#Tableau definition | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

communicationthroughlyrics · 5 months ago

Text

I Gambled On Red And The Price Was Paid

Your best friend, unable to bear your post-breakup malaise, decides to take action. Despite your deep emotional pain following the betrayal by your ex-girlfriend, and your subsequent withdrawal from life, she believes it's time for you to move on. She suggests a night out to reinvigorate your social life. At the bar, your attention is drawn to a redhead and her brunette partner, whose infectious laughter and captivating dance moves stir feelings of attraction.

TW: smut, intersex r, wandanat, mommy/daddy kink... uhhh yeah

A/N: Definitely my first time writning a threesome, let alone an intersex threesome. Let me know what you think!

Word Count: 5.8k

The evening had settled into a quiet rhythm, the city's heartbeat a distant murmur beyond the condominium's thick windows. Inside, the living room was a tableau of shadows and stale air, punctuated by the flicker of a TV playing to an empty couch. You hadn't moved from your spot in days, a testament to the relentless grip of heartache. Your eyes were glued to the screen, but the images dancing across it were as indiscernible as the path ahead of you. The area around you was littered with wrappers, empty dishes, and take-out containers, as you continued to wallow in what once was.

But you should know better. Your best friend won't let this continue. You deserve better. Sarah always told you that your ex, Ali was trouble walking. There had been signs, signs you had ignored for years. But finally, walking into her apartment when you were supposed to have a dinner date, to find her fucking some random chick- that was the final straw. You'd been together since college, so it's no wonder you felt like your soul had been ripped out. You had been planning on proposing that night, after being together for the better part of 7 years. But seeing the lack of remorse in her eyes sent you into a spiral.

Sarah enters the room, her footsteps firm and deliberate. She's carrying something that smells faintly of mint and leather. It's a freshly ironed shirt. "You're coming out with me tonight," she says, her voice brooking no argument. She's been worried about you, her best friend since childhood, and she knows that sitting around isn't going to fix you. "You're going to shower, change, and we're going to hit the town. No more of this fucking nonsense." She holds out the shirt like a banner of hope, a symbol of your impending return to the land of the living.

"But," you start, and she quickly shushes you.

"You've moped around long enough," she says firmly, placing the shirt on your lap. "It's time to get out, clear your head, and maybe, just maybe, find someone who deserves you."

Her words hit like a slap to the face but in a good way. With a heavy sigh, you sit up, the shirt's fabric feeling foreign against your skin. You hadn't realized how much you've missed the feeling of being clean and dressed. You bumble your way to your bedroom, tossing the shirt to the side.

"I'll be waiting. Don't you dare think about trying to lock yourself in here. I'll kick your damn door down." Sarah's voice echoes through the hallway as you enter the bathroom. You turn on the shower, the sound of the water gradually increasing from a whisper to a roar. You stand there for a moment, the heat beckoning, before you step in, letting the water wash over you, carrying the grime of the past few days down the drain along with your despair.

As you scrub away the layers of defeat clinging to your body, you begin to feel a glimmer of something akin to hope. Maybe, just maybe, she's right. Maybe you do need to get out of here, breathe in some fresh air, and remind yourself that there's more to life than the woman who so callously tossed you aside. You let the woody, fresh scent of the body wash fill your nostrils, a stark contrast to the stale scent of the room you've been living in. The warm water cascades down your back as you let the shampoo lather in your hair, a sensation that feels both cleansing and cathartic. As you rinse, you can almost feel the weight of the past week sluicing away with the soapy water, swirling down the drain and leaving you feeling lighter than you have in days.

Slipping into a black lace bra, the black button-up, and a pair of slim black jeans, you get yourself as ready as you can be for a night out. The shirt fits like a glove, the fabric brushing against your skin as you move. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and for a brief moment, the reflection staring back at you seems like a stranger. But then your eyes harden, and you nod. You're ready. You need to get over her. And what better way, than to try and get someone under you?

When you emerge from your bedroom, Sarah's smile is immediate. "Look at you," she says, clapping her hands together. "I knew there was a woman in there, somewhere." She's dressed to kill, her hair curled and makeup on point. "Let's go," she says, grabbing her purse and opening the door. You both stood at the curb, waiting for your Uber to arrive, Sarah chatting animatedly about the vacation her and her boyfriend just went on. You nod along, your thoughts still cloudy and depressed, but you're starting to feel the beginnings of excitement.

The car pulls up, and you slide into the cool leather seats, the scent of pine air freshener filling the cabin. You let the city lights play across your face as you drive, the music playing softly in the background. It's a stark contrast to the dark, claustrophobic atmosphere you've been living in, and you feel your shoulders relaxing.

The bar is bustling with life, a cacophony of laughter and chatter that fills your ears like a symphony. Sarah guides you through the crowd, her hand firm in yours until you reach the bar. The bartender, a burly man with a twinkle in his eye, greets you with a nod. "What can I get you?"

Sarah immediately pipes up, ordering her usual vodka soda, and turning to you. "You can get whatever, tonight babe. It's on me." You mull over the drinks menu, your eyes scanning over the rows of bottles lined up like soldiers ready for battle, their colorful labels glinting under the bar lights. You decide on a double whiskey neat, something to burn away the last remnants of the day's melancholy.

As the drinks are placed in front of you, the smoothness of the whiskey glass feels surprisingly good in your hand. You take a sip, letting the liquid warmth spread through your chest. The burn is comforting, a reminder that you're alive and feeling. You look around the bar, taking in the faces of the people around you. The air is thick with the scent of cologne and perfume, the hum of flirtation, and the occasional shout of a sports fan. It's a world you've been absent from for too long, and it's both overwhelming and invigorating.

"Now, we need to find you someone to dance with," Sarah starts. You send her a warning glance, trying to convey to her that she needs to take it easy tonight. You're not ready to jump into the dating pool just yet. But she's on a mission, and nothing is going to stop her. She grabs your hand and pulls you to the dance floor, the strobe lights painting the room in a disco-infused haze. The music is a pulsing bass line that you can feel in your chest, the kind that makes you want to move even when you're feeling your lowest.

Sarah started dancing with you before she was whisked away by someone she worked with, leaving you to fend for yourself for a while. You knocked back the rest of your drink, beginning to worm your way back through the crowd towards the bar. Standing at the bartop, you order another whiskey neat, feeling a familiar burn of eyes on the back of your head. Assuming it was probably Sarah, you ignored the feeling, patiently waiting for your drink. The barkeep slid the drink your way, winking as he turned to tend to some more people, and you turned, leaning back against the bar to observe the throng of people on the dance floor.

That's when you saw her. A woman with fiery red hair, dressed in a green dress that shimmered like emeralds under the disco lights. She was laughing with her friends, her eyes lighting up with every beat of the music. You couldn't help but stare. It had been so long since you had felt that kind of attraction, the kind that made your heart flutter and your stomach drop. You watched her for a moment longer, sipping your whiskey, before you felt a gentle nudge.

"What are you waiting for?" Sarah asked, grinning mischievously. "Go talk to her. I would even tap that, she's hot as hell." You shake your head and laugh at her antics, but as you look over at the redhead, you notice her dancing with a stunning brunette. They both looked amazing, and your stomach was definitely tumbling at the vision they created. You sat yourself at the bar to watch this power couple move with the music, seemingly in thier own little world.

The brunette looked over at you and for a second, your eyes locked. She had the most amazing green eyes, a piercing emerald that stood out even in the flashing lights. You felt a pull, something that hadn't happened since the first time you had seen Ali. She looked away and back at her partner, but not before giving you a coy smile that made your heart skip a beat. You downed your drink, and the bartender slid you another, leaning over the counter toward you.

"I wouldn't stare too much if I were you."

"It's kinda hard not to if I'm being honest," you respond, keeping your eyes locked on the dance floor, tilting your head back as you spoke to the man.

"That's what Wanda wants," he started. This was beyond confusing to you, you wheeled around on your barstool.

"What do you mean? You know them?" You ask, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden spike in your interest. You simply wanted to know who this power couple was. The pair were both so attractive separately, that being together should be illegal. He laughed at your enthusiasm.

"You could say that," he began. "They're my bosses. They own this place. The brunette is Wanda Maximoff, the redhead is Natasha Romanoff." he finished as he was quickly called to the other end of the bar.

Turning back around, you quickly found the couple on the floor, Wanda dressed to the nines in an all-black suit, towering over Natasha. Natasha pressed her back against Wanda, as they danced to the sultry beat emanating throughout the club.

The whiskey had loosened your nerves, so you took a deep breath and approached the dance floor. The strobe lights painted you in a frenetic pattern of color, each flash revealing Natasha's eyes on you. She leaned in to whisper something to Wanda, and Wanda looked over her shoulder, catching your gaze. You felt like you'd been caught in the headlights of a car, frozen in place.

But instead of looking away, Wanda smirked and nodded slightly, as if giving you an unspoken invitation. You felt a strange mix of excitement and terror. This wasn't like you at all, but something propelled you forward. Before you knew it, you were standing in front of them, the bass thumping in your chest like a second heartbeat. Wanda stepped aside, and Natasha moved closer, her hands reaching out to lock around your neck.

"We've had our eyes on you all night, detka," Natasha leaned in, whispering into the shell of your ear. Her Russian accent was thick and alluring, sending shivers down your spine. Wanda's eyes gleamed with amusement, her hand resting possessively on Natasha's hip as she watched you try to compose yourself. The three of you swayed to the beat, your eyes darting between both the pairs of green eyes before you.

The song switched to something slower, and Natasha's grip tightened, pulling you closer. Your hands found their way to her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin even through the fabric of her dress. You could smell the faint scent of jasmine on her, mingling with the sweetness of her perfume. Wanda stepped up behind Natasha, her hands grasping firmly around her waist, pressing Natasha closer to you, creating a sandwich of passion and power that was hard to resist.

"You've been staring all night, krasotka," Wanda chimed in, her chin coming to rest on the shoulder of the woman before you. "Would you like to dance with Natasha, or do you just enjoy watching?" Her words were playful, but you could sense the challenge beneath the surface. You took a deep breath and stepped closer, your hand sliding around Natasha's waist.

Natasha's smile grew wider as you led the dance, moving in a way that had her captivated. Her hips swayed to the rhythm, and her eyes never left yours. It was as if you were in a trance, the world around you fading into the background as the music played on. You felt a hand on your shoulder, and suddenly Wanda was there, spinning Natasha away and taking her place. "Let's see if you can keep up," she said, her voice low and sultry.

Wanda's moves were more aggressive, her hands stronger, and her gaze more intense. You found yourself matching her step for step, the whiskey buzz enhancing the thrill of the moment. The air was electric, and you could feel the heat from her body as she leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. "You're doing well," she murmured, a hint of approval in her voice. You weren't sure if she was talking about your dancing or something else entirely.

Her hand slid down to the small of your back, guiding you closer until your bodies were almost touching. You felt your heart racing, and it wasn't just from the exertion of the dance. This was uncharted territory for you, and yet it felt surprisingly natural. You could feel Natasha's eyes on you, watching from the sidelines with a knowing smile. Natasha soon rejoined you both on the dance floor, her hand dragging across your shoulders before she looped around and stood next to Wanda.

The music grew slower, the lights dimming as the two of them moved in perfect synchrony around you. Their movements were fluid, almost predatory, and you found yourself unable to look away. They whispered to each other, their eyes never leaving yours, and you felt a thrill run down your spine. You didn't know what was happening, but you were definitely into it.

Wanda leaned in closer, her breath hot on your neck as she whispered, "You have our attention, detka, not many can say that." Her words were a challenge, a promise, and a question all rolled into one. Natasha stepped in front of you, her hands framing your face as she searched your eyes for an answer. The intimacy of the moment was stifling, but you found yourself nodding.

