling when you tell him to, pouting when you tell him to. when you’re finally satisfied, you let him settle back down on your boobs, giving him a soft “cutie” and pressing a kiss to his nose before turning back to your screen.

jungkook just quietly watches as you swipe to the instagram app, your thumb tapping the ‘switch users’ button to change from his account to yours. you pick three of your favorite close-ups, his soft chuckle vibrating against your chest when you’re torn between two that look identical to him. he grunts in disapproval when you finish off the set of four with one where he’s standing at the end of the bed, rolling his eyes and looking like a bratty dream.

“baby,” he groans, his hand lazily lifting to drag that photo to the bin icon, clicking on one of the close-ups instead, one where your tongue was dragging over his cheek.

“really, mylove… do you actually not want me to post any of just you?” you whine softly but don’t fight him on it, clicking next and swiping through the filters.

jungkook's head doesn’t move, but his gaze shifts up to the pout forming on your lips. “you can barely even see the pajamas, and you look so cute and soft…” you mumble, dragging out your typing when you can feel him beginning to cave.

“aish, brat. hurry up then,” he grunts, and you grin, clicking the back button and happily adding the picture again, bringing the total from 4 to 5. he bites back a smile when you pepper his forehead with kisses as you hit post.

@ waitingformyring097: I think he’s the one… idk though

#💌#jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook drabble #jungkook oneshot #jungkook scenarios #jungkook fanfic #crazy.docx

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bruisedboys · 2 years ago

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can I request remus and anxious!reader where he asks her to be his, but she is worried that remus will think that she is too much to take care of?

thank you for your request angel!! this was fun to write <3

remus lupin x fem!anxious!reader, 1.3k words

Remus turns up unannounced at your door with a huge bouquet of flowers. You think you know where this is going.

“Hey,” he says, smiling a brilliant smile that sets your heart aflame. “You look nice. Can I come in?”

You don’t look nice, at least not in your opinion. You’re in your pyjamas, a loose tank and a pair of flannel pants, fresh out of the shower with your damp hair hanging limp over your shoulders. But you can’t not let him in. You like him too much.

“Uh— sure. Yeah, come in. Sorry about the mess.” You kick a stray shoe to the side to prevent him tripping in your doorway, embarrassed.

“Don’t start,” he tells you, fondly exasperated as he toes off his shoes. He closes the door behind him and then turns back to you, holding the bouquet out. “These are for you, by the way.”

You’d guessed. Still, you’re very very happy to get them. He’s given you flowers before, ones he’s picked on the way to your place or a rose, once, on your last birthday, but never a bouquet. You take it from him, fingers brushing his at the stalks.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You can’t imagine how much they cost him. It’s the fullest bouquet you’ve ever seen, petals bursting out of the tissue paper in pretty pinks and whites and creams. You don’t try to fight the smile working it’s way onto your lips. “They’re really pretty.”

Remus grins and raises one shoulder in a shrug. “Pretty flowers for a pretty girl.”

“Remus,” you whine, heat building in your cheeks at an alarming rate.

Remus laughs, surprised. “What?”

You glare, fierce as you can when you’re so infatuated with him. He’s making this hard for you and he knows it. “Nothing. Come on, come through, I’ll find a vase.”

You lead the way through your entryway and into the kitchen. Remus sits at your kitchen island and watches while you find a vase for your flowers and fill it with water from the tap. You feel his gaze like laser beams and try not to think about how much skin your pyjama top is showing right now, how much you don’t actually care because you want him to look at you.

“Stop looking at me,” you say anyway, though you know he won’t listen.

“No, I don’t think I will.” Typical.

“You’re awful.”

“Thanks, gorgeous.”

You sigh and finish setting up your flowers, setting them on the kitchen island. Remus smiles at you like a fool when you meet his eyes.

“Do you want a drink?” You ask, desperate to do something other than be under his gaze.

“No. I want to ask you something.”

Your heart stutters. This could go a million ways and you’re not sure which way you’d prefer. You sit down across from him and try not to fall right off your chair.

“Okay,” you say quietly, playing with your hands, pulling at your fingers. “Ask away, then.”

Remus doesn’t say anything right away. He slides his hands across the counter and pushes them over yours, stopping your mindless fiddling. You let him take your hands in his. They’re warm, rough but soft in the places that count. His fingers thread through yours and your heart does a backflip.

“Look at me?” He asks, voice soft as silk. You’re glad he’s stopped joking around but somehow his sweet patience is worse.

You look up, meeting his eyes. Remus beams.

“Hi,” he says, grinning.

You huff a laugh through your nose. “Hi,” you say back.

Remus strokes the back of your hand with his thumb. “Look, I’m not gonna beat around the bush,” he says, words measured as if he’s being careful to not worry you. You both despise and adore how patient he is with you. “I want to ask you something, and if you don’t like it, please feel free to kick me out of your house. Okay?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, wondering if the hammering of your heart is for a good reason or a bad. “I’m not gonna kick you out of my house, Remus.”

“You might.”

You shake your head firmly. “I won’t.”

Remus takes a deep breath, and you watch his chest rise and fall.

“I really like you,” he says. “And as much as I enjoy being friends, I think I’d like to be more.”

You blink. You can barely open your mouth, feeling like your lips have been glued shut. “More?” You manage.

Remus nods. “Yeah.”

You don’t know why but you suddenly feel like crying. You’re not oblivious, you’d known Remus liked you at least a little bit more than just a friend. You’ve gone over this moment countless times in your head, content with it happening in your head but never in real life. You’re a fish out of water. You swallow.

“Remus,” you say, trying not to sound like you’re rejecting him. “I … I don’t know.”

Remus blinks.

“Not— I mean, it’s not because of you,” you say in a desperate rush. You untangle your hands from his and wrap your fingers around his wrists instead. “I like you, Remus. You know I do. It’s just— I don’t think you’d … I’m a lot of work,” you finish dejectedly.

Remus gives you a looks like a kicked puppy. “What? Y/N, that doesn’t—“

“No, listen, Remus,” you say, desperate for him to understand. “I’m not— I wouldn’t be a good girlfriend. You already do so much for me, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to do more.” Remus knows about your anxiety. It’s one of the reasons you like him so much, because he knows and doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t treat you any differently for it. Still, “You’d get tired of me.”

Remus genuinely looks like he might cry. He releases your hands and gets up, and for one terrifying second you think he’s leaving you, that he’s already sick of you and your worries, that he doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore. But he only rounds the kitchen island and gets so close to you you can smell his cologne.

“Can I give you a hug?” He asks in a soft murmur. “Please?”

You nod. Remus only hesitates for a half a second before wrapping his arms around you, pulling your head to his stomach, a hand in your damp hair. He’s warm and firm, tall, all-encompassing. He’s hugged you before but never like this. Never like he wants to hold all the pieces of you together in case you fall apart. You might just.

You weasel your arms around his tummy and try not to squeeze too hard. Remus strokes the back of your head, once, twice, three times. He doesn’t seem to mind your wet hair, the dampness slowly soaking into his soft t-shirt.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I want you to know that none of that matters to me. Only you matter. I don’t care if I have to look after you, I wouldn’t care if I had to carry you around like a log everywhere we went. I want to look after you.”

You squeeze him harder.

“I don’t want to burden you,” you say into his t-shirt.

Remus makes a sad noise and pulls back, hands climbing to your neck. He encourages your face from his stomach gently, fingers pushing your hair out of the way so he can cup your jaw.

“You won’t be a burden,” he says. “You’re not. I like you just the way you are. I could never get tired of you, honey. Every time I see you it’s like I’m seeing you for the first time all over again.”

There’s a pause in which you look at each other, a lot of big, beautiful feelings in the way you study each other’s faces. Your heart pounds in your chest. You know your decision has already been made, was probably made the second he appeared at your door, maybe the moment you met him however long ago. He’s lovely, the best person you’ve ever met. You like him enough to put aside your worries and be with him, if that’s what he wants.

And it is what he wants. Suddenly you feel so happy you could burst.

“Okay,” you say hoarsely, emotion thick in your throat. You nod, not caring how desperate you look. “Yes.”

Remus’ answering smile is bruising. “Yeah?” He says, pleased and almost as giddy as you. His eyes light up like stars and you know you could’ve never said no to him. “You’ll be mine? Let me look after you for ever and ever?”

A giggle bubbles out of you before you can stop it. You beam up at him. “Only if you let me look after you, too.”