The two of them shared a knowing glance, and Natasha's hand slid down to your wrist, guiding you towards a roped-off VIP section of the bar. You felt like you were being led into a lion's den, but instead of fear, all you felt was a thrilling rush of excitement. As you approached, the bouncer nodded, the velvet rope parting like the Red Sea for Moses at their unspoken command.

Suddenly, Natasha pushed you back, the backs of your knees hitting the booth and causing you to fall backward. She climbed up, straddling your waist as Wanda slid in the other side, a wry smile on her face.

"So, tell us, what's a beautiful woman like you doing out here all alone?" Wanda's voice was like velvet, her fingers tracing patterns on your forearm as you both leaned closer. You stuttered out something about a breakup, and Sarah bringing you while trying to keep your cool while Natasha's thighs tightened around yours.

Natasha leaned in, her breath a sweet whisper against your cheek. "A breakup, hmm? Maybe we can help you forget all about her." Her fingers played with the buttons of your shirt, and your breath hitched as one popped open, revealing a sliver of skin. You felt your body responding, a heat building that had nothing to do with the crowded dance floor. You hear Wanda hum behind you as she leans down to your level.

"Well, someone who would break up with someone like you... they must be stupid," she said, her voice a seductive purr. "It just so happens to be your lucky night." Wanda's hand trailed down your neck, sending a shiver through your body. Her touch was firm, yet gentle, and the way she spoke made it clear that she was in charge. "We have been wanting to add to our mix if you will." you groaned as Wanda slid her hand underneath your shirt, dragging her fingernails up your chest. Natasha was a wiggling mess on your lap, your buddy downstairs definitely waking up to the stimulation.

"Wands," Natasha mewled, and confirming your suspicion, when the redhead directed the brunette’s attention to the area below your waist, they both saw the now present erection straining in your pants.

"Looks like someone's eager to join the party," Natasha teased, her voice dropping to a sultry growl. Her hand trailed down your stomach and caressed the bulge in your jeans, making you squirm with pleasure. Wanda's eyes sparkled with mischief as she leaned in to kiss you, her lips warm and insistent. You tasted whiskey and the promise of something wild as your mouths melded together.

Your skin felt like it was on fire, the feeling of both women running thier hands all over your body, Natasha teasing your member while Wanda took your breath away. Your hands found their way to Natasha's hips, guiding her movements, and she responded with a low, throaty growl. You felt like you were in a dream, one that you never wanted to wake up from. You whined as Wanda pulled away, stopping your movements and Natashas.

"Lyubov," Wanda directed to her partner. "I need her to answer us first, be a good girl and mommy will give you what you need." Natasha's hand stilled, but her eyes never left yours, hunger burning in them that mirrored the one building in your core. "Are you interested," she hesitated as she realized they still didn't know your name.

"Y/N," you gasped out, nodding your head vehemently. You weren't sure if it was the lust-filled state you were in, or the two women raking thier hands all over you, but you couldn't put together a coherent sentence. "Words, Y/N," she growled in your ear, causing your eyes to roll back in your head.

"Fuck yes."

"Good," Wanda smirked.

Her hand slid down to the base of your neck, her grip firm and reassuring. "But you must be clear about what you want, krasotka," she said, her eyes searching yours. "We don't play games."Wanda pulled away, done with the teasing as she pulled the curtain to the room back, signaling to the bouncer at the entrance. "Now, let's get home." Wanda stood, straightening her suit as she stuck her hand back for Natasha to grab. You sat there, bewildered at what just happened.

Natasha smirked as she saw your expression, hopping off your lap. "You're coming with us, yes?" she asked, her hand outstretched. You nodded, unable to find your voice, and took Natasha's hand, allowing her to pull you to your feet. The walk to the exit was a blur, your senses overwhelmed by the smells of sweat and perfume from the other patrons, the lights flashing by in a dizzying array of color. The cool night air hit you like a slap in the face, and you realized you hadn't even asked where 'home' was.

Wanda and Natasha led you to a sleek black car parked out front, the engine purring like a contented cat. The driver opened the back door, and Natasha's eyes never left yours as you slid in. The leather seats were cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingered from the dance floor. Wanda got in after you two, her eyes meeting yours with a knowing smile. Natasha climbed on your lap, her hand immediately finding its way back to your neck, sending sparks of desire shooting through your body.

The drive was short, but it felt like an eternity. The tension in the car was thick enough to cut with a knife, and the anticipation was almost unbearable. Natasha's mouth grazed your jawline, her teeth nipping at your earlobe. You could feel her breath, hot and erratic, and your body responded in kind. You didn't know what was waiting for you at their place, but you were eager to find out. The car pulled up to a modern townhouse, the lights inside casting a warm glow onto the sidewalk.

As you entered the townhouse, the vibe was immediately different from the chaotic energy of the bar. The walls were adorned with abstract art, the floorboards gleaming in the soft light of the pendant lights hanging above. The scent of vanilla and sandalwood filled the air, a comforting aroma that somehow made you feel both at ease and incredibly aroused. Wanda led the way upstairs, her hips swaying with purpose, and Natasha followed closely behind, her hand never leaving your neck.

You were guided into a dimly lit room, the centerpiece being a king-sized bed draped in dark red satin sheets. The sight alone was enough to make your heart race faster. Wanda took Natasha's hand, pulling her close for a deep, passionate kiss. The raw desire between them was palpable, and you couldn't help but feel like you were about to witness something incredibly intimate.

Wanda stuck her hand out, beckoning you to come closer. You couldn't resist the magnetic pull, stepping towards them as they broke their kiss. Natasha's eyes never left yours, the fire in them growing with each step you took. Wanda wrapped her hand around the back of your neck, drawing you in for an equally passionate kiss. Your body responded on instinct, your hands finding their way to her waist, pulling her closer. The kiss was demanding, a declaration of intent that left no room for doubt. You pulled away, grabbing hold of Natasha and pulling her in for a searing kiss, causing Wanda to moan beside you.

"There she is," Wanda mumbled, sliding behind Natasha and kissing the woman's neck. The silk of Natasha's dress slid against your skin, her hands already working to remove your shirt. Wanda's lips trailed down your neck, her teeth grazing your collarbone, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt Natasha's fingers deftly unbuckling your belt, her eyes never leaving yours as she slid your jeans down. You were now in your boxers, and she was dressed to kill, her dress riding up to reveal the lacy black thong she wore underneath.

The room was a whirlwind of sensations: the soft kisses from Natasha, the possessive grip of Wanda's hand, the scent of their combined desire. You had never felt so alive, so desired, so...needed. Natasha's mouth found yours again, her tongue demanding entry as she began to grind against you, her own need evident. Wanda's hands were everywhere, exploring every inch of your bare chest, her nails scraping along your abs. Finally, you couldn't bear the tension any more, your dominant side suddenly awake to the desire that was so palpable around you.

With a growl, you pushed Natasha onto the bed, her legs spreading in invitation. She was the picture of temptation, her eyes hooded and her lips swollen from your kisses. Wanda took this as a cue to move closer, her hands sliding down to cup your ass as she whispered sweet nothings in your ear, urging you on. You could feel Natasha's eyes on you, watching, waiting. You leaned down, capturing one of her nipples in your mouth, feeling it harden beneath your tongue. Her moan was music to your ears, and you knew you had to give her more.

You slid Natasha's dress up over her hips, revealing the damp fabric of her thong. You could feel the heat emanating from her, and you knew she was ready. Wanda's hands were now at the back of your neck, her nails digging in as she pushed you down further. You slipped Natasha's thong to the side, feeling the slickness of her arousal against your fingertips. You slid one digit inside her, and she arched her back, her nails digging into the bed. Wanda stepped back, watching you with a predatory gaze, her own desire clear as she began to undo the buttons of her shirt.

Watching Wanda out of the corner of your eye, you reached out, and grabbed the collar of her shirt with your free hand pulling her towards you. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as the fabric fell open, revealing her matching black lace bra. You kissed Wanda deeply, your tongue dancing with hers as your finger continued to explore Natasha's wetness. Wanda stepped closer as she undid the clasp of her bra, letting it fall to the floor. Her breasts were perfect, the pale skin a stark contrast to Natasha's olive complexion.

Natasha's legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer as you slid another finger inside her. She was so wet, her walls clenching around you, begging for more. You felt Wanda's hand at the back of your neck, her thumb brushing against your earlobe as she whispered sweet nothings in Russian. The sound of the fabric tearing was almost as erotic as the moment itself as Natasha tore your boxers off. You felt the warmth of her skin against yours, and it was all you could do not to explode right then and there.

You wrapped your arm around Wanda's waist, throwing her to the bed next to her wife. You continued to pound your fingers into Natasha's heat, using your other hand to deftly undo the button on Wanda's slacks, pulling them down with a swift tug. She gasped at the sudden exposure, her eyes flashing with desire. Natasha's hips were moving in rhythm with your hand, her breathing shallow and erratic. You began to tease Wanda, her arousal ever present in her lace panties. You began to slowly rub her clit through the fabric, her mewls becoming more fervent as she continued to kiss Natasha.

Wanda's hand snaked down, sliding them aside to reveal her glistening pussy. She guided your hand to her, her hips bucking against your palm. You felt Natasha's orgasm building, her muscles tightening around your fingers. You leaned down, capturing Natasha's mouth with yours as she broke away from Wanda, her cries muffled by your kiss as she came.

Wanda's body quivered next to you, the view before her almost too much to bear. Natasha recovered slowly, climbing down onto the floor as she got on her knees before you, you watching with bated breath as your other hand was knuckle-deep in Wanda's pussy.

"Take me," Natasha whispered, her eyes locked onto yours, a hunger in them that was almost feral. "Take us both." You groaned, and Natasha began to stroke your length, gathering the precum that was running down your shaft before taking your entire length in her mouth. You carded your fingers through the red locks, gripping her hair tightly as your other hand worked Wanda open, the brunette squirming and moaning on the bed before you.

Wanda watched intently, her hand gliding over her own breasts, her eyes never leaving yours. The sight was too much for her to handle, so she adjusted, and straddled your hand, grinding against your knuckles as Natasha's mouth worked you to the edge. The two of them were a symphony of pleasure, each movement, each gasp and moan a note that played in perfect harmony.

With Natasha still worshipping your cock, Wanda leaned in, her breath hot against your ear. "I want you inside me," she whispered, her Sokovian accent thick with desire. You nodded, the need to claim her was too intense to ignore. You gripped Natasha's hair, pulling her back away from your throbbing member. She looked up at you with her doe eyes, yelping as you pulled her up by her chin and directed her back to the bed.

"Be a good girl for me, princess," you whispered in the redhead's ear, kissing her deeply before directing your attention to the waiting brunette.

Wanda slithered closer, her legs straddling yours, her wetness coating your thighs. She reached down and guided you inside her, her warmth enveloping you like a glove. You groaned, leaning your head back and exposing your throat to the brunette beneath you. The tightness was too much to bear, and so you firmly grasped the milky thighs of the woman before you, leaning down and kissing Wanda with such passion and lust that it made her head spin. You pulled away, growling in her ear. "You ready to find out who is really in charge here, baby?" your voice was thick with desire, your hands gripping her hips. Her piercing green eyes shot open, a challenging stare being shot your way. "Daddy is about to put you in your place." you purr into her ear, a deep moan coming from her as her back arched towards you. You leaned back, pushing yourself as deep as you could within the Sokovian, wiggling just enough to cause her to mewl. "Isn't that right, princess? Daddy is about to make Mommy feel so, so good."