Remus thumbs the hollow under your eye slowly, his touch like fireworks along your skin, leaning close like he’s gonna kiss you. You’re surprised to realise you really, really want him to.

“I think that can be arranged.”

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if u enjoyed 🤍

#★ mal writes!#remus lupin #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x reader fluff #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin imagines #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin fic #remus lupin drabbles #remus lupin headcanon #remus lupin hc #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin oneshot #remus lupin blurb #remus lupin blurbs

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sluttyminghao · 9 months ago

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soft dom!wonwoo x fem!reader

unedited and written right before I slept so could be errors!

use of blindfolds, cockwarming, teasing

thank u @okiedokrie and @skyechild for feeding into my delusions <3

a shaky gasp escapes your lips as you let yourself sink into wonwoo's lap a little further, the only sounds echoing through the room are the occasional mouse click and tapping of the keys on his keyboard. he says you're his good luck charm, and even more so when you're sitting on his cock while he plays his silly tournaments.

every sense was currently heightened to the highest degree, due to wonwoo taking away one of your senses; your sight. before you had sat on his lap, he had wrapped a red silk blindfold across your eyes, darkening your vision and meaning you couldn't see anything that was coming.

once the blindfold was secured around your head, he stripped your pyjama pants and panties and moved you to sit on his lap, where you could feel his half-erect cock twitching against your thigh. he nuzzles his nose against your neck, breathing you in and taking you all in.

he pumps his cock a few times to get himself to full hardness, and then slowly situates you on top of him so that you can slowly sink down onto his cock, your walls fluttering violently around his shaft and causing him to groan out.

it takes a few minutes for you to adjust to his length, but once you're at the base you sigh contentedly and let your body melt into his, your arms wrapping around his torso. once he can feel you settle, his mind returns to his game, focusing on winning his tournament.

while the first few moments were quite pleasant, you could tell wonwoo was losing his patience, even with your vision unavailable. his grunts of frustration and slamming of his fingers onto the keyboard didn't go unnoticed by you, so you do what you think is right and just kiss the flesh of his neck softly.

it seems to work, as he softens into your touch immediately. one of his hands breaks away from the keyboard and snakes up under your shirt, fondling ever so gently at your breast. you can feel the tension melt away from him, and soon enough he's removing the blindfold because he wants to see your eyes.

you can finally see his slightly mussed hair, eyes darkening with lust and probably a little rage from losing his game, and his biceps, veins popping. despite his slightly scraggly appearance, you can still see the love in his eyes and a softness he can only show to you.

before you can utter a word, he's pressing a finger to your lips to silence you, before he's slowly lifting your hips up and down in a teasing way. it's just enough to have you on edge, but not enough to make you cum, and he knows it.

with each lift of your hips, he slowly lifts his own to meet yours and deepen the thrust so that his cock can reach further depths inside you. it's slow, not rushed at all, and yet it's given you one of the most powerful orgasms he's ever given you.

you love gaming nights with wonwoo.

#sm: masterlist 2024 #sluttyhao smut #sluttyhao drabble #kpop smut #kpop drabble #seventeen smut #seventeen drabble #wonwoo smut #wonwoo drabble

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prettyg1irlstears · 11 months ago

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can you write a fic about y/n humping her pillow while rafe is gone and she facetimes him while she’s doing it?

omg!!! i love this idea but idk if i like the blurb :( it’s really short i’m sorryyy >.<

you were so glad that nobody was home, because if they were, they would hear the small little moans and whimpers coming from inside of your room.

your pink silky pyjama shorts are on the floor, your princess parts feeling funny as you slowly grind on your silk pillow.

you boyfriend is on a business meeting with his dad, and you just can’t help yourself, only the thought of him makes you cream in your panties.

“mm..” you whimper, taking your phone in your hand. you find rafe’s name in the contacts and press the phone icon.

“hey baby,” you hear your boyfriend’s voice, which turns you on even more.

“h-hi..” you whimper, small moans escaping your mouth as you grind shamelessly on your pillow.

“sweetie.. put yourself on facetime f’me,” he orders, and you hear door locking from his side. shit, he already knows, you think to yourself.

so you do, you change the phone call to facetime and set the phone down, laying it against your pillow so rafe can see your pretty princess parts grinding on your silk, pink pillow.

“shit, baby..” you hear him groan and when you look on your phone, a small moan escapes your lips. you see rafe in a suit, god, you always felt like a horny slut when you saw him in it. his hand is unbuckling his pants until his cock is in his palm, slowly stroking up and down.

“rafe..” you moan softly, grinding harder against your pillow. “miss you so much..”

“i know baby.. i know you do.. shit,” he groans, you see his hand work faster on his cock. “just keep going, baby.. gonna make it up to you as soon as i’m back, yeah?”

divider creds here!

#rafe cameron #rafe obx #drew starkey #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #outerbanks rafe #prettyg1rlstears #rafe cameron smut #rafe imagine #rafe x you #blurbs𐙚

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nokayadesign · 1 year ago

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Our Lady Silk Slip Dress is the epitome of timeless elegance and sophistication in women's fashion. Crafted from luxurious silk fabric, this dress is designed to grace your silhouette with a seamless flow that accentuates your natural beauty. Our collection is meticulously fashioned from pure, high-quality silk, renowned for its softness, sheen, and washable properties.

#lady silk camisole #silk pyjamas pants

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valeriianz · 4 months ago

Text

Mega Popstar Dream and Hob, his extremely non-famous celebrity crush: THE FIC!

for @cuubism! based on this incredible post! Sorry it took me like, 6 months to write :') 5k later, here we are!

----------------------------------------------

“Alright, plans for today…” Lucienne plops down on the sofa across from Dream, a tablet in her hand and a cup of tea waiting for her on the coffee table.

Dream is still in his sleep clothes; the pants of a mulberry silk, midnight black pyjama set, forgoing the matching long sleeve buttoned top for nothing but his favourite cashmere cardigan that is a size too big on him, draping over his shoulders elegantly and hanging open to reveal his bare, hair-free chest. He’s curled up on the corner of the couch with an old acoustic guitar in his hands, idly strumming away while a notebook sits waiting for him by his side.

Matthew, one of his trusted publicists, would sarcastically quip about how “work never stops,” but it’s more like “inspiration never stops.” Words and melodies are constantly floating around in Dream’s head, and if he doesn’t at least have a pen and paper with him at all times, they will drift away as soon as they come.

Dream listens as Lucienne goes over their itinerary. Awards season is upon them and these days a lot of Dream’s time is spent in appointments with designers and agents for campaigns and endorsements, even media training, still, at Dream’s level in his career. He still has the occasional gaff when speaking in anything that isn’t a practised interview. And, although Dream has gotten better at red carpet events, where a microphone is spontaneously shoved in his face, that coupled with all the flashing lights and overlapping chatter has made him dissociate more than a few times.

Dream nods along when Lucienne pauses to make sure he’s paying attention. He is. And she knows his quirks by now; that he needs to be constantly moving when taking in information. His fingers fluttering along the neck of the guitar, producing quiet blooms of sound that quickly fade away in the space between them.

“And then after lunch is the YouTube appearance…”

Dream stops playing.

“The what?”

Lucienne looks up at him over her coke-bottle glasses.

“The interview with Centuries, the up-and-coming YouTube channel. We discussed it back in August.”

Right, Dream vaguely remembers the name. He doesn’t watch much YouTube… unless it’s interviews or clip compilations of Robert Gadling from his TV show, Prophecy. He’d be more ashamed of his search history if everyone on his team didn’t already know about his absurd crush.

Dream merely nods, trusting Lucienne and his team by now to handle trivial things like interviews or guest appearances. If he had needed to do any modicum of research beforehand, he would have by now.

But now Dream’s imagination starts to wander, thinking about the video he’d watched before going to bed last night, his phone clutched in his hand while he took in a behind the scenes feature of the stars of Prophecy going through their period typical wardrobe and makeup, replaying Robert Gadling’s part over and over again. The way the hairdresser had combed her fingers through Robert’s hair, pulling it back to reveal his forehead and bushy eyebrows, expressive as ever, lifted up as he smiled widely in the mirror, the skin around his eyes crinkling with it.

Or the set’s costume designer taking Robert’s measurements, revealing the man in a thin white henley and boxer briefs, the camera only panning down for a moment to capture his tan, corded thighs just thick with hair and taking Dream’s breath away, squirming under the sheets of his too-big California king-sized bed.