Natasha, not one to be left out, positioned herself at the side of the bed, her breasts heaving as she watched the scene unfold. Her hand slipped down her, her eyes glazed over as she began to touch herself. The sight was almost too much, and you had to fight the urge to abandon Wanda and take Natasha's mouth again. But you had promised to make Wanda feel good. You began to thrust, slow and deep at first, feeling Wanda's walls tighten around you with each stroke. She began to move with you, her hips rising to meet yours, her nails digging into your shoulders. You could feel Natasha's eyes on you, her breathing growing heavier as she watched. Suddenly, Wanda gasped as you changed your pace, thrusting into her hard and fast, the sinful sound of her and Natasha's moans combining with your skin slapping Wanda's wetness, her eyes rolling back into her head as she ran her fingernails down your back.

Wanda's legs began to quiver, her orgasm approaching like a storm on the horizon. Natasha reached out, her hand sliding up Wanda's thigh, her thumb circling the brunette's clit. Wanda's eyes shot open, meeting Natasha's as she felt the pressure building. With a final, powerful thrust, she came, her body tightening around you like a vice, her cries echoing through the room. You leaned down, kissing her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, feeling her pulse race beneath your lips.

Natasha, now standing beside the bed, her hand a blur between her legs, was close to the edge. She looked at you with a wildness in her eyes that was intoxicating. You pulled out of Wanda and stood, your cock still rock-hard and gleaming with her juices. Wanda's breathing was ragged, her body limp with satisfaction, but she managed to give Natasha a knowing smile, urging her to continue. You grabbed the redhead's ankles, pulling her towards you, she squeaked at the shift as you batted her hand away from her glistening heat.

With a smirk, Natasha wiggled closer, her hand moving for yours. She wrapped her hand around your length, stroking you with the same hunger she had shown earlier. You groaned, the pleasure intense as she worked you with the perfect amount of pressure. Wanda's eyes followed the movement, her desire rekindling as she watched Natasha's hand glide up and down your shaft. "It's your turn," Wanda murmured, her voice thick with lust. You snapped out of the daze Natasha had worked you into, and pushed her back, positioning yourself between her toned thighs, your head prodding her entrance.

Natasha's eyes widened with excitement as you began to push inside her, her walls stretching around your cock. She was so wet, so ready, and the feeling was indescribable. You watched as her breasts bounced with every thrust, her red hair a fiery halo around her flushed face. Her eyes never left yours, the connection between you two electric. Wanda leaned in, her tongue tracing Natasha's collarbone, her teeth biting down gently as she watched your bodies come together. Natasha's moans grew louder, her breath coming in gasps as she reached for Wanda's hand, lacing their fingers together.

The room was a symphony of desire, the slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls, the scent of sex filling the air. You felt Natasha's muscles tighten around you, her back arching as she came, her cry of pleasure music to your ears. Wanda leaned down, capturing Natasha's mouth in a kiss, sharing in her wife's climax. Your own orgasm was building, the pressure in your balls becoming unbearable. You pulled Natasha's legs over your shoulders, going deeper, the feeling of her coming around you too much to handle.

Natasha's moans grew louder, her nails scratching at the bed as she reached for Wanda's breasts, her own nipples hard and sensitive. Wanda's hand slid down Natasha's body, her fingers finding Natasha's clit, rubbing it in tight circles. You watched, entranced, as Natasha's eyes rolled back in her head, her body shuddering with another orgasm. You couldn't hold back any longer, and with a roar, you went to pull out, but Natasha wrapped her legs around you tightly. You buried yourself deep within her, painting her walls white with your cum, the intensity of your release leaving you momentarily blind.

The three of you collapsed onto the bed, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. Wanda chuckled softly, her hand caressing Natasha's cheek. "Looks like you enjoyed yourself," she said, her voice filled with satisfaction. Natasha giggled, her eyes shining with mischief. "I think we all did," she murmured, looking between you and Wanda. You couldn't help but smile, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. For the first time since Ali, you felt alive again.

Wanda looked over at you, a knowing smile on her features. "I think we found ourselves a keeper, Nat."

Natasha, still trying to catch her breath, nodded her head. "Oh, yes," she murmured, her eyes fluttering closed as you pulled out of her. She was deliciously messy, your cum spilling out of her as she lay there, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure.

This breakup wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

READ PT 2 HERE

#communicatethrulyrics #wlw fanfic #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #lesbian nsft #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff #wanda x you #mommy wanda #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x you #wandanat #wandanat x reader #natasha romanoff smut

363 notes · View notes

bhaalble · 1 year ago

Text

Insane about Orin again. What makes me nuts (/pos) is the wildly different impressions you get of her on a Tav run vs a Durge run. On a Tav run Orin is functionally murder royalty. Her assassins are kept well in-line, she bears the mantle of slayer. Sarevok tells you about her lineage of Bhaalspawn and how early on she was singled out as special. She was the youngest ever Unholy Assassin and a literal mouthpiece of Bhaal as a child. Gortash definitely views her as unstable and plans to sever the alliance regardless, but it feels much more like a concern for his own safety than anything else.

Contrast this to a Durge run where she's talked about as the perpetual upstart. Scleritas of course contributes to this in a big way, needling at her sheltered Temple existence as opposed to Durge's experience of the outside world. Sarevok is MUCH more dismissive of her and her accomplishments, all but saying he's rooting for you to take her down a peg. You find journal entries from Durge calling her murder tableaus a waste of not only her time, but Bhaal's. Its up for debate how much Gortash MEANS anything he says to Durge but his clear preference seems to be something even she's aware of. I haven't yet found any dialogue that indicates whether or not the incident when she killed her mother where Bhaal used her as a mouthpiece still happened in a Durge run. Assuming it did, how must that feel to have all that happen and yet your father still passes his favor to someone else! His Chosen, not you but some purer incarnation of his blood. His Slayer, not you who have killed even your own kin in his name, but the lobotomized wreck of your half-sibling who may even be working against him. There's so much you can reflect off of how Bhaal treats the Durge if they lose the duel, the way his favor (or lack thereof) can dominate the whole of your existence. The sibling trauma is DEEP and visceral

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #orin the red #dark urge #dark urge spoilers #bhaal

514 notes · View notes

ariellebobbwillis · 3 months ago

Text

Arielle Bobb-Willis: Keep the Kid Alive Photo Book

Keep the Kid Alive, Arielle Bobb-Willis’s first book, invites audiences into a brightly imaginative world, filled with dynamic colors, gestures, and unusual poses of the artist’s own creation. Transforming the streets of New Orleans, New York, and Los Angeles into lush backdrops for her wonderfully surreal tableaus, Bobb-Willis makes unforgettable images that expand the genres of fashion and art photography. “I love the idea of seeing Black people represented in an abstract way,” Bobb-Willis says. “It’s important to me to continue to reject the notion that Black expression is limited—or limiting.” With a conversation between Bobb-Willis and a dynamic range of artists, stylists, and creatives who speak about keeping their “inner kid” alive, this book captures a definitive young artist’s unconventional world building.

136 notes · View notes

dhampling · 9 months ago

Text

oh, mother fem!reader, 3.3k

A whimper at your feet as you nurse. The way he ebbs at the corner of your maternal tableau. The flit of an incalescent glaze before he nestles into your houseskirt as if a child caught mid-swindle seeking some kind of sanctuary. - It's the mummy fic. cw: lactation, breeding mentions, age regression (?), smut, astarion as a content warning, humping, feeding, afab reader, MUMMY, dadstarion, cockwarming w/c: 3.3k

Astarion looks over his shoulder from the homespun carpet, book limp in hand.

Like the written word could hold any comparable weight whilst you’re there decalescent and milk-swollen above him.

A whimper at your feet as you nurse. The way he ebbs at the corner of your maternal tableau.

The flit of an incalescent glaze before he nestles into your houseskirt as if a child caught mid-swindle seeking some kind of sanctuary. The way he strokes something so very gentle at your swollen shin, head stirring as he searches for purchase atop an aching thigh.

Your eyes leisurely as they cut between the infant latched to your heavy breast and the restless chit by your legs on the ground.

“Hm?”

The youngling gurgles in sleepy succour.

Astarion rolls his head forward with a lazy smile, saccharine in holding his tongue between teeth.

“This. All of this. Dreamy, isn’t it?”

His voice is silken against the low crackle of the fire. The shallow suckling breaths at your chest.

“Mhm.”

Your fatigue is wholly joyous in its maudlin haze, your agreement a free and light hum.

The man at your heel, the child he gave you; the wonder as he watches on - her little face scrunching as she swallows, the hint of a cough as you lightly adjust where she lies in the crook of your arm. A small coo.

There’s a strange look in his eye. Not the reverent fatherly gaze you’d come to expect from your husband in the months since you’d become a mother. Instead he seems fallible.

Round-eyed, gentle;-

Lamblike. The restless sheepling. Marvelling and timid.

“You’re a vision.”

Your eyes meet and you dare him to hold the stare in his yielding state.

You’ve become somewhat of a recluse in spending time with your daughter, and she certainly isn’t begrudging of the tangle of hair atop your head, nor the span of your torso kept so soft and warm on which for her to lie. The heavy swell of your breasts, the intermittent spotting where milk bleeds through your tailored house clothes.

It’s not that you necessarily feel any certain way about your physical attributes at present but you’ve definitely felt cleaner. Been better presented.

Mother.

Astarion’s face is pure butter, muddled and waxen as his brows draw together. Quietly roused in a moment of recondite.

Whatever runs through his head is new.

Lashings of fresh rain hammer the windowpane. The claw of winter, dark streets; seeping stone. The umber flickers of the fire on the wall. Heat licks the side of your face closest.

Glowing.

She groans a gentle burble. Her lips smack together softly as she finishes and you lift her from your chest, tucking your breast back into your slip and bringing her into the crook of your arm.

There’s a moment where his head tilts as if to speak.

“She’s tired.” You whisper whilst running a finger along her cheek. Small eyes of glimmering ruby, lids lulling open and closed. More quiet gurgling as she fidgets.

“I’ll take her. Rest, love.’

Astarion stands from crossed legs, twirling around to lean over the little one; over you. Runs his wiggling fingers over her small frame in little taps.

‘My darling girl! Princess of the Kingdom Sleep.’

Large hands lift her from your chest into his. A gentle rock as he does so.

‘This simply won’t do, will it? Let’s take you upstairs.”

He taps her nose on ‘you’. She sneezes violently.

You watch them both from the lounger as he steps through the arch and round the corner, up the spiral staircase and padding softly to your shared chamber. Balmy quiet. More rain.

Your first Lover’s Day as three feels poignant.

Despite keeping from the sun - and therefore sleeping the actual day away - in the stormy night your home brims sweet with ardour. A bubble of somnolence; a barge at sea.

A year of calm. Stillness. Establishing yourselves in your respective newfound freedoms and figuring out who you are; both alone and together. A conscious effort and one rewarded just months earlier with her.

“You’re so… soft with her.’

You don’t hear him reenter the room as he comes behind you and closes the door to the den with two chalices in hand, a bottle in the other. He doesn’t miss the brow quirk.

‘Dealcholised. Don’t worry’

The top uncorked.

‘I fail to see the fun in it myself, but ‘needs must’ and all that.”

A hint of the player’s tone. You laze back as he returns to his place at your heel, handing you a glass of honey mead.

“I’m her mother. Of course I’m soft with her.”

You take a large sip and recline.

Astarion snakes an arm around your leg, leaning in and planting a gentle kiss to the flushed skin.

“You. Her mother.’

He takes a large gulp and swills the sweet tincture around his teeth.

‘I still can’t quite believe it. The baby part, that is -’

A shake of his head. A brief grimace, puzzled yet pleased. Wholly adorative and you can see the retrospective of recent memories fly through his head.

‘You as a mother on the other hand. As if it were meant -’

Kiss.

‘To’

Kiss.

‘Be.”

His lips close on your shin, habitual breath fanning cool over the hot flesh.

“Mhm?”

He looks up at you with those big round eyes once more, a reticent smile. Head tilting to you coyly.

“You. You’re a vision. An absolute vision.”