It was bad… Dream’s infatuation with Robert. His team had been worried at first, knowing the gossip columnists loved it when Dream got into a new relationship, shamelessly publishing questions of how long this one will last? And going down the timeline of Dream’s past lovers, all heat and passion at first, before inevitably getting snuffed out by their own intensity.

Despite Dream’s track record– or maybe because of it– many people, male and female, had tried to capture the performer’s attention. Willing to endure the heartbreak at the end because, as nearly all Dream’s partners had attested to, Dream was an excellent lover. And perhaps, to them, the high was worth the pain.

But Dream had set himself on a firm break from romance. His heart couldn’t take it, so instead he pined, though not from afar. If media outlets were to take him seriously, they’d have a real story to invest in.

Perhaps newsmongers thought it was a joke, the way Dream was so candid about his interest in Robert. In past affairs, the public would just suddenly see Dream cozied up with a new paramour– no need to speculate when Dream would always just go for it.

Dream is surprised, too. His listeners are usually so quick to judge Dream’s suitors and even his relationships. Perhaps it is because Robert Gadling is barely a celebrity, in the eyes of Hollywood.

Prophecy is a BBC program, one of those low budget, historical dramas where romance doesn’t propel the plot, so unfortunately the series hadn’t garnered much success. Which Dream was boarderlined annoyed by. The writing was fantastic, the acting– superb. And Robert Gadling specifically…

If Dream’s staff noticed how often his mind would wander into daydreams, a woebegone sigh escaping his lips, they didn’t say anything. Leaving Dream to write vague love songs that his fans speculated which ex it was about.

Despite his maddening crush on Robert Gadling, Dream refused to act on it. Not only because he was on a self-imposed break, but he truly was so terrified of rejection. Or worse, dating Robert and having things fizzle out, like they always did.

Dream knew he wouldn’t survive it if Robert and him were to ever cross paths. So he made sure to steer clear of any events where they might overlap, even going so far as to inform his staff to keep their distance.

Hiring a friend like Lucienne to be Dream’s manager had one downfall though; she knew him better than himself at times. And she was devious.

-----------------------------------------------------

Hob tugs on his ear as he sits in a chair at the table that’s been set up for his surprise meeting with Dream. The crew is still hovering– even after bustling around and getting everything set up.

It’s not that Hob is regretting this… but it is starting to feel awkward, waiting for Dream to arrive, to surprise him. What if the show’s producers were wrong? What if Dream took one look at Hob and turned right back around?

Though Hob had done some research of his own, after his agent had called him and offered the opportunity to him. Because that’s what this was… an offer— a favour, of sorts. He was barely getting paid for his time here, this was basically just for fun, and “exposure,” a word YouTubers loved throwing around.

He’d heard of Dream, obviously, despite Hob’s lack of social media and smartphone. You’d have to be living underground to not have heard of Dream, the mega rock-star phenomenon that had risen to fame a short five years ago and was only getting more and more popular, especially as he began adding pop elements into his music.

Hob wouldn’t call himself a fan though. He knows the hits that played on endless repeat on the radio, what he hears in coffee shops and what his co-workers talk about. Hob doesn’t dislike the music, it’s very catchy and he can clearly hear why Dream is so popular. He is one of the few currently dominating the charts because he has actual talent. Dream writes and composes his own music and isn’t tied down by a label (anymore), it’s incredibly impressive.

Hob took the time to get into his music before this meeting. Dream’s lyrics are truly stunning, his arrangements unique and reflective of the words he would croon into the mic. Interestingly, Hob found himself enjoying the more dismissive tracks on Dream’s albums, the songs that weren’t mainstream, especially from his early records.

Hob took on the task of learning more about Dream like he would going into a new role. He liked falling into wormholes about a trade or language he had to learn, and he always put 100% of himself into anything he did. So it was inevitable that he would wind up discovering more and more things about Dream than he had originally intended. Becoming more and more interested and, unexpectedly, attached.

While he had been knee-deep in his music, Hob also watched plenty of interviews with Dream, finding the man to be more withdrawn and selective with his words. He was allusive and coy, and extremely awkward. Watching the way he would interact with TV hosts or answer random questions at red carpet events became endearing. When Dream was caught by surprise, this little lopsided smile would creep out and he would stammer over his words.

It was endearing, and surprisingly… cute.

Hob only had about a day to question if Dream really had a crush on him, like the producers of the show claimed. It didn’t take long before Hob found a late night interview with Dream where the host had pivoted to TV shows and casually asked Dream what he was currently watching.

Dream’s eyes lit up. He shifted to be more on the edge of his chair, and even leaned forward a bit.

“Prophecy.” Dream had said with full emphasis on every letter. “You watch it too, yes?”

“It is growing on me.” The host had admitted, similarly struck dumb by Dream’s entire switch in demeanour.

And Dream goes on a tirade about how good the show is, the story, the set design, the costumes. How he’s not an actor, has never been on a TV or film set, but he can see all the detail and love and hard work poured into the show and is admittedly obsessed with it.

“And Robert Gadling…” Hob’s heart had leapt in his throat at the way Dream nearly moaned out his full name. “... he’s just so… passionate in his work. His face is so expressive and it’s like he becomes Ser Gideon.”

“Big fan, then?” The host smirked conspiratorially.

“Oh yes,” Dream admitted, crossing his legs and lolling his head to one side, getting comfortable. “I discovered him while watching Prophecy, and fell down a rabbit hole of his previous work. He mostly does stage, you know. And I’ve always admired live art, the theatre. And God– he does it so splendidly. He acts with his entire body and it’s just–”

“Sounds like you have a bit of a crush.” The host cuts in, his smirk sharpening as Dream throws a glare at him for interrupting.

But then Dream smiles, a tiny thing at the corner of his mouth and his eyes fall. The crowd erupts into a chorus of cheers, goading Dream on and encouraging his embarrassment.

“Well,” Dream pulls his head up, resting it in the palm of his hand. “He’s very dashing, wouldn’t you say?”

Dream’s fingers on his other hand drum along his knee, his gaze gone wistful and distracted. It’s adorable, and maybe could be seen as an act, if not for the answer he gives the host after the next question.

“Have you ever told him of this? I’m sure Robert would be very flattered to hear he has such a notable fan.”

“Oh no. I could never,” Dream withdraws slightly. “If I were to ever see his face in person I’d probably die.”

The audience laughs good-naturedly but Dream has a pretty pink flush spreading up his neck now.

It’s all downhill from there, Hob discovers. Apparently that had been the first time Dream had admitted to his little crush on Hob and after that, the subject would be brought up again and again, sporadically throughout the course of (if the timestamps on the YouTube videos could be believed) over a year.

Over a year of the very famous Dream proclaiming openly his very serious attraction to Robert Gadling and Hob had somehow never known of this.

Until the day his agent called him, a couple months ago, and asked if he wanted to be on this show. The gimmick was– typically– people (read: fans) meeting their celebrity crush. But for this new season, Centuries had a twist: celebrities meeting their celebrity crush.

Hob had no idea what to wear. For Dream it would be a surprise, unless his agent instructed him to dress a certain way, Hob could only assume the man would show up in casual attire. So that’s how Hob opted to present himself. He wore a forest green jumper, the sleeves pushed up in the warm cafe, and a pair of simple blue jeans. His hair had gotten pretty long, at the director’s request for the next season of Prophecy, so he’d pulled that up into a small bun that struggled to stay in place. He opted to put in his contacts, though Hob was starting to regret it, wanting something to fidget; his hand kept unconsciously lifting to touch frames that he wasn’t wearing.

Hob tried not to think too hard about his look today. He knew Dream (shockingly, unbelievably) liked him, but for some reason didn’t want him to be disappointed in what he saw. What if Dream took one look at him and realised Hob wasn’t what he thought? What if the real thing didn’t compare to whatever Dream was making up in his mind? And why did Hob care at all?

Perhaps, because… Dream was. Well. Dream.

Hob wasn’t blind. Dream was beautiful. Hob was sure the lavish lifestyle Dream undoubtedly lived in helped, what with top of the line skin care products and a dietician to make sure he stayed healthy and youthful. Whatever other products Dream used in his hair, on his straight, perfectly white teeth, even down to his nails– clean and pretty, cuticles invisible, usually covered in varnish that matched with whatever expensive outfit he was wearing that day.

And Hob. Well.

Hob wasn’t shy, he knew he was conventionally attractive, the attention he used to get even before his appearance in television clued him in on that. But nothing about him really stood out. Just another face in the crowd. He didn’t have any outstanding features, no connections in the industry, he was a very private person who… sometimes regretted accepting his role in Prophecy. Into Hollywood.