“You like it?”

“It’s-’

He falters in that moment of recondite from before. Seeks avail.

‘I watch you care for her and it makes me weak at the knees. Your little love.’

The last words whispered in fond awe. His hands wave around his face in a considered manner.

‘You provide for her, hells. Nurture her. Hold her close to you in this beautiful, unconditional love; no matter the hour.’

Your love for him. He wonders if it will stretch to the words on the tip of his tongue, but he’d be a fool not to try.

‘And I-”

“You think you might want it too?”

He sags. Still round-eyed, but the corners of his mouth noticeably dip.

“Yes. I- I suppose I do.”

You’re not surprised, though you’re impressed that he voices it so plainly. In your mind every instance he’s retreated into you plays in vivid colour. Each time he’s held you close, so innocently; as a child may a parent. Not often. Not boldly. But the want is there.

Maybe it’s the taste of the mead, despite the lack of alcohol. Fizzy and heady.

But no. You want this. You want to show him you care in the most innate way you’re able; unearthed in the way you care for her.

Your darling. The Rogue of the Gate. Brittle-boned and weak following years on years of isolation and hurt but here; eyes aflame, wide open at your heel and healing.

He runs his hand absentmindedly up and down your leg as you ponder.

“What do you want, my love? Tell me.”

Your voice is pure honey as you keen into his touch a little further. Yielding. Relishing the pads of his cool fingers; a salve to your inflamed limbs.

The whine from earlier. You remember it. The bridled snare of his tense coil, watching you mothering his child and aching for you to cosset him too. The soft mindless touches. The way you feed her from your breast as you do him from your neck. His knee-jerk rutting against your leg.

He sits in sullen silence for a moment.

Then, his eyes meet yours once more. A wary hand slips up to your thigh; deft fingers circling the doughy inner skin. You part your legs at his touch.

“It’s okay, darling boy.’

You lean forward from your slouch and hold his head in your hands, legs open; back arched as your thighs remain open. Low and soft as you bring your mouth down.

‘It’s okay. What do you need?’

Astarion shivers. Guttural. Frozen in sheer terror. Lust as you cradle his head close to your aching breasts. Real, unfettered lust. Every sprawling emotion, each moment spent searching for someone to see him with comfort in their eyes in those early hours two hundred years ago.

He sometimes forgets he’s allowed to feel anything remotely desirable when he’s like this. Forgets he’s with you. Forgets he can covet you and still keep you past dawn.

Old habits die hard.

‘Come back to me now, sweetheart.’ You whisper, tongue ghosting over the outer contour of his ear as he continues his ministrations at the inner skin of your thigh. Tips flushed red.

‘Come to mummy.”

The groan spilling from his lips is inhuman. The hesitant hand diving between your legs turns to an iron grasp in record time.

Pliable. Ass pert on the sofa cushions.

“Can I?” He whispers, clutching feverishly at the pillowy skin.

“Use your words, Astarion. Come on.”

His ear is his soft spot. Tender, sensitive; flushed with blood from waking bites.

“Can I?”

Your eyes are featherlight as they roll into your skull. Burning cheek, thighs strong.

“Please.’

His head lifts from the crease of your knee as he braces himself to stand - eyes meeting yours in a sheer devotion that wracks every inch of your scalding frame.

‘Come to me.”

You shuffle so there’s room for him atop the cushions, and he crawls into the space between you legs as you hold his arms. Your angel. Forlorn with a lack of direction akin to that on his face when you first met. His eyes weary; heavy in their low-lidded gaze.

The parting of your legs once more. The way he inhales.

“Mother. Mother.”

“I’m here, love. My darling. I’m here.”

Astarion queries the break in your thighs once more with a desperate hand. Leans in closer with a small choked sob.

“What do you need, my love? What can I give you?”

Your ability to provide for him. Enough to make him hard each time - the fact you offer it freely in his home, atop his embroidered cushions; the primal need to comfort him with your body. He resonates with it. Yearns for it. Freely given and given free.

“Can I touch you, please?”

Thighs part as bullrushes in wading season. You think about his pale prick, standing alert in his trousers.

“Come here.”

You expect his hand to resume the agonising crawl up your thigh, but instead it moves to palm at your wetness quicker than you think. His leaky bride. He searches for evidence of your desire and he finds it in abundance through the cloth of your undergarments, and instead of the typical smarmy response you’d come to anticipate-

He simply gasps.

Mouth heavy with spit. Thick with joy, lust; ripe having seen the proof of your need for him. To take care of his ruined body and learning mind.

Your hands move to your chest as he looms over you, peeling the slip down from your breasts so you can relieve the ache that wracks them. Heavy. Painful in their retention, nipples distended as wholly engorged with milk.

“Fuck.”

“Swearing in front of mummy? Rather unbecoming, no?”

His eyes roll back into his skull, this time from jovial relief. He’s still in there. No disassociation, no hurt as you sigh, as your hands move to relieve the ache from your teats; rolling your nipples in practised tandem and riding the air with the subsequent high.

He groans once more. Straddles your lap as his hips move to hump the air by your soft belly. Desperate thrusts. Wanting. Needing more and more of your validation.

It’s not until your aching nipples do something most unexpected that you moan alongside him. Longing. Your lover - his face now spattered with your drips. Forehead, cheekbones; the space between his nose and lips; all adrip with the sweetest fluid he’s ever been baptised with. Milk dribbles from each of your teats and flows into the one neat pearl hanging from each.

Astarion’s eyes meet yours, and in that moment you feel it deep in your abdomen.

“You want to taste?’

A meek nod. A solemn promise. Those lips of a charlatan.

“Can I do something first? Please?”

You wonder how many silken lies have spilled from that tongue in some desperate sense of bravado over the years. How the performance has no audience here any longer.

“Tell me. What do you want?”

You struggle against the moan desperate to spill from your lips. You want nothing more than to become clay in his capable hands, and yet you know you must remain as you are. Stoic. Liberal with a chiding tongue should he need it.

“Will you warm me while I do?”

“Are you hard, my love?”

“Please, mother.’

He lifts your wrist from your chest to the apex of his thighs, manoeuvring your palm by the back of your hand so it presses deep on his aching cock. Hard. Pulsing. Searching for somewhere to bury deep inside and be warm in comfort.

‘Mummy. Please.”

His use of ‘mummy’ throws you a million miles off course on a wayward comet of pure desire, hurtling through a new sky in hearing it in his downy timbre. A mere whisper. You see for a brief moment the small elven boy he once was as he seeks comfort in you, ears out at a point, eyes folded something crestfallen.

Your tits ache as you reach down to free your cunt, rolling the linen down your legs in a sweat-laden stupor and throwing the piece aside as Astarion strokes his cock.

“Fill me, sweet one. Let me look after you.”

Whatever remaining crumbs of resolve he has dissipate at the sound of your voice, rolling to pull you onto his lap and holding you in a hover above his fat head, slit leaking clear as it rests against his shirt.

There’s a moment where you look at him fondly, as an equal.

Then as you sink onto the pointedly hard length of his weeping cock you see the softening of his face and you want nothing more in all the realms than to baby him like he wants of you. To hold him close, soothe his aching need for your body; for your guidance and wit, for your humour and want. For the way you smell warm, like domestic heaven; so much like someone who cares for him as if he were born directly from you.

A part of him was. The part of him now alive and breathing, asleep upstairs in the cot beside your shared bed.

This part of him however now feels it close. Feels the way your spongy walls yield to him. The way you want to please him and be pleased.

You allow yourself one roll of your hips as you shift to accommodate his sharp length, holding a moan in the back of your throat and wriggling so you sit comfortably above him. This isn’t about the fervent dance to reach a peak. It’s for him.

Leaking teats now at eye level, large droplets of milk freed in your shifting. He pulses inside you as he asks with big round eyes. A taste - and who are you to deny your favourite boy?

With a nod from you, his lids flutter shut and his tongue brushes sharp fangs to lick softly at your nipple. The sweet cloud of nectar dissipates on the surface and his whimper rocks you straight to your core, the brief wince as you feel the kick of his cock inside you.

Hungry. The only way you can describe the sound biting at his throat.

“So good! So good.”

He nods softly at your encouragement, looking to you once more; seeking permission to take a wholly distended nipple into his waiting mouth.

You arch forward in response. A gentle ‘yes’.

The veiny flesh of your breast forms a lightning-visceral halo of blues and greens around his soft curls as you look down. Wet kitten licks, soft suckling; coaxing the warmth from within as you card a steady hand through his hair.

His hips begin to roll a little. Your other hand moves to anchor him.

“Ah-ah. Rest now. My beautiful boy. You’re doing so well. You don’t need to move, do you?”

He shakes his head frantically around your nipple. A furious refute.

“Good. Good boy. Do this for you.”

There’s a moment where he loses himself fully in the taste of you. The sheer mass of your newly-fattened nipples, the way they feel as he pushes against; over them with his cool wet tongue. Soft yet aching. Rubbery. Abundant. Listens to the rain hammering the window.

Then a hand reaches out. Grabs at your clothed waist, palm basking in the body heat; lifting your skirt just a little further up your thighs to gain access to the bud of your swollen clit and smooth the hood up and over. Exposed. Curious as to how far he can go.

When he starts to circle the white-hot flesh you know you have to focus.

This isn’t about you.

And yet he murmurs something under his breath. You aren’t sure if you’ve heard properly at first.

“Want to feel you cum around me.”

Astarion can’t meet your eyes as he says it. All sense of grandiloquence he’s ever shown anyone lost behind flush cheeks. Vulnerability.

“Say it again.”

“I want to give to you.”

“You want to give to me, or you want me to give it to you?”

He stops. Looks at you with a bewildered furrow.

“I want you to stop touching me and focus on yourself. Use me, sweetheart. Take your pleasure.”

The furrow remains for a moment or two as he stews in blank thought.

“Talk to me. I can do it, I’m so close already.” He laughs shyly with an eager pulse of his cock.

“You want to spill in me again? Make mummy round once more, sweet one?’

A brisk nod. Desperation deep set as he looks you over.

“It’s okay! You’re allowed to want this, to take it.’ You lean in to his ear once more and bite calmly at the tip.

His eyes screw shut and his lips purse together.

‘I want you to do this.”

And he cums. Hard.

Tries to bounce you on his lap in order to gain some friction in the waves of brutal frustration biting at his core, grunting and wailing as he grabs at whatever of you he can. Hips, ass, thighs; terse and hot.

And you simply coo.

Refusing to let him move you, nor take solace in the friction you so willingly often provide. His abdomen tenses something staccato as he takes what little purchase he can and tries to push into you further.

And then, he begins to weep.

Your hand moves to his hair once more, bringing him in to your chest as he attempts to hump you through his climax.

“There now. Good boy.”

Tears as he finishes. Cold-heavy sobs. Mouth absentmindedly searching for the soft of your neck in the rolling haze and biting. Gnawing. Looking for the pulse point now permanently marked by two bloody spots.

He feels the nod you so freely give and sinks his fangs deep past the skin.

Ruts up with his now softened cock, suckles like a small lamb. The sluice of his spend pooling on his pelvis.

“Good boy. Take what you need, always. I’ve got you.”

The haze passes with each sip from you, blood puddling under his tongue and down his perfect throat. The frustration melts into sheer joy as he hugs you close in small peals of laughter.

“Gods. That was -’

He pauses for one last sip before tilting his head to look at yours.

‘That was phenomenal, love.’

You take a moment to look him over for any signs of discomfort, anything that might indicate he’s putting on a front for you; and there’s nothing. No veil. His eyes are empty in post-orgasmic bliss and he looks so incredibly beautiful in such joy.

‘I’m wholly spent. I really am.”

You laugh at his breathy shakes.

“Mummy is here whenever the urge should strike, darling. You know this.”

He rolls his eyes and grins.

“Oh mother. How could I forget?”

#my writing #astarion x reader #astarion #astarion ancunin #dadstarion #nsft

251 notes · View notes

sarahowritesostucky · 9 months ago

Text

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 3720

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

4. Cake Doughnuts (shitty non-doughnuts)

This is not the way Mary expected her life to go. Divorced at 29, probably unemployed, and now declared mentally incompetent and legally attached to some stranger? Ew.

At least when the cops had dragged her into the ER, she’d been drunk still. But she’s sobered up a lot since then, and ever more so during the drive from the hospital to back to Brooklyn. It’s the most awkward car ride of her life. Steve’s the one who drives. Mary doesn’t know why that surprises her, but it does. And he’s the one who leads the way into their building and up the stairs. It’s an older building with character but no elevator, so they make the three story climb on foot. Another resounding Ew.

Mary walks silently around Bucky’s (and Steve’s—because of course he’s gay and married) apartment, feeling shy and hesitant and all the things she just really doesn’t want to be feeling right now. She stops when she gets to the second bedroom, stares at its pristinely tucked-in sheets and neutral tableau.

“You can bring over any stuff you need from your place,” Steve is saying gently from behind her, where he and Bucky are lingering in the hallway. “It’ll be your room. We won’t bother you in there.”

She whips around. “How long do I have to stay here?” Better to figure it out now. Make a plan. She glares at Bucky, since he’s the one in charge of this disaster. “I’m not staying here forever.” Steve looks even sadder at her words than Bucky does, kind of like a kicked puppy. It’s disconcerting, so Mary keeps her attention on Bucky instead, forcing herself to make eye contact. “Well?”

“Until I feel like it’s safe and healthy for you to be on your own,” he says, not a hint of sympathy in his tone. That’s disappointing, and it pisses Mary the hell off.

“Screw you,” she says, not particularly loudly, but definitely full of all the contempt she feels for this guy. “You think you can just—”

He’s got her pushed up against the wall faster than she can track with her eyes. One second she’s standing feet away from him, and the next she just … isn’t. He’s in her space and against her body, one hand at the base of her throat and a thigh pressing forward, holding her to the wall. It’s terrifying and shocking and …

“Oh I know ‘I can just’,” he says darkly.

… She’d rather eat glass than tell him what else it is. “Let go of me,” she grits out.

Disappointingly, he does. Steve is just standing there like a big idiot, blinking wide eyes at the scene. Bucky takes a full step back from her and says, “Don’t curse at me, Mary. It’s disrespectful.”

She wants to ask him exactly what he’s done to earn any respect from her. She grinds the words into her teeth instead while Bucky watches her knowingly. She hates that look almost as much as she hates the way he says her name, as if he’s known her for years rather than a millisecond.

“House rules,” he says calmly. “The practicalities of what’s going to happen. We should discuss that, don’t you think?”

Steve places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, comes up beside him and wraps an arm around his waist in a way that reminds Mary that the two are a couple. “Hey,” he says softly, speaking in Bucky’s ear. “Why don’t we let her get some rest before you go asserting your dominance, huh?” Mary wrinkles her nose at the word, and Steve regards her kindly. “You’ve gotta be tired,” he says. “You want to sleep?”

Bucky looks like he’ll protest, so Mary nods quickly. “Yeah. Yeah I’m tired.”

She watches as Steve squeezes his husband’s shoulder. “Come on, Babe. Let’s leave her to get some rest. She’s been up all night.”

Suddenly, Mary realizes that she has been up all night, and it’s almost comical, how fast the exhaustion hits her. Her throat starts to ache with a yawn that she fights not to let out in front of them. “Yeah,” she says again, this time thinking less about Bucky and what he wants or doesn’t want, and more about the bed that Steve said was reserved for her. She remembers that she feels like absolute shit, and probably looks it, too. “M’gonna sleep,” she says, turning away from both of them and heading for the bed.

The door ‘snicks’ shut softly behind her, and she assumes it was Steve who closed it. The two men's muffled voices fade off down the hallway, and even though it’s probably naïve to trust them so easily, Mary believes what Steve said about them not bothering her in this room.

She collapses on the bed that is exactly as soft as it looks. The sheets are tucked with military precision and smell like no one’s ever used them before. Mary grinds her face into the cool pillows and briefly wonders if Steve and Bucky have never had any company over to use this bed, before falling into one of the deadest sleeps of her life.

She wakes up feeling much, much better. Steve and Bucky’s guest bedroom has an en-suite, so she goes in and does her best to freshen up with the toiletries she finds stocked there.

There are three Advil Liqui-gel capsules sitting on the bedside table when she comes out. Mary regards them sharply and glances back to the door, but it’s still closed, no sign of life heard from outside in the hallway. Either the pills were there earlier and she just didn’t notice them, or else Steve is a lot stealthier than he looks. Twisting her lips, she scoops the pills up and tosses them back to fend off the headache she can already feel brewing behind her temples.

A quick search of the room’s dresser drawers yields nothing, and she’s forced to face the fact that she’s going to have to do this confrontation dressed in only her huge tee shirt from the night before. No matter, she thinks, squaring her shoulders and reaching for the doorknob. She’s got a new strategy in mind.

“I’m sorry,” she says, when she ventures out to find Bucky and Steve sitting in the living room.

Steve reaches for the remote to mute the tv, and Bucky sits back with a doughnut that he’s just plucked from a box on the coffee table. He bites into it, looking only vaguely interested "Want one?"

She spares a glance at the box. "Are they yeasted?"

"What's that mean?" Steve asks.

Another glance reveals that they're not, and Mary turns her nose up at them. "It means you're eating shitty, overbaked cake, not a doughnut," she says snottily.

Steve just blinks and looks back at the box with a little frown. Bucky takes another huge bite of his doughnut and chews it, maintaining eye contact with her and speaking around his mouthful, "Weren't you sorry for something?"

Mary purses her lips and starts over with her contrition act. “Yes. Look, I know you guys are just trying to help me. And I know I probably seem like such a hot mess to you right now.”

“Cause you are,” Bucky drawls.

Mary quells the urge to go over there and slap the doughnut straight out of his hands. That won’t help her with this new strategy she’s decided on. ‘Honey versus vinegar’, and all that. “Yeah,” she says instead. “So I’ll admit, my life hasn’t been going very well lately. And I really did need some help.” She forces herself to give Bucky a friendly smile. “So I’m glad you were willing to step in and help me. Thank you.” Bucky is looking at her way, way too unimpressed, and Mary squirms in place, thinking that he should be looking happier at what she’s just said. “Well?” she says.

He chews another bite of doughnut for a solid five seconds, swallows, then says, “How much did it hurt you to spit that out?”

She scowls. “I was trying to be nice.”

“Mm hm.” He pats the couch beside himself in a clear invitation. “Come sit down. Have a doughnut.”

She’s obeying before she even thinks about it, though at least she has the sense to take a seat on Steve’s side of the L-shaped sectional, and not Bucky’s. “I’m not hungry,” she says, just as her stomach gives a small growl.

“Well clearly that’s a lie,” Steve chuckles.

Mary glances over at him, peeved, but decidedly less so than she is at Bucky. Steve just seems less … threatening, maybe. Whatever it is, Mary pushes it from her mind.

“Look, I’ll stick around for a few hours or something if you really want to make sure I’m okay,” she says, attention back on Bucky, because she can already tell that he’s the one she’s got to convince. “But then I have to get back to my apartment.” She sees Bucky’s expression shutter at this and quickly adds, “I understand that you’re responsible for me, temporarily, technically. And I appreciate what you’ve done. I don’t want to cause you guys any more trouble than I already have. I’m going to take steps to take better care of myself now. And we can … we can keep in touch if you want. Just so you don’t ... you know … worry.” By the end of her speech she’s lost confidence, as she can see from Bucky’s expression that this is not being received well.

"Is that all?" he asks, eyebrow arched.

“Bucky,” she complains, floundering. “Come on. This isn’t … I mean you can’t just, adopt me, or whatever. I’m not some stray dog. You don’t even know me!"

He nods. “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t.”

For one brief, overly-optimistic moment, she thinks that she’s actually going to get out of it that easy.

“But I’ll get to know you. Because you’re not leaving here anytime soon, Honey.”

All of that optimism tanks straight into a sour pit of disappointment. Mary shoots up to standing, startling Steve a bit where he's reaching for the doughnut box. “Don’t call me that,” she snaps.

Bucky takes another smug fucking bite out of his doughnut. “What?” he asks. “‘Honey’?”

“Yes! I’m not your ‘Honey’. I’m not your anything.”

He licks the sugar off his lips and stares her down. “You like it when I call you that.”

“No, I hate it,” she sneers. “Just like I hate your smug, self-satisfied face. I hate men like you.”

Bucky relaxes further back into the sofa, gesturing at her with the last of the doughnut before he stuffs it in his mouth and eats it. “Men like me, huh?” he asks once he’s swallowed, infuriating in his nonchalance.

“Yes.”

He chuckles and starts sucking his fingers clean one by one. “And what would that be?” he drawls, letting his legs splay wide on the couch cushions, thigh muscles straining against the denim of his jeans. He sees her getting distracted and hums. “Hm? Pray tell, Little girl. Do enlighten me. What are 'men like me' like?”

For one, airless second, all Mary wants in the world is to drop to her knees right between his legs, put her face at the seam of his jeans and rub her cheek against his thigh, against his …

Her thoughts go unfocused, fuzzy at the edges, static in her brain. She licks her lips absentmindedly, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of how he’s positioned himself …

“Mary.”

The sound of her own name draws her out of it, like a slap. She meets his eyes and juts her chin out, half dizzy from the effort. “Men like you think they know everything,” she grits. “Think that they’re the end-all-be-all. Men like you don’t feel any compunction about stepping on everyone around them. Men like you think you’re so fucking smart, that you can’t even fathom the likely alternative.”

“And what would that be?”

“That you’re actually just a cocksure moron,” she hisses.

Bucky tips his head at Steve. “Stevie tells me I’m a moron every other Tuesday, don’t you Babe?”

Steve shrugs a little from where he's leaning forward, holding the lid of the doughnut box open while he tries to choose a flavor. “Well, yeah.”

Bucky smirks, so unaffected that Mary just wants to scream. “So," he says. "You ‘hate men like me’, huh?”

“Yes. I do."

“That’s why you’ve spent your whole life around them, then?”

“I …" She falters. "What?”

Bucky glances over to Steve, and the two of them have some sort of silent exchange overtop the lid of the doughnut box, wordlessly communicating in a way that evidences a years’ long relationship. When they both look back to her, it’s Steve who speaks first.

“We got to read up on you a little, while you were asleep,” he says. He nods to the laptop and packet of papers on the coffee table. “Did some research. Learned about what led up to this.”

“'This'? What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been under the control of domineering men your entire life,” Bucky says, interjecting more forcefully over Steve’s gentler tone—Mary feels like she’s getting whiplash between the two of them. “First it was your father, out in Bumfuck, Nowhereville,”

“Indiana,” Steve mutters.

“Whatever,” Bucky snaps, zeroing back in on Mary with glinting eyes. “And he was ‘that sort of man’, wasn’t he?”

Mary feels a little like she’s been punched in the gut. “So what?” she says. “So you looked me up? Hospital gave you info on me and now you think you know me? You don’t know shit.”

“Your whole life, he said jump and you said how high, right?” Bucky asks, clearly not wanting or needing an answer to the question. Maybe Mary’s expression is answer enough. She’s not quite sure what she must look like right now. Horrified maybe. Or furious. “And then you latched onto the first jerk who’d give you a ride out of town.”

“Shut up.”

“Married him, too. And that worked for you alright ... Until it didn’t.”’

The backs of her eyes are starting to feel hot. “I said: shut up,” she whispers.