Hob didn’t have social media. It’s something his manager had admonished him about, early on in his career. It would help connect with his fan base, his manager had said. Would be good for connecting with others in the industry as well, and building a social media following was just something everyone did. But Hob had refused. He’d always been a private person, even before he started acting. It was the one thing he refused to give up: his confidentiality.

How could someone like Dream, who had limitless options, countless people fawning over him, find Hob in a sea of faces and latch on like he did? How was he able to know so much about him, when Hob had been so careful to not stand out? It was enough to make Hob skeptical, flattered– a swarm of contradictions but mostly… curious. Hob was so curious.

It was his best and worst trait.

The entire coffee shop, a locally owned one that perhaps was easiest to rent out for a couple hours, is barren of customers, only the crew of the YouTube show present as well as Hob’s small entourage and several of Dream’s agents, as well as a few of the cafe’s staff, patiently waiting behind the counter.

It’s a little awkward, to say the least.

After Hob has drained his second glass of water and traced every grain on the table’s surface, someone announces that Dream is finally arriving and it’s like a switch is flipped in the room. Everyone either goes ramrod straight, or twitchy with nerves. It’s enough to break the tension in Hob, replaced by amusement, momentarily distracted and wondering if he’d ever cause such a reaction just by the sound of his name.

And now Hob, for his part, doesn’t know what to do.

The producers had informed him to just act natural, be himself, that this was essentially a blind date. But calling it a “date” only made Hob sweat. This definitely was not a date. He looked around at the camera’s pointed at him and at the door, a little red light on them blinking to indicate that they were recording. Hob sighed, slouching a little in his seat and taking steady breaths in through his nose and out his mouth, his hand out on the table’s surface and drumming his fingers. Christ, there wasn’t even music playing, all was quiet in the room.

At last, the front door to the cafe opens with a jaunty ring of a bell and Dream steps through. He halts as soon as the door swings shut behind him though, his gaze imperceptible behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban shades, but his head swivels around, visibly confused before a woman out of sight of the cameras (Lucienne, she had introduced herself as, Dream’s manager), catches his attention and nods with a smile.

Why is everyone so quiet? Hob bites his lip, he’s bursting to say something, even a simple hello, but had been told to remain silent until Dream initiated contact. But Dream is clearly uncomfortable, stepping cautiously, like a cat in unknown territory.

“What’s this?” Dream speaks, mostly toward Lucienne. His voice sends a pleasant shudder up Hob’s spine, despite how caution colors his tone. It’s a lovely voice. Smooth like chocolate, clear and deep, commanding attention. Hob had heard it countless times through his headphones, singing or giving an interview, but the full force of it in person made Hob’s heart jumpstart in his chest.

And he’d only spoken two words.

Hob is tucked away into a corner table, next to a window with a deep burgundy curtain drawn over it. It’s perhaps why Dream only spots him only once he’s fully in the center of the room, his head turning and his entire posture freezing up.

It’s a little silly, to see how Dream still hasn’t taken off the sunglasses, but even more so that Hob is somehow able to tell that Dream’s gaze has found him, draped over him like a physical thing.

Hob waves, putting on an easy smile, afraid to spook the man further. He also– fuck these producers– speaks first.

“Hello,” Hob swallows his nerves, keeping his voice soft. “Would you, ah– would you like to sit?”

Hob gestures to the empty seat across from him.

It takes a moment, and Hob’s smile grows as Dream just continues to stare. He’s suddenly grateful for the shades, certain that if he had to experience the full force of those eyes on him, Hob would be just as– if not more– nervous than Dream.

And it’s the obvious fact that Dream is nervous that somehow manages to calm Hob down a little. It’s also doing wonders for his ego, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

Dream swallows, and the movement catches Hob’s attention, watching how his throat moves and the way the snow white skin there begins to flush a pretty pink.

Cute.

Dream at last takes a step forward, then another. His focus zeroed in on Hob, which kicks up Hob’s calming heartrate, his breath coming out in shorter intervals because– fuck. Dream is dressed to kill.

A fitted black jacket with narrow labels, open and revealing a black, smoky, intricately woven sheer top with subtle ruffles that drape down the collar like a scarf. He’s wearing a silver watch on one wrist and a mess of silver bracelets on the other. The pants match the jacket and they go on for miles. Hob licks his lips as he feels his mouth drying. The black boots Dream wears reveal a red outsole, the flash of color barely perceptible with every step.

Dream’s lips part, expression otherwise unreadable, when suddenly he walks full on into the back of a chair.

The sound of the collision is like a balloon popping in the quiet room. His hands fly up to grab the chair, steadying it but his legs continue on, stumbling and causing the chair to scrape loudly on the hardwood floor. Hob makes to stand and help, just as Dream topples forward, one hand attempting to latch onto the table for support and taking that down as well in a noisy crash.

Hob vaults upwards just as the room tenses around them, frozen with uncertainty, and a camera comes in close. Hob barely perceives it, wanting nothing more than to shove the man operating it away, but his focus is on Dream, laying in a heap on the floor among the table and chair.

He hears some muffled jittering and sends a glare up in the general direction, catching Lucienne’s worried expression– she’s taken a few steps forward as well– along the way.

Hob collapses to his knees at Dream’s head just as the camera arrives and Hob can’t stop himself from waving the man away, shooting him a disgusted look, before looking to Dream again.

“Hey, you okay? Anything hurt?”

Hob’s hands spread out uselessly, wondering if it was okay for him to touch Dream. His glasses are askew and he’s lolled his head to the side, nearly knocking them completely off. Hob could see his eyes squeezed shut, his ears beet red.

“Just my pride,” came a small, miserable response.

Hob smiled, huffing a short laugh as he chanced to reach out and gently swipe his fingers over the top of Dream’s head, pulling hair out of his face.

Dream’s eyes open and peek sideways. Hob, again, felt his breath catch. Blue. Like the clear ocean, glinting from the sun’s rays. Or like gemstones– sapphire, sharp and bright. Wow.

“Wow…” Hob hears himself speak and blushes, heat spreading up his neck.

Dream’s eyes widened, turning to flop on his back and letting those expensive shades fall from his face and Hob was struck by the full force of those blue eyes.

They’re just as captivating as he’d imagined, even more so, up close and in person.

Hob almost forgets they are surrounded by a camera crew, almost lets himself touch Dream again, imagines putting his hands on either side of his face, just to feel how warm his skin must be, tinged pink. It’s so endearing… and such an attractive look on him, only making the blue of his eyes pop so much more.

But at that moment someone coughs politely and Hob comes back to reality, blinking and clearing his throat. The sound startles Dream, who flinches, still on the floor, and looks side to side.

Hob helps him up, slowly, his nerves singing as Dream’s hand lingers in his as he manages to stand to his full height. There’s a moment of corporeality where Lucienne finally approaches Dream, as well as someone else on his staff, double checking that he’s in fact, okay.

Dream nods and mumbles something to them, his gaze continuing to swing over to Hob, as if checking that he’s still there.

The irritation and distrust that Dream carried on his shoulders when he’d entered the room have vanished, replaced by awkward tension and acceptance. He’s still obviously embarrassed by what happened, his hand rubbing the back of his neck and his lips pulled in to form a thin line, eyes focused as he’s mic’d up, understanding now what kind of position he’d been forced into.

Well, maybe not forced. He looks at Hob again, who’s taken his seat again at the table. Not forced, tricked maybe. Dream probably thought this was an interview of some sort, there must’ve been a reason he was dressed up so well.

Eventually, Dream sits with him, drinks are brought to them (a coffee for Hob and a tea latte for Dream), and they take a moment to sip the hot beverages.

It’s good coffee, at least. Hob looks into his drink as he sets the mug down, thumbing over the lip of the ceramic cup. He lifts his lashes to watch Dream, who’s also studying his drink, dunking the tea bag over and over again in the liquid.

Hob nibbles on his bottom lip, his fingers now tapping on the mug, his brain sifting through a thousand ice breakers, a thousand things to say, before sighing and leaning back as casually as he can.

“I know you didn’t plan this” Hob starts, falling back on an old charm he hopes will break the tension. “But this is the strangest way to get a man’s attention.”

Dream snorts into his drink and Hob laughs as it sprays foam over the table’s surface.

Hob wipes the mess with a napkin while Dream hides his mouth behind his hand, flustered all over again. Hob smiles. This Dream is so unlike how the man presents himself in public. Poised, professional, god-like. Dream wielded his star power well, it commanded attention and intimidation, only faltering enough to garner his loyal fanbase, to give himself human qualities that listeners could connect with and fawn over.

Like the rambling during red carpet interviews. Or talking about Robert Gadling… talking about him.

But Hob had never seen… this. The stumbling, the blushing, the insecurity. It made something warm and incredibly fond well up in his chest.

Dream finally collects himself, taking a breath and dropping his hand back to fiddle with the handle of his cup.

“What about your attention?” Dream tilts his head to one side, eyes gone playful but still with a hint of nerves behind them, uncertainty.

Hob’s smile hesitates before he laughs softly, shaking his head in delight.

He had not anticipated that Dream would flirt.

“I think all you had to do was look at me,” Hob murmured softly, ducking his head a little, letting himself be honest because– how could he not?

Dream’s lips parted, his face gone lax.

And that pretty blush crawling up his neck again, making Dream drop his head slightly, a tiny, shy smile peeking through, making something take hold of Hob’s heart and give it a squeeze.

“You can’t just say that.”

“I’m not. Just saying it.” He wants to say more, actually. Hob gets it now. He gets it. Why Dream has half of the fucking world at his feet.

Suddenly, Hob wishes he was the only one. The only person to worship Dream, to know his smiles and his voice, how easy it was to make him blush and stammer.

Hob takes a long breath and realizes, oh God, I’m gonna fall in love, aren’t I?

Dream nearly squirms in his seat, meeting Hob’s gaze again like he can’t help it. Like he’s amazed Hob’s here at all, before he blinks and casts his gaze to the side, at the large handful of people in the dining room. Hob looks too– just a quick glance. He’d forgotten for a moment there that they had an audience.

So Hob hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his cup before propping an elbow up on the table and resting his chin in his palm.

“So,” Hob grabs Dream’s attention, thinking it best to divert the conversation… for the moment. “... when did you know you wanted to become a singer?”

They relax again as the conversation turns casual. They share their history, from childhood to now. Dream admits he never entertained the idea that he could perform professionally… he liked to sing and play at open mic nights, but the idea of fame scared him. But it was all he knew how to do, he said. Play guitar and write poetry.

Hob shares that sentiment, but with acting. He’d loved the stage and figured he’d be happy doing that forever. Auditioning for a small part in a film was just for fun, and then it’d snowballed from there. Prophecy was his first major role, but already he was making headway, catching attention (mostly because he was so private) and rejecting offers from other major studios. Hob did enjoy acting in front of a camera, it was fun, in a different way. But for now he wanted to stick with indie stuff and small roles. Unsure if this was the life he wanted for himself.

Dream had gone quiet again, at that, his gaze faraway. Hob wondered what he was thinking about, but before he could ask, Dream changed the subject, asking about Hob’s favorite plays.

Then Hob asks about Dream’s favorite poets, writers, what book he was reading right now. They discuss music and the cities they’ve lived in, sharing embarrassing stories that crack Hob up and make Dream laugh out loud, the atrocious sound unable to be hidden behind a hand.

Hob stares and stares and wonders what he’d been doing his entire life.

Dream has this aura about him, his own gravitational pull, and Hob is powerless to its charm, getting sucked into the point where Hob never wants to leave. He could get lost in the blue of his eyes, his shy smiles. Hob is smitten. And probably a little bit in love.

Before Hob is ready to let Dream go, someone announces that it’s time to wrap up. The spell is broken and the two men fall silent once more.

The director instructs them to say some final lines, some awkward dialogue that apparently is traditional with this channel’s gimmick, and then the shoot is proclaimed to be finished.

Like a dream, everyone is already chatting amongst themselves, scattering about, though the cameras on the tripods remain on. Lucienne walks up the table, thanking Hob for his time and energy, shaking his hand, before turning to Dream.

Hob’s head spins. The illusion is shattered, and Hob has a fraction of a second to wonder if it was all a setup.

But that thought is squashed as Dream’s face sours at something another man says over his shoulder, trying to encourage him to stand and make their way to their next appointment “... already 8 minutes behind schedule…” and Dream looks desperately towards Hob.

Hob stands at the same time as Dream, his mouth working uselessly as he scrambles to say something– anything, to keep Dream here. To borrow him in private for just a moment, just a second!

Hob is only reminded how Dream is an international celebrity by how quickly he is escorted away from him. Despite how well they’d gotten along, despite how they’d run over the shoot time because no one wanted to disturb them. Because there was something there, Hob knew it. And now it was being ushered away from him.

Frantic, Hob asks to borrow a pen from one of the staff members, hastily scribbling down his phone number on a napkin. He turns his mic pack off, and, with a quick glance around, spots Dream standing off to the side as his manager speaks with the show's producer, likely just saying goodbye to them as well.

Hob tries to school his expression into something that’s not insane as he marches up to Dream, catching his attention immediately and holding out his hand.

Dream takes it, a flash of curiosity and wonder– still– at the sight of Hob before him.

Hob clenches Dream’s cool, bony fingers in his, pressing the napkin against his palm.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Hob says, very aware that there are still cameras around them.

“Likewise,” Dream says, his chin tilting down, a secretive smile curling his lips as he certainly feels the napkin in his hand.

Hob smiles, too. He swallows before leaning in close, bringing his free hand up to cover Dream’s lav mic, just in case it’s still on, and brushing his lips against Dream’s ear.

“I’d love to see you again, without cameras.”

A quiet gasp tickles Hob’s eardrum and he grins as he pulls back, elated at the spark of mischief in Dream’s eyes.

“I would like that…” Dream whispers, his low voice cutting Hob straight to his core and knocking the wind out of him.

Hob can only nod, feeling dizzy, as Dream’s hand closes around the napkin and they separate.

Dream nods too, smiling as he’s finally turned away and out of Hob’s sight.

(stay tuned for part two! in like... another 6 months to a year lol)

#dreamling #hob x dream #celebrity crush au #omg omg thank you for letting play around with this concept haha #this is severely unedited and sometimes British. sometimes not #i forgot that Dream was supposed to pass out too whoops lol #he's fine he's fine #my writing #also lol did anyone catch the T Swift reference?#le cringe

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hopefulidiocy · 3 months ago

Text

Crawl

SG!Salesman x Fem!Y/N

Warnings: smut with no plot, humiliation, good girl kink, spanking, teasing, gagged, choked.

MINORS DNI 🔞

👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔👔

The student in front of you had his hands in his hair as you attempted to walk him through Pythagoras theorem, no matter what he could no get to the right answer so, you called it a day. Shutting your tutoring books, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as you escorted him out; your mind scrambled from the amount of energy you had put into trying to make mathematics easier for him… sadly it wasn’t working. You wondered whether you were truly the right tutor for him, even though you were exceptionally gifted at numbers and scientific equations. When you shut the door behind him, you pressed your back against the strong white wood and massaged your temples; aching for some kind of realise. The bottle of red wine he bought you a week ago for being such a good girl was sitting in your fridge, gagging to be opened so, naturally, your feet glided you towards your silver fridge; the blue light shining in your eyes as the wine stood in the middle, shimmeringly untouched. With your wine glass in your hand, fluffy socks and silk pyjamas you collapsed into your feathered couch, switching on the tv, flickering through the channels until something caught you.

Knee deep in your show, a knock sounded, your head whipped towards the door… who could be calling? You thought. You set your glass on the coffee table, softly padding your feet towards the door. The man. In his grey blazer and pant suits with a white shirt pulled taut against his lean body, his famous briefcase pulling tight to his legs; as always, his little smirk that sent your mind reeling.

“Y/N,” he stated, smirking.

“I-I had no idea you were coming over today…” you admitted to yourself that the wine had gone to your head, probably because you hadn’t eaten much,

“Hm… I see that,” his dark gaze wandered down your pink silk pyjamas, “you look nice.” That simple compliment was enough to make you blush, juxtaposing the strict but fair teacher you were during the day. He slithered beside you and the door frame, striding in with that confident gate he had and placed his briefcase on the counter, eyeing the wine. Shyly, you followed him, finding your abdomen drop when he turned around, his wicked smirk gone and instead a strict, straight line as he looked at you,

“Get on your hands and knees.” The command wasn’t out of nowhere, you knew he must be arriving for one thing and one thing only. A sane person, who could stand up for themselves would spit at his feet, but you weren’t sane. You were his through and through, and you loved every moment of it.