Bucky nods and leans forward on the couch, as if her anger and humiliation mean nothing to him. And damn him, maybe they don’t. Maybe he likes this, the sick bastard. “If he hadn’t hit you so bad, you would’ve stayed. Right? He met your needs in every other way.”

Mary shudders. “What are you talking about?”

"I'm talking about self-medicating, Honey. It's what you've been doing. Probably since you were a little girl."

She's disgusted with herself for the tears that break through, unmoored by how Bucky knows all of these things about her, and that he's able to fill in the gaps so easily. “What the hell is your problem, huh?” She swipes angrily at her eyes. “What does any of that have to do with anything? Except for that it’s none of your goddamn business?!”

Bucky softens a little. He glances at Steve, who gives him a warning look. “Sweetheart,” he says, looking back at Mary plaintively. “The drinking and the cutting, the feeling miserable and being sad all the time; that all started after your divorce, yeah?”

That … is not what Mary expected him to say. She’d been expecting more insults, more heartless jabs at her past. “I … What?”

“Answer the question,” Steve urges gently. He looks like he’s in on some secret with Bucky, something only Mary doesn’t know.

“Yeah,” she admits warily. “I mean, divorce is … well it’s divorce. It sucks. Of course I wasn’t happy about it.” She scowls and crosses her arms. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that, dysfunctional as they were, you had very specific relationships with very specific types of men, until what, like a year ago?”

“... Year and a half,” she mutters, unease creeping up her spine at where she thinks this is going.

“Right. And that’s when all your troubles started. Because let's be real: you weren't hurting yourself before then." He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. "Why do you think that is, Mary? Why weren't you falling apart before? When you had a father touching you wrong, or a husband putting holes in your drywall?"

"Stop," she breathes.

He nods sadly. "It was was after, when you didn’t have those people in your life anymore, structuring it, telling you what to do. Once you were alone, that’s when you started to fall apart.” He levels her with a pitying gaze. "Now why do you think that is?"

Oh, hell no. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Mary says. She actually takes a physical step back from where she’s standing. “You think what? I was using my douche ex-husband as some sort of a … a dom? My freaking father?!”

“Mary, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” She jabs her finger at Steve, who’s spoken. If she thought she’d been angry at these two before, well now she’s just … she’s just … “You’re fucked up,” she tells them, voice full of quiet fury. “And you,” she points at Bucky. “You might be diagnosed with some freaking mental disorder or whatever, but that doesn’t give you the right to put that fucked up psychology onto everyone else!” She jabs her thumb at her own chest. “I’m normal! I’m not like you. I don't–I don’t have …”

“Mary,”

“No! I don’t. I–I didn’t …” Vaguely, she starts to recognize that her pulse is pounding in her ears, that it’s getting harder to draw breaths. “My f-fa, my, my f-father…”

Bucky stands up and comes towards her. “Mary,”

“No!” She makes to push away, to leave the room, but he closes in too fast and before she knows it, he has one hand on her throat and one at the base of her skull, gripping her hair. And it’s not mean, the way he’s holding her, but when she jerks away it tugs her hair unpleasantly and she whines and stills. “Let go,” she gasps, terrified by the way his hands make her feel.

“Steve, a little help?”

Her heart lurches as she hears Steve move, sees him getting up off the couch and coming over. “Wait,” she whispers, afraid and not understanding why. Not understanding why she’s even whispering in the first place, instead of screaming like she should be. “No, wait, wait—”

Steve is behind her, and even though he’s hardly even doing anything, just has his hands resting on her lightly, Mary still feels a tremor run through her whole body. She feels so trapped. Fixed in place and terrified, but not because she thinks they’ll hurt her.

Because suddenly she can draw a deep breath again.

And she can see the look in Bucky’s eyes, can see how he knows that. “Please,” she whispers, closing her eyes when tears well to the surface. “Please, just, I just need to …”

“You’re okay,” Bucky soothes. “You’re okay, Mary. Just breathe against my hand. Breath against me, against Steve.”

She shakes her head, even though she knows what he means. With her eyes squeezed shut like this, she can feel both him and Steve so solidly, can feel the points where their bodies connect with hers. When she inhales, she feels them there. “What the hell?” she winds up whispering, more to herself than to them.

“You were starting to have a panic attack,” Steve murmurs. He hugs her from behind, and Mary shivers but doesn’t try to shrug him off.

“I don’t have those,” she says. Even to her own ears, it sounds weak. “I don’t,” she insists.

“First time for everything,” Bucky says.

They stand there for a long minute or two. Hell, maybe it’s more. As long as Mary keeps her eyes shut, she can at least pretend that it’s only a minute. It’s only once she opens her eyes that she has to face reality. When she does, she sees that Bucky’s watching her keenly. He looks … sad.

The thought that the man with one hand fisted in her hair and another wrapped around her throat is concerned for her strikes Mary as almost comical. She doesn’t laugh, but she also doesn’t feel close to crying anymore. “I’m okay,” she rasps, swallowing thickly. “I’m okay now.” Shaky maybe, but better. She can breathe again. “Really, I–I am.”

“Yeah?”

She nods, and the motion makes her all the more aware of his hand on her throat. She has to fight back a pleasured sigh at the feeling of it, fight to keep her eyes from fluttering closed.

Bucky shifts in, sandwiching her even closer between their bodies. “So what?” he murmurs. “You want me to let go of you now?”

“Yeah,” she says, not feeling like she wants that at all. “Please.”

He hums. “You’re very good at saying ‘please’,” he observes. “And at telling me you’re not submissive.”

“M’not,” she insists, trying harder to make her voice firm, or at least more than a pathetic, breathy whimper. She looks him in the eyes again.

When had she stopped looking him in the eyes? She can’t remember. She feels like she’s watching this all happen through the lightest sort of fog, or maybe in slow motion, like a videotape playing at only 70% speed. Something like that, she thinks dazedly. She doesn’t feel like she has to worry about it, though. It's warm and heavy and nice here; like being under bathwater.

Bucky’s not looking at her in concern anymore. He looks more relaxed now, nicer, his eyes softer around the edges. And he hasn't let go of her, either.

“She down?”

That’s Steve’s voice, coming from right behind. Mary likes the way she can feel the quiet rumble of it where he’s pressed to her back.

“Mmhm. Waay down.”

“Is it normally that easy?”

Bucky chuckles, it's a nice sound that Mary likes, the richness of it making her want more, like how chocolate makes you want more.

“No, it’s not. This is deprivation, right here. Poor thing.”

“Is she gonna be okay?”

“Oh, sure. We’ll just stay like this for a minute. She needs the contact."

Something about the two of them talking about her like she’s not there is … well it multiplies the bathwater feeling. She hears Steve asking a question, and Bucky making an unhappy noise and answering,

“It should never be this easy. Right now she’d go down for anyone, for even the smallest thing.”

“And she was working in the service industry?” A huff of breath hits Mary’s ear. “Jesus.”

“... Hey,” Mary says, sure that she should protest somehow.

But Bucky’s hand tightens just the barest bit on her throat, and he shushes her sweetly, tells her she’s a “good girl,” and kisses the top of her head.

And Mary pretty much forgets what she was going to say, after that.

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

🍵Consider tipping your friendly neighborhood starving artist smut author!

✍🏻Commissions: reach out via Tumblr DM or contact here

fill for

@badthingshappenbingo

card: sarah-writes-stucky / sarahyellow

Square N5: childhood trauma

166 notes · View notes

msbigredmachine · 10 months ago

Text

Voyeur (Jimmy Uso/OC) *Seven Paragraph Challenge*

A/N: Thanks to my girl @harmshake for another challenge! I know I'm supposed to be prepping for interviews but I needed a stress reliever.

By the way, it's my first Jimmy fic! 😁 He's a bit different to write and I'm a little nervous. I hope I did him justice.

Click here if you want to be on my tag list. If I’ve forgotten anyone please let me know so I can add you.

Word Count: 725

Warning: Smut

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

One wrong turn led you here. Dragged you down the unfamiliar, winding maze of the massive arena and unearthed a sight you should never have seen. But here you stood in the empty hallway, the sole witness to the sleazy tableau mere feet away. Only one month into your new job, you were convinced you had seen all of the wild antics of the wrestlers you were in charge of. But this…definitely took the cake.

Slumped against an equipment crate with an unknown woman kneeling between his spread legs, Jimmy Uso groaned. You stood frozen as you watched him watch her, his big paw cupping the back of her head as it bobbed back and forth, his grunts of pleasure mingling with the slobbers of her mouth around his cock. A voice in your head screamed at you to get out of there, that you shouldn't be watching this, but you just couldn't move. It was like you were mesmerized, unable to turn away from the erotic show. More interestingly, a powerful wave of jealousy washed over you, seeing the object of your affection being pleasured by someone else. You watched his mouth fall open and marveled at the beauty of his features; his full, parted lips, the thick healthy beard, the sheen of sweat lining the edges of his neat braids. As his head tipped backwards and his big body shivered in a telltale sign of an orgasm, you longed to be the one to do that to him, to bring him to that state of blood-pumping, soul-shaking euphoria. He let out a deep, satisfied exhale afterwards, gathering the woman’s hair in his fist and pulling her off him abruptly. Zeroing in on his exposed dick, your mouth watered. Fuck, it looked so good...

It was then that both parties finally sensed the intruding presence in the air. Looking up, Jimmy locked eyes with you before you even realized that you'd been caught. He grinned unashamedly, like the cat that got the canary, making your stomach lurch from a mix of horror and lust. The woman jumped to her feet, her expression emblazoned with embarrassment as she hurriedly wiped her mouth with her sleeve. You didn’t recognise her, but your hands itched to throttle her for even touching him. She yelped as Jimmy slapped her ass right before scurrying past you with no eye contact whatsoever. Jimmy zipped his pants back up and approached you, a smirk lining his gorgeous features as he eyed you up and down.

"Ay, new girl…didn’t your mama teach you not to stare?" His dark gaze was penetrating and seemed to strip you down to your bare bones. Feeling naked, you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, your face warming as he licked his lips and loomed over you, like a predator closing in on its prey. He looked so good in that red jacket; his cologne was sweet and wafted through your nostrils, causing your heart to pound and your pussy to flutter with desire.

"You liked that, didn’t you? Watchin’ her suck me off, huh?” he purred, cupping your chin with his fingers, smiling as the answer twinkled in your eyes. "I seen the way your fine ass been lookin’ at me since your first day here.” His thumb brushed over your mouth, teasing the seam that parted your lips. “You want me, baby? It's just us now, you can tell me. Don’t be shy.”

You couldn’t help yourself. His words were hypnotizing, seductive and laden with carnal promise that you ached for. Your response was to scoop his thumb into your mouth, staring into his dark, beautiful irises as you sucked it with intent, showing him that you were far more talented than that bitch could ever be. The soft groan that sounded from his throat stroked your ego, and you sucked it for a little longer, licking at the thick digit one last time before slipping it out of your mouth. The air between you crackled, hot and tense and fierce. Without taking his eyes off you, Jimmy dipped his hand into your pocket and took out your phone. He tapped in his phone number, sent a quick text message, and grinned as his own device beeped seconds later, confirming he now had your number too.

“I just sent you my hotel info. Come over after the show. And bring your things. You stayin’ with me tonight,” he instructed, handing you your phone back. You regarded each other one final time, for now, both your bodies blazing with hunger and anticipation as he turned and walked away without another word.

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

A/N: Ok I'm going back to studying. I'll be back in full tumblr action next week!

Please leave comments! I love comments!

Credit to the owners of the gif and pic.