You sank to your knees, keeping his eye contact and rested your body on your palms, flat into the cold ground as you watched him turn away from you, walking towards the chair that was turned in your direction. He sat there, his legs spread, his curved groin apparent to you so much that you felt your mouth water and your throat turn to mush as he cocked his head,

“What are you waiting for, y/n?” His voice was laced with amusement and darkness, creating a deep, warm flip deep within your gut, “crawl to me.” He sat there, so proud and smug as you began to crawl to him; keeping eye contact despite the humiliation that had him sneering at you. Once you reached his knees, he leaned down, grabbing you by your face, looking deep within your soul as his free hand ducked under your top, smirking when he found you had no bra on,

“I want to have a little fun with you,” he whispered, his breath fanning your face. His voice alone made you whine. He pulled you onto his lap, your arms hanging over the chair as your belly rested painfully against his muscular legs. He teased you, painting circles with light fingertips but once he reached the waistline of your shorts, your silk shorts, his light touch diminished when he yanked them down with so much force you heard a rip. The cold air hit your ass, but it wasn’t for long before he landed a savage spank onto it, so hard you gripped the arm of the chair and yelping. He chuckled from your response and landed another one, carefully watching your reaction. He knew he had you wrapped tightly around his finger, he could make you do whatever he wanted and you would drop everything to keep him satisfied. Both of you knew your role in your dynamic and it was so beautiful to fulfill it.

“Count.” He demanded, his voice sultry as he smacked you again, harsher than before,

“One…” you croaked and he hit you again, “two…”

The moonlight shone in through this sordid moment, you strung against the lap of the man that could make you cry and scream… all in the best of ways. He hit your ass more than twenty times before his touch became softer, he rubbed the red hand marks and travelled towards your heat, where you swore you had made a mark on his thigh. He would love it. His index and middle finger found its way to your clit, he hummed as you mewled in the crook of your arm, bucking your hips upwards,

“Be patient, baby,” he cooed as his fingers began to circle around your clit, adding just enough pressure that made your eyes flicker and your jaw slackened as he painfully pressed against your clit. You moaned out as his fingers perfectly tuned you, his fingers knowing exactly what to do that made you become all his, the shiver that he sent up your spine when his hand began to work faster could not be written by the perfect author. You ground your hips into his thighs as you felt the world begin to spin, squeezing your eyes shut you submitted to his will and let go of your stress over his hand. He chuckled darkly, shoving his fingers into your mouth, curving them deeply down your throat as you lapped up your own taste. He enjoyed you tasting yourself, he groaned as he hooked your mouth, pulling you harshly upwards,

“You’ve been good to me, now show me how much you want it.” He sneered, pushing you off his lap, not hard but enough force that made you tumble. You trailed your hands up his thighs, your eyes making one spotlight over his groin and massaging it with the base of your palm before hungrily pulling down his zipper and pulling out his cock. It shocked you every time just how long he was, it was a miracle you could fit him in. You spread kitten kisses all over him before licking from the base to the tip, making his thighs shiver. He looked at you, his eyes drunken with lust as you took him whole, his cock full in your mouth; beginning to bob up and down, letting him violate you. He pulled your hair into a makeshift ponytail, gripping tightly onto you, almost controlling your eagerness. He grunted as your strong tongue licked as you sucked, giving him a wild look in his eyes, his hair slightly disheveled as his hand pulled you completely off his cock. He watched you for a moment before slapping your cheek as gentle as he could, which wasn’t that gentle at all. He smirked when the red mark appeared on your face, you loved the way he ruined you, you loved how much of a slut you were whenever he visited you. He stood up, grabbing your elbow along with his movements, dragging you towards your couch where you had been sitting just a half hour earlier in such innocence and now, in that exact space, you were being dragged back down to hell. He bent you over, your cheek pressed hard against the feathers as his cock teased your wet folds, dragging his leaking tip up and down until it pressed so beautifully against your clit. The absence of movement had you craning your neck towards him, and in that moment he had never looked more beautiful; moonlight behind him making him look like an angel fallen from grace as he undid his top button and harshly pulling his tie off his body, winding it into a ball, his eyesight caught you,

“I like your neighbours hearing what a whore you are for a man you hardly know, but I also like to see you struggle,” he shoved the material in your mouth, muffling your noises as he spread your cervix around him. You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing deeply through your nose to accommodate to his size; but he didn’t allow you that luxury as he began snapping his hips in and out of you, your eyes rolling hard to the back of your skull. His cock, thick and hard, hit that spot that had you crying out, bringing water to your eyes. He imprinted his fingers into your hips as he brought you towards him, the slapping sounds bouncing off the silent walls that became fucking classical music to you. Chewing down on the tie, you made a feral groan that did not release any of the stress that had built up within your core. His movements sped up, his hip bones hitting your ass cheeks with every animalistic move he made, your eyes and stomach went wild for him as his ground his cock deep within your stomach, reaching around to press your abdomen so the space between your bladder and cervix became almost nonexistent. You loved it when he knew how to play you so perfectly like a violin. His hand painfully pressed against you, threatening to release all over him, but both of you loved the mess you made so you relaxed allowing yourself to feel the mixture of pain and pleasure he gave to you. His hips snapped, his tip hitting your gspot, sending your head rolling back, your eyes at the back of your skull as you groaned harshly into the material.

“Let them hear you, baby,” he pulled the tie from your mouth, bucking his hips so fast you hardly had a moment to breathe and you curled your fists around the sofa as you shrieked loudly for all to hear. He chuckled mockingly before wrapping the tie around your neck and pulling harshly so your head was yanked backwards. The pressure of the material around your neck only had you begging for more, you vocalised it and he commanded your wish because his movements were so feral it had you seeing stars. You closed your eyes, feeling the drop in your stomach, the world nothing but a slight glimmer, his groans and disgustingly seductive curses blessing your ears as his movements slowed down to a painful pace, aching for more, aching to let go you pushed your ass back. With one swift thrust, he had you gushing all over him, coming undone once more as he painted your walls with his perfection. You collapsed into the sofa, curling into the foetal position as he squeezed himself behind you, his arms strong around you as you came down from your undoing,

“You were so good for me,” he whispered as his hand travelled down to your sensitive clit.

#gong yoo #squid game smut #squid game salesman #squid game x y/n #squid game fanfic #squid game #the salesman x reader #salesman smut #the salesman #fanfiction #fanfic #smut

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1920sladydectective · 4 months ago

Text

Best Friend's Mother Ch.2

Hello, you find scroll to find part one earlier on this account as an ask for the lovely @shinyshayminflower or read it on AO3 with the following link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61009999/chapters/155858899

This is Part Two of Three! Enjoy my Loves!

That wasn’t the last time. Not at all. Even if sometimes, as you lay panting and dizzy in her silk sheets, you wished it was.

Mel didn’t know, there was no way that she could and yet sometimes her gaze felt like a dozen little blades, carving your soul to bits. She still curled into you on the sofa, painted your nails, and drank wine with you. She was still your best friend.

But you weren’t being hers.

If you were, you wouldn’t be babbling as a strap on wrecked you, firm hands bruising your hips with each violent tug. It was maddening, face suffocated into plush pillows as Ambessa broke you again and again and again. You were her little plaything, enthralled and leaking with no idea how to stop it.

You’d sit, inhaling cereal and fruit as Mel rambled about a new research paper whilst her mother’s eyes would trail your every movement like her exhausted, ensnared prey.

Four weeks passed like that. Every daylight hour was spent traipsing about with Mel and Kino, beach ice creams and forest hikes, upscale bars and drunken Wii Sports matches. Night would fall, Mel would stretch and yawn and place a kiss to your head, dismissing herself. Kino would have another drink, another match, then leave you to your ‘reading’.

You would end up in her bed within the hour. Each greeting was soft and teasing, as if she didn’t expect you.

“Good evening,” Her eyes glimmered, naked, always fucking naked “Need something,”

“I-”

A clicked tongue. She made you say it every single time. “I need you,”

And you did, which was the worst part. You needed her gasps, her harsh touch and special, private laugh. The warmth in you was stoked to a destructive flame, arousal all too similar to affection as she stroked back your sweaty hair.

It was just sex. It was just sex. It was just sex.

The candle in her room had changed. You hated the citrus scent, it made you think of days cleaning coffee shop bathrooms and you’d mentioned it one night, head burrowed in her armpit. Now, as you allowed her to devour your lips, the salty seaside hit your nose. It was considerate, it doused the flames, it stopped mattering with her tongue on your clit.