Tagging everyone else: @jxtina-86 @wrestlingprincess80 @fame-ass-ers��@southerngirl41 @alyyaanna @squishyguishy @jstarr86 @murrylove @thewarlordsworld @mzv11 @cozyaliensuperstar7 @nayys-world @hunnidmilly @cyberdejos2 @papireigns-05 @niknakbucks92 @captainwithoutmakingitlove @sovereigngoth @aisharmi @kennedi0818 @alichesmi @thesamoanqueen @herwickedlittlesins @harmshake @questionable-behaviour @tribalchiefreigns @2-muchsauce @thatbxtchsblog @raya-hunter01 @marchi36753 @lovelysuccess @christinabae @wooahmiri @thatonecarebear @tabletheofhead @rheaanddamianfan @vebner37 @hanley1577 @princessesareforsuckers @-naturally @joannasteez @bbygirlky18 @lilucey @theninthwonder @melaninsugababy @chocovibesonly @msbluehaz3 @scarlettnoir01 @heerah34 @empressdede @tbmotw @darkangelchronicles @visionarymode @marasdeathnote @aintnorainbows @meggylynnloves @shantinextdoor @harlemblipster @trc-punzel @afterdarkprincess @nbanenefrmdao @sassginaswanmills @purplehairgawdess @holisticcoach @girlwhogaf @royalkay23 @heyitsnajabrinee @stoner2k @reci1996 @catxo @iamimanim @lookmais @ts1mp0ne @shonny09 @lizzyd1ish @gomussy @m3llowww @skyesthebomb @final1miya

#jimmy uso #jimmy uso fanfiction #jimmy uso smut #the bloodline #jimmy uso x reader #jimmy uso x black reader #jimmy uso x black!oc #jimmy uso x oc #wwe #smackdown #the usos #the usos fanfiction

157 notes · View notes

ayylovley · 7 months ago

Note

can i get number 7 and 9 with eli jang 🥺

7. They start developing dirty thoughts about you 9. They’re obsessed after their first time with you

Once alone in his room, Eli made sure his door was locked. He just needed a few minutes, he needs to do something to himself right he just met you at the dinner party Vasco was throwing. It wasn’t his fault he found you so, enchanting. The fact that you could’ve talked to anyone else at that party and it was him that you seemed to not be able to leave alone.

But Eli definitely didn’t mind it, quite the opposite actually. He lets out a low groan and collapses onto the bed, thoughts consumed by the intoxicating vixen that he found you were. “(Y/N)… what are you doing to me?" He murmurs into the darkness, imagining all the desires he needs to explore with you.

Within left in his thoughts, the image of you just began appearing, with every shift of himself, the noise of his mattress creaking creating this imagination of how it'd sound if he had you underneath him.

Crying out for him, and making the bed creak so much louder.

Eli feels that phantom sensation of your body against his own as his mind runs wild, the creaking of the bed amplifying the vivid fantasy "Fuck..." He rasps out, hand slipping under the waistband of his shorts at the thought of feeling every inch of your surrender to him.

In this moment alone Eli succumbs fully to the desire burning within - stroking faster, lost in daydreams of your moans and the scent of your skin. Everyone oblivious to his self pleasure when his hand holds his girthy cock so hard his arms flexes. Picturing those eyes rolling back in ecstasy as he drives himself into you over and over, it spurs him on relentlessly

"Oh yes...just like that..." Eli groans aloud, the imagination of your imagined bodies colliding echoing through the quiet night air

It isn't long before his own climax hits hard, a throaty growl escaping him as he paints his chest white with release “Mmm, I'll have you screaming for more.” He promises the empty room, basking briefly in the afterglow before cleaning up and drifting into a satisfied sleep.

—

After Eli finally had you, he thinks about you a lot. Especially when he’s laying in his bed where he pounded you dumb. That night of made hardcore love did a number on him and it's left him slowly obsessed and longing.

Over the lonely nights spent without your warmth by his side, Eli finds himself increasingly consumed by thoughts - recounting every curve, touch and moan in vivid detail as he strokes his own yearning need beneath the sheets. Your ghostly presence seems to permeate every fiber of his being - an intoxicating obsession that has taken root deep within; each day stretching into the next until only the anticipation of seeing you again keeps him tethered to sanity.

He just knows that when he does, you’ll be back on your face down against his pillow and prepped with that ass up. Begging for more of him again, and again. It’s become his addiction.

The image conjured stirs an animalistic hunger within Eli; he can picture it all too vividly - he has you completely between his sheets - and the possessive protectiveness that grips him intensifies tenfold.

"Mine..."

He growls low under his breath at this mental tableau - a silent vow swirling through the stifling air of his room as day melts into night once more amidst their shared absence.

#lookism comic #lookism x reader #lookism webtoon #lookism

95 notes · View notes

bethanydelleman · 9 months ago

Note

what your thoughts on impact on Pride & Prejudice (2005)

So on the one hand, it probably brought a lot of new fans to Austen, something I assume because I was one of them. Always nice to see a new generation appreciating an excellent female writer, so that's a nice impact.

On the other hand, I blame 2005 for Darcy Shyboi (he ain't shy) and Bingley the Himbo (he's not stupid). This was a change from 1995 which had a very broody Darcy and an everyman Bingley. It's definitely had an impact on how people view those characters, even after reading the novel, and it has influenced depictions in fan fiction. I personally see this as negative, because it's not consistent with canon. Also, I feel like it's maligned my boy Bingles.

I don't know if this is an "impact" but it's certainly become a meme:

Neutral impact for that. Appreciate the hand flex all you want (though Elizabeth should have been wearing gloves...)

As an aside, the cinematography is very good and I appreciate the attempt to humanize some of the characters, specifically Mr. Collins, Mary Bennet, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet. I love how everyone stands around as if they are in a tableau. But, the costumes are a mess, the characterization is wrong (especially Darcy, Georgiana, and Mr. Collins), and the movie format probably isn't long enough to do the story justice.

#question response #P&P 2005 #adaptations #pride & prejudice #impact #I'm not a sociologist this is my best guess

110 notes · View notes

lenreli · 5 months ago

Text

content with splitting hairs [Dreamling Week Day 6 - Monochromatic]

[AO3] | [Dreamling Week '24 Masterpost]

Title from KMFDM's Spit or Swallow!

E, 5.8k. Hob dresses like how he wants to dress. Morpheus’s wardrobe is so ― dull, suits upon suits in black and white, an insanely boring monochromatic tableau, even his casual clothes are just the most basic black, no frills or patterns, drilled into him by his parents.

Morpheus tries to think ― but can’t, with the screaming and guitar riffs coming from the club, with Hob’s hands, covered in dark fingerless gloves as they go under his dress shirt, buttons ripping off along with his suit jacket.

And he doesn’t want to think ― wants to only feel and not overthink as he tends to do as he whines, even with his earlier wariness to enter such a dingy club bathroom, but he can only grab onto Hob’s leather jacket as they kiss, cold metal of a tongue piercing pressing against the top of his mouth, breath tasting of cheap whiskey.

“You came in here wearing this?” Hob asks, disbelieving as the zip of his pants gets pulled down, darkly-lined eyes staring at him and Dream swallows. “Terrible,” there’s a creak of leather as Hob kneels down and his eyes widen, brain stuttering as his dress pants get pulled down, and his cock, newly free, twitches under the other’s stare.

Whatever words he’s means to say come out as a garbled whine as Hob swallows him, cold metal against the underside of cock making him gasp, head thunking against the bathroom stall as he holds onto brown-grey hair, touching near the other’s ears, shells of them full of spiked earrings and he definitely doesn’t think as Hob does a stellar job of redirecting his brain through his dick.

Hob dresses like how he wants to dress. Morpheus’s wardrobe is so ― dull, suits upon suits in black and white, an insanely boring monochromatic tableau, even his casual clothes are just the most basic black, no frills or patterns, drilled into him by his parents. No chains or mesh or leather, even though he now lives in his own apartment, far away from his parent’s influence, an adult.

Once, he vaguely remembers the disgusted way his parent’s steered him away from a spiked choker as a teen, saying various disparaging things about the people who wear them, and of course their son won’t have a phase like those degenerates.

He doesn’t mean to spill this to Hob, considering they only just met recently. Morpheus blames the mind-blowing sex, as he worries if he’ll have to leave Hob’s apartment, stuffed full of odds and ends―”wow, if I ever meet your parents, I’m punching them in the face,” Hob says near his chest and he freezes, digesting the words as he settles himself back on Hob’s lap.

“That is a bit much,” he offers tentatively. Hob laughs, the other’s hands trailing up his back, dress shirt loosely covering him.

“I’ve been known to be that,” Hob says with a wriggle of his brows, the eyebrow piercing glinting blue in the light. “Well, no time to waste!” Hob chirps, pulling them up and Morpheus’s breath leaves him as they go to Hob’s bedroom. “Mesh shirt?” Hob glances at him, a hand on his beard as he opens his wardrobe with a flourish.

Morpheus’s eyes widen at the explosion of things in the other’s wardrobe, leather items falling out of the wardrobe as Hob grumbles and puts them back haphazardly, pulling out a black fishnet shirt and putting it against his chest. “How?” He breathes, staring at not only the black and chains, but various colours of all types.

“Bit too much at once, got it,” Hob nods and puts the shirt back, going into his wardrobe and picking up various shirts. “Mainly op shops, or stuff I’ve made myself, or got from others. Stolen.” Hob takes out a black shirt, giving him a critical look before shaking his head and putting it back in. “Ah-hah!” Hob grins as he takes out a long-sleeved black shirt with spikes on one shoulder, as well as leather straps joining the shoulder from either side.

Blinking, he gently takes the shirt, heart beating absurdly fast as he takes off his dress shirt and pulls on the other’s shirt. Looking down at his hands, he touches the spiked shoulder in amazement, the straps crinkling under his hands, and he notices silver along the cuffs, spiky bracelets that are stapled on.

“Well?” Hob asks, rocking back and forth on his chunky platforms, wide grin on his face.

“It’s,” he frowns, having no frame of reference for how ― right he feels, like something’s slotted into place, weight crumbling off of him as he feels the soft black fabric. “Yes.”

“Fuck yeah!” Hob shouts and Morpheus feels himself smile, out of control with the rightness that settles within him. Then Hob leans in to kiss him, hands framing his face and he shivers, falling into the other’s mouth easily as they make their way to Hob’s bed, messy and unmade. “Also, you look unbearably sexy in my clothes,” Hob purrs and he whines, tugging off the other’s leather jacket, the mesh shirt underneath as they continue to kiss, getting more deep and heated.

“Stolen?” He says once his brain boots back up, hands on Hob’s thighs as they rest, the other’s bed messed up even more as he rests on Hob’s chest.

“Mainly when I was younger. Now I’m a responsible adult,” Hob says, kissing his hair and going down to his temple. “Mostly,” Hob amends. Morpheus hums and touches Hob’s nipple, the piercing on it taking his attention. “Morpheus,” he hums, fascinated by the silver ring ― until Hob pokes him on his shoulder and he blinks, looking up at Hob’s face. “I have to get ready for work soon.”

Morpheus freezes, climbing off of Hob, the air cold after the heat of the other’s body, “then, I should―”

Hob rolls his eyes and pokes his forehead. “You’re staying right here for now. I just want to,” Hob looks around and pulls on his leather jacket, getting a pocket watch from an inside pocket and Morpheus blinks at it, confused as Hob goes back into his wardrobe, looking at various items and throwing them onto the bed near him. “This one’s definitely you,” Hob mumbles, pulling out a black and frilly shirt, joining the rest of the items, including ripped jeans and some spiky chokers and bracelets.

Staring down at the items, he picks up the shirt, black and flowy as more clothes pile up, silver chains and mesh shirts. “What are these for?”

Hob doesn’t answer, looking through a drawer in his wardrobe to pull more items out, throwing them on the bed. Then, once he looks at the pile, he looks around again, eventually going under his bed to look for something as Morpheus watches in confusion. “These are for you!” Hob chirps once he emerges with a black duffel, artfully ripped to reveal black lining, sides covered with studs as he puts the clothes and jewellery into it.