Ambessa’s kindness increased the more you gave yourself to her, pretty words slipping into your head as she told you about her day, and asked tenderly about yours. You were her Darling, her Sweet Girl.

The gifts started and you had no idea how to make them stop.

It started small, almost imperceptibly so. As you rushed out the door for lunch with Mel, your cheap lip gloss snapped, lid soaring onto Ambessa's foot. She promptly chucked it in the bin, snorting at you. That night, as she nibbled at your spent neck, she pressed a lip gloss into your hand. It was simple and sweet and from Dior because of a rich idiot lady.

“Better than Collection, Dear,”

“How would you know?” You scoffed, “You haven’t used Collection a day in your damned life,”

“It was Mel’s first makeup when she was ten,”

“I hate you,”

Her silk pillow thwacked you, giggles falling from your tired lips.

It stepped up after that. And up. And Up. And Fuck.

Vintage Levi jeans, “Yours looked tired, Darling,”

A trip to the hair salon with Mel, “Let me treat you girls, nice fresh cut and colour,”

Your laptop shat the bed and the next morning a new one was handed to you at the table. Mel and Kino didn’t even blink, “Wouldn’t want your studies to suffer, Dear. Don’t mention it,”

Linen pyjamas in several colours, each set worth more than your nine year old phone, “Sleep is essential, therefore so is comfort,”

Speaking of which, a new fucking phone, though admittedly it did fade away into battery death.

All of this, you could grapple with despite the pounding in your chest, the gifts worth pennies to their giver and impersonal at best.

The real clusterfuck was each little thing that saw into your soul. A silly sandcastle making kit, after a drunken ramble about no childhood beach trips. Lobster for dinner, because whilst you loved the rolls, you’d never actually had a full one. Soft massages at the end of a rough session beneath her, firm hands turning you to melted butter in minutes.

Half way through the seventh week, Kino returned to Uni and Mel received an invitation to a fashion event in Brighton for three days. With your tentative reassurance that you could manage, that her mother wouldn’t eat you (a bold faced lie), you somehow had the house to yourselves.

The daylight hours became hers.

Slow, lounging mornings where you could rest easily in her bed. No tiptoeing past Mel’s door, each creak making you nauseous. Breakfast in bed, Below Deck playing as you crunch through bacon and listen to the sounds of her humming in the shower. Ambessa stays in flowing pyjamas, floating through the space doing whatever she pleased. The luxury of staying in her bed until early afternoon is so sweet it rots your teeth. She manages to drag you to the poolside by two and you realise it is the first time you’ve seen her in a swimming costume. She’s majestic about it, of course, all rippling muscles and plush thighs. The water parts for her with ease, her hair in a tight braid as she does seemingly a full exercise in the time you acclimatise to the temperature. Once her laps were done, she slipped out of the water, hips swaying. You watched her, eyes shifting from coy to wide as the tiny fabric was discarded and she jumped back in nude.

Her face, sin and sunshine, beamed at you with a shockingly sincere grin. That night, as you ate spaghetti straight from the pot with garlic bread for cutlery, you realised you loved her. She seemed oblivious, her mouth unable to escape the red stain of tomato sauce as she crunched through enough bread to kill a horse. Ice cream and sprinkles for dessert, curled on the loveseat in the cinema as she muttered nonsense throughout the whole film, pawing at you and eating ice cream noisily. Two hours later you had no idea what Trading Places was about and you’d cum on her face twice.

“That was a waste of time,” You muttered, “Didn’t even watch the film,”

Ambessa laughed, “Well, I had a wonderful time,”

Your second day together a small, white box was left on your side of the bed, appearing after your shower. She was in her office on a work call, but patience had never been your strong suit. Bright, cascading chiffon rested in the box, your dream dress sitting calmly as if you hadn’t gazed at it every week for four years.

For Dinner, Sweet Girl x

The note had frogs dancing in your throat. Since your complex revelation the night before, you’d searched frantically for a way to stem the flood of emotion, to cut this tryst short. Each attempt fizzled on an unsure, romantic tongue. It was only a couple of weeks anyway, a handful of time and then you could be free. So dinner, whatever it would be, was manageable. You were pulled from your distractions by a rhythmic rip, rip, rip. Mina had gotten into the wrapping paper and was asserting dominance accordingly, idiot.

DInner, it turned out, was a Michelin star restaurant that insisted on black out dining. You’d made yourself pretty as a bloody picture and you were shrouded in darkness. It was supposedly to increase the sensation, the food speaking to you with its layered flavour profiles as your senses could focus more heavily on taste. It was nonsense, with an upcharge so astounding they made sure you couldn’t see the bill to question it. That being said, fumbling around wine and plates in the dark was fun. Ambessa’s husky voice spoke to you through the darkness, telling you stories of similar restaurants in far off places, or prompting you to ramble about your latest read. The food was good, but you privately agreed to yourself that the catering for the party had been better. Gentle, sure and slight, a familiar finger stroked against your inner thigh. Wine caught in your throat, a stuttered gurgle as you kicked out hard to get her to stop. A man’s voice cried out instead.

“Fuck, sorry,” You said, cheeks burning.

Ambessa’s cheeks strained under her teeth’s pressure, barely keeping a cackle at bay, “Very smooth, Dear,”

Dinner ended rapidly after that. You were dessert after all.

Ambessa was at least gentle about removing this dress. It was folded neatly on the side, as she wiped your mind from you. Each surface was to be christened, glistening worship at every altar as the house became yours. Her face, so full of fondness and amusement, hung like a guillotine above your head. Danger lurked, trouble brewed, and yet.

Your little holiday ending was an odd, smarting ache. Things were the same between you and yet the difference was a physical manifestation. Mel, sweet, perfect Mel.

She had grilled you about everything in her absence, your cover story a bland tale. Books, some thesis work, a swim or two. Truth bled into the lies, your conscience desperate for small drips of relief. Trading Places is a good film, you’d said, ended up watching it with your Mum as if it was movie night. Mel had laughed, calling you a creature of habit.

Week nine of the ten week holiday began and you were destined to leave in six days time, roadtripping back to Edinburgh. Lines had never seemed blurrier. You were reticent to leave, her words like honey coating every part of you they touched as she spoke amorously of the summer months that had slipped by. It was clear she cared, each word dripping with something you dared not call love

Another party, smaller this time, on your last full day. A barbeque with newfound friends and a few of Ambessa’s actual associates. It made you resent Mel for suggesting it, resent Ambessa for agreeing and resent yourself for placing the blame in all the wrong places. Ambessa had chattered to you casually that morning, listing off recipes and plans, ignoring your suggestions and reheating your tea twice as you forgot about it. You laughed, picturing what it would be like when you came back here, how many new recipes she’d force you to try. How many of them she’d actually bother to cook herself.

It was nice enough, more homely than the grand party, with buckets of beers and self-serve salads. You finally beat Viktor at Chess, though the success felt stolen as he was so drunk his eyes were shut. Mel and Caitlyn were currently trying to wrestle Jayce and Vi for the music controls. It would have been fun, and yet. Ambessa was far away, another island dancing in view, promising a greatness that was out of reach. The heated glaces were few and far between, the touches brief and the smiles standard as a necessity. You ached to lose her, it would be so long before you saw each other again. That was the sentimentality talking, you begged it to shut up with a wagyu burger.

Mel, drunk and happy, wanted a girly sleepover for the last night in the house. It crushed your heart twofold. You would miss time with Ambessa, you were the worst person perhaps ever for thinking of that first. Still, with a heavy heart, you giggled in her four poster bed with a bottle of white wine and green, slimy face masks.

Neon numbers showed it was four am and Mel Medarda was sleeping like a log. Carefully, each cell tensing with strain, you extracted yourself from the room and slipped down the hallway.

She was there, as you knew she would be even after her distance at the party. Her face was warm, soft and hazy as the weight of the moment settled. You started the dance, practiced and smooth now, but she took a new step.

“I need you,” It was half choked, your body crushed as she took you into the room, kisses thundering all over your skin.

It was bliss, a gentle lovemaking she had never permitted before, with trembling hands and docile eyes. Nothing mattered outside this room, outside the rocking and the groaning, her lips kissing your ear with each back and forth movement. It soothed a part of you, so desperate for her care and attention.

Once full of each other, you allowed yourself the indignity of clinging to her. She traced shapes along your stomach, reminding you that you were her special girl, so perfect and warm, so delicious. You felt almost delirious, trading heavy kisses for romantic words. You loved her and maybe she was showing you that was okay.

Morning came and with it the end of your perfect summer.

Breakfast was served and eaten slowly, the Land Rover piled high with Mel’s opulence and admittedly now some of your own, courtesy of Ambessa’s constant material kindness. Mel seemed reluctant to leave too, her whispered confessions that this was the calmest time she’d ever had with her mother echoing in your head. Rictus returned, as if like clockwork to service Ambessa as you left, lest she be left to her own devices.

He walked away to his chambers to unpack and the list of things for the journey back to Uni was consulted. Once. Twice. A short trip up to my room and we’re ready, your friend assured.

Time slowed as Mel ran to grab the last of her things, leaving the two of you alone in the kitchen.

“Well,” You chuckled nervously.

“It was so good to have you, Dear,” Her voice sounded wrong, the warmth fleeting as you tried to chase it. Where had your Ambessa gone?

“Yes, um Thank you,” You said, shoved onto the wrong foot, affection flickering, “I have your number so I’ll ring you when I’m back,”

As her face dropped, your heart did, “Whyever would you need to do that?”

Oh Gods. Her pampering, each trinket and trophy you wore and used, each shared dinner and tender laugh pushed you into a foolish forgetting. No amount of love making and promises of devotion had changed her initial terms.

You were a toy, remember?

“I-I don’t know,” You stammered, “Just in case,”

“Just in case,” Words lined with pity, her golden gaze condescending. Oh darling, it teased, you didn’t fall in love did you?

Your Ambessa was gone. A figment of imagination, fuelled by summer sun. Part of you hoped she used to be nice, used to be yours and that this was a fearful change of heart.

A patronising pat to the cheek, words you didn’t hear as you faded into the background.

Down the Guillotine slammed.

#ambessa x reader #ambessa medarda #arcane #ambessa smut #arcane ambessa

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inkykeiji · 1 year ago

Text

⋆₊˚⊹♡ touya-nii + his nasty habit of sneaking into your bedroom

character: todoroki touya | dabi warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest, noncon, a slight bit of degradation, implied size difference words: 1.2k

he’s always careful when he starts. careful when he creeps into your room in the middle of the night, sock clad feet quiet against the hardwood; careful to keep the doorhandles latch from catching on the strike plate as he closes it behind him; careful not to wake you as he slinks into your frilly little bed, knocking stuffed animals and extra pillows onto the floor, as he worms his way beneath your pink-piped comforter and slithers his hand between your silky thighs—ah, good girl, you’re not wearing those pesky sleep shorts, just like he told you not to (good little sisters only wear panties to bed; and sometimes, they don’t even wear those, he had informed you)—and then wiggles his fingers under your lacy undies.

that’s when he stops being careful.

because he loves that sharp gasp of surprise, that sheer unadulterated bolt that courses through your body—shock in the purest, prettiest form—that jolts you from your blissful slumber almost violently; skin shuddering, eyes snapping open, when he shoves two dirty fingers into your ill-prepped cunt.

it’s his favourite sound in the world, he swears it is, swears he would bottle it up and keep it close to his heart if he could, swears he would wear it around his neck like the cutest, daintiest little noose, tethering him to you.

but this is the next best thing, he supposes.

your eyes slip shut again, so tightly they crinkle the corners and furrow your brow, and a whine of his name spills from your lips; first in frustration, then again all wispy and dumb when he curls his knuckles against that plush spot buried deep inside of you—that spot he knows so well, that spot he discovered, then claimed as his own.

yeah, not so irritated now, are ya, y’little brat.

no, you’re not. you’re sighing out his name in time with the pumps of his fingers, all melty and stupid and oh-so-cute, knotted with his honorific and seeping into your lace-trimmed pillows in little threads of drool. you’re grinding your ass back against his hard cock as you pathetically hump his palm, indulging him as his hips rut into your plush flesh, pre-cum steadily leaking through his thin pyjama pants, staining plaid in dark wet patches.

“touya-nii,” you whimper, back arching a little, nipples peaked through the thin cotton of your camisole. “stop, stop.”

this is the routine almost every time, practiced and perfected through night after night of rehearsals, and you play your part flawlessly; effortless and enticing and full of emphasis, because you know he gets off on it—the no!s and wait!s and don’t!s, sometimes spit from your lips, sometimes dribbling out the corner of your mouth, only heightening the whole sordid affair.

because you’re just as fucking sick as your big brother is.

he can’t stop, don’t you know?

it’s all your fault, he’s telling you, voice caught somewhere between accusatory and mocking. if you weren’t such a slutty little tease, nii-chan wouldn’t have to do this.

but it’s all just a game; he knows you love it just as much as he does, knows you’re just as depraved as he is, because your actions don’t match your words, you bad girl, the rolling of your hips encouraging the rocking of his own, one of your free hands threading itself over his and guiding it to your breast, bony knuckles pressing into a soft palm as his fingers flex around supple flesh.

if you didn’t love it, if you didn’t want it, then why would you prance around the house in those short, short little dresses? the ones that fan out when you twirl to your music in the living room or ride up when you bend over while cooking in the kitchen, gifting anyone within the immediate vicinity (your vile siblings and their prying eyes) a coveted glimpse of the silk and lace clinging delicately to your cheeks; the ones that are an inch or two too short to be considered wholly decent, and the ones Daddy has repeatedly told you to stop wearing around your big brothers—especially the eldest.

“m’sorry, touya-nii, m’sorry, m’sorry.”

no, you’re not, but that’s okay. he isn’t, either.

at least you have each other.

your other hand snakes between your tensing thighs, cupping his own, little fingers layering larger ones as they try to speed up his motions, push his digits deeper, fuck you harder, give you more.

these trysts never last long enough, though; no matter how hard he tries to lengthen them, to savour them, you’re both too eager, too hungry for one another, cumming too quickly in the dead of night as your bodies tremble together, as names shatter on tongues in sharp whispers and limbs seize and tangle and fuse into one.

it’s always so fucking messy, your cunt clenching around your conjoined fingers, slick dribbling down his knuckles in thick dollops to pool in his hand, to settle in the lines of his palm and streak his inner wrist in pretty shimmering streams.

it’s always so fucking messy, his grunts hot and humid against the nape of your neck, forehead pressed to the crown of your head as his cock throbs, filling flannel with copious amounts of burning, sticky cum—so much it seeps through the material to soak your scrunched panties, so much it dries in a hard glaze, welding lace to your ass.

you don’t ever dare to wash it off, clean it away, eradicate the evidence, instead allowing each other’s pleasure to stain your skins, wearing it like a mark of honour, a claim of ownership, barely visible when it dries into something firm and translucent, but there nonetheless.

his fingertips continue to flutter against that swollen spot until ripples of overstimulation are shuddering through your flesh, until your little hand is wreathing around his syrupy wrist and nails are biting into his flesh and tugging, tears beginning to bead your lashes.

only then does he chuckle and pull his hand free, knuckles hooking in an attempt to scrape your walls, a heavy coat of your arousal glistening on his fingers.

“you cum so fucking much for your big brother,” he growls in your ear, lips wet against the cartilage, voice tapering off into a whine. “look at how wet you get for me.”

two of his fingers flatten against your cheek and then swipe, slow and hard and thorough, smearing a thick film of your slick across your face, from the tip of your temple to the corner of your mouth, back and forth and back and forth until it’s been rubbed into your skin.

callused fingertips push past your parted lips, weighing down on your tongue and cramming themselves into your throat, forcing you to taste yourself—to taste him, painted in you; spicy nicotine and heady salt.

“you’re fucking disgusting,” he pants out, but his pupils are gaping, watching as your gorge yourself on your big brother’s flesh, lips puckering and cheeks hollowing as your tongue curls around his knuckles and tries to siphon him further down your throat.

a whine splinters in his chest as he pulls his extremities free from your voracious grip, slathered in spit, viscous cords strung between his knuckles as he spreads them apart.

“yeah, you’re real fucking sick, y’know that?”

“you made me like this, nii-chan,” you breathe out dreamily, already drifting back into sleep’s welcoming embrace, body going lax in his arms and snuggling back against his chest.

yeah, he fucking did.

and neither of you would have it any other way.

#dabi smut #dabi x reader #dabi x you #todoroki touya smut #todoroki touya x reader #todoroki touya x you #wrote this real quick before bed last night #after my boyfriend had slathered my own slick all over my face hehehe #so thank u for inspiring this lil piece sir #inky.touya #inky.dabi #tw:noncon #tw:pseudocest

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