“You can’t just―” Morpheus protests, eyes wide at the amount.

“Sure I can. Have you seen that?” Hob points at his wardrobe, still overflowing with clothes, “I rarely, or never have worn these anyway. Plus they’ll be there for you to wear!” Morpheus gapes, eyes filling with tears as he swallows back the emotions as the duffel is zipped up and presented to him. “Phone,” Hob makes a grabby motion and Morpheus complies, finding his phone along with pants, which he puts on as Hob puts in his number.

“You can’t be serious,” Morpheus says as he holds onto the duffel, still in disbelief at the weight that’s inside. For him. And outside the bedroom window, he can see the sun starting to come out.

Hob smiles and pulls him in by his pants for a kiss, deep and filthy as a hand returns his phone to his pocket. “Like a grave.”

“This feels like a bit much,” he mutters to himself, even with his normal suit, the normal shined shoes ― and the spiked choker around his neck. For work. He could almost feel his parent’s aneurysm at the thought. “Hob?”

Hob, next to him, gives him a slow, lingering look in between bites of yoghurt and muesli. “Maybe a bracelet too?” Dream shakes his head, which stops as a finger goes under the choker, “working on a Saturday? Really? What kind of Hell do you work at?” Dream tries to reply, but he can only shiver as the finger drags, nail edge pricking into his throat, “no, I know it’s pretty bad, I didn’t need an answer for that.”

Hob’s finger leaves his throat and Dream scrambles his thoughts together as Hob eats more of his breakfast as Dream looks at his watch. “Where do you even work, anyway?” He asks, somehow not catching it with all the time they’ve been spending together. Though, they have mostly been preoccupied.

“Uni teacher,” Hob says with a shrug, and Dream gives him an incredulous look, “I’ll even give you my campus and you can sit on one of my lectures yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“I wasn’t―it’s just very surprising, what with,” he gestures to Hob’s form, which at the moment is only bright pink boxers. “I will, very soon,” he promises, already working out how he can get a free weekday.

“I’m used to it, though I usually tone it down some while at my job. Not that I don’t think there’d be a problem, but it’s usually with the other teacher’s where those kinds of judgments appear, and I’d rather not deal with that,” Hob explains.

Dream is nervous as he walks into work, going through the whole floor of people who work under him, expecting ― gasps, mean comments, but all he can see is some people just doing a double take as he goes into his office. Throughout the day as he emails clients and goes through his day, no comments or nothing, and soon enough he feels comfortable in the choker, fear dwindling and being replaced by an odd sort of confidence.

Throughout the day, he tries to make sense of this new feeling, so alien ― and wondering if Hob was right, and maybe he should’ve worn one of the spiked bracelets that Hob gave him. Or even the new pointed boots he recently bought, black and leather, patterned with skulls and flowers.

He only places the confidence in how happy and sure he looks after Matthew, one of his assistants, goes “nice necklace.” Dream starts, not expecting the compliment, or how pleased it makes him feel. Lucienne, next to Matthew, gives him a look.

“Thank you,” he says with a tiny smile, feeling even more sure of himself as Lucienne raises her eyebrows in shock.

“It does look very good on you,” Lucienne concedes, measures of can we move on in her tone. Matthew gives him a look, which Dream doesn’t react to.

“I know,” he says quietly, the confidence leaving him temporarily. “However, we must discuss next steps for next week.”

“Must we,” Matthew mimics sarcastically, Lucienne ignoring him as she launches into her report.

Morpheus follows the campus signage carefully, checking to make sure it’s right with the message Hob sent him. Matthew gaped at him for half a day after explaining that yes, I will be taking one of those days off earlier in the week.

Matthew started a rumour that maybe their boss got replaced by a pod-person right after.

And now he follows people into the room Hob said he would be teaching at, one of those big lecture rooms with ascending seats. Sitting near the door at the front, he almost doesn’t catch Hob, talking with his TA apparently, gestures wide and facing away from him as the TA grins.

Squinting, Morpheus scrutinises the other’s boots, obviously steel-plated on the front, then pale grey jeans. The leather jacket Hob wears is more red and plain, and from what he can see, the numerous spikes that Hob wore in his ears are replaced by alternating gold and silver studs.

Hob and his TA separate, Hob going up to his desk and putting something on the screen behind him. Now that Hob’s turned around, he sees that the first earring in Hob’s ear is tiny skulls. “We’re ready to begin, it seems!” Hob talks, voice projecting through the room as he stares at the back ― with Morpheus able to tell when the other man spots him by the bright grin, and he gives a small wave.

“Alright! So―” Hob claps his hands as the TA moves to the laptop on the desk, numerous rings clinking together on Hob’s fingers as he launches into his lecture. Tearing his eyes away from the shining jewellery, he stares at the KMFDM t-shirt Hob has on instead, only half-listening as he takes in this Hob, very much toned down from the spikes and metal chains he had on his pants.

It’s as Hob starts talking about 15th Century clothes, Morpheus notices the silver still shining in the other’s mouth, and he tries to not lead his thoughts down the path of Hob’s tongue ring in a public setting.

Before he knows it, the class ends, people leaving and Hob picking up his things, and talking with his TA before sidling up to him. “You’re here!”

Morpheus blinks at the blinding smile, “I did say I would come,” he frowns and Hob’s grin widens as he’s pulled out of his seat.

“I dunno, people say that, but then others don’t, so,” Hob says with a shrug, linking their arms together as they walk down hallways, eventually reaching a door that says Robert Gadling. “Thoughts?” Hob asks as they go into his office, the other man locking the door and putting the blind down.

“I liked the bit about the ruffs,” Morpheus offers. Hob gives him a look, and Morpheus curses his pale skin for the way his face heats as Hob’s hands grab his own.

“Liar. You weren’t paying attention to the lecture,” Hob grins, and he swallows a sound at the warmth of the other’s hand, contrasted with the cold silver and gold of his rings.

Looking down, he focuses on the ring designs, mainly plain. Or a gold one with blue sapphires. “You still have your tongue ring,” he whispers―then gasps, Hob kissing him, a filthy press of said tongue ring to the inside of his mouth, and he can only whine as the kiss ends, arousal swirling hot.

“Too much work to keep it out. Leave it out for half a day and the skin’s already growing over the hole for it, very annoying,” Hob replies, brown of his eyes swallowed by black. The other’s hands make a slow path up his arms, shoulders, neck, one eventually holding his jaw while the other goes into his hair.

Morpheus swallows, cock hardening at Hob’s full attention, at the way fingers stroke his hair, “I see.”

There’s another kiss, sweet and rough, Hob tugging at his lips and he shivers, skin sparking as the hand on his jaw moves to grip the back of his neck as Morpheus holds onto Hob’s leather jacket. He can only whimper as the hand on his neck pulls him down, ending the kiss ― and he can feel Hob’s desk against his head as he stares up. “Morpheus,” the other’s arousal, covered with denim, presses against his jaw, “can you be good and quiet for me?”

“Yes,” he rasps, voice thin and breathy as a finger traces his lips, own dick aching in his pants as he frantically unbuckles the black belt in front of him, unzipping jeans, mouth already watering.

Morpheus scrutinises himself in the mirror. At the pointed black boots, the straight-leg leather pants and long-sleeved dark red shirt, with a lace shirt over it, sleeves flaring out. And on top of that, a harness going around his waist and shoulders, silver spikes on the shoulders. Pursing his lips, Morpheus gives himself a look and searches for his wayward boyfriend, eventually finding Hob on the balcony of his apartment, cigarette in his mouth. “Too much?”

Hob blinks and looks over, eyes raking over him, “of course not,’ Hob shrugs, holding ringed fingers out and Morpheus huffs at the way Hob stares at him.

“It feels a bit,” he bites his lips as Hob finishes his smoke, crushing it beneath his spiked boots before putting it in the bin, “mismatched.”

At this, Hob stands up and twirls him inside the apartment, smelling of smoke as they kiss, “babe, literally most of my friends do that. I’m just more for this style because the other one’s don’t feel as me,” Hob gestures to his leather jacket and black fishnet shirt, along with black jeans that are more rips and slashed, the insides lined with fishnet. “Plus, you look very hot.”

Morpheus rolls his eyes as he considers Hob’s words, putting his hands on Hob’s hips, “you’re very biased.”

Hob nods his head, “biased. But also right,” Hob says with a grin, then pulls out a stick of eyeliner from an inside jacket pocket, and Morpheus follows the other’s directions as it’s placed on him. “Feel you'd like the more pointed eyeliner, but I’m not good at that. Good thing we’re meeting my friend’s, who’d be better with teaching you that,” Hob mutters between applying it.

Eyeliner applied, Morpheus huffs, watching as Hob applies the black liner to his own eyes, the brown of Hob’s eyes becoming more arresting. “Are you sure we can’t stay in for a bit more?” He asks, hands slipping under the other’s mesh shirt, and he makes a happy sound at the feeling of course hair under his fingers.

“Tempting, but no,” Hob says, a hand coming up to his cheek and Morpheus leans into the hand, enjoying the feeling of cold rings and hot skin.

Morpheus pouts as Hob lets go, the hand going to intertwine with his instead.

The double take Hob does when Morpheus emerges from the train bathroom with one of Hob’s friends makes him want to preen, with all of them practically fighting over to teach him how to do a winged look. Hob opens his mouth, “if you’re thinking of leaving just because your boyfriend is hot,” next to him a darker-skinned person dressed in a lace black dress and white fishnet tights, Charlie, threatens and Hob’s mouth clicks shut.

“But Charlie,” Hob gestures to him, hands reaching out to pull him onto the other’s lap, expression shocked and reverent, “look!”

“Dude,” Angel, the one who was teaching him about eyeliner earlier, and dressed in full frilly gothic lolita, complete with pigtails, sits down next to Charlie, “you just got here. Plus, isn’t this the one that bewitched you with his drab clothes before? Is Hob doing this to you?” She asks and Morpheus flushes under the attention, picking at his lace sleeve.

“He’s not forcing me,” he says, “I never wanted to be,” a pause, “drab. And Hob has been invaluable to help me discover what I like,” he mumbles and Hob nods against his chest, arms comfortable around his waist, leather jacket thrown over the back of his chair. Charlie and Angel nod, expressions sympathetic.

“I get that,” Angel twists her hair, black with purple streaks, “well, I’m happy for you!”

Charlie, texting someone on their phone nods and Morpheus relaxes, stretching out on Hob’s lap, and Hob makes a choked noise as he wriggles so he can touch Hob’s thigh through the fishnet of his pants.

Hob whines into his chest, and he tries not to pay attention to the hardness he can feel against him ― because ― well, mainly to make Hob squirm a bit. And because Hob’s friends are interesting, and nice. “I like your friends,” he states and Hob muffles another sound against his chest, something like I’m glad.

Angel shakes her head, “we like you too! Though we’re still missing someone before we go back to that club.”

They barely make it inside Hob’s door before he’s pushed against it, hands going under his shirt as Hob bites into his mouth. Shivering, he takes off Hob’s jacket and gets his own hands under the other’s shirt, bucking into the leg in the middle of his own. “Finally,” Hob hisses against his mouth, and Morpheus gasps at ringed fingers going inside his pants, leather hot and sticky from the club’s heat ― and now, his hard cock which Hob strokes.

“Not even making it to the sofa?” He chokes out, grabbing onto the grey hair at the other’s temples as Hob continues to stroke him, thumb stroking his slit and he groans, head hitting the door. Which makes Hob go for his throat, biting over already healing marks and pressing him more against the wood.

“You were teasing,” Hob accuses, free hand pulling him forward, making him as the other hand traces his hole.

Morpheus whines, leaning into the hand stroking him as the other one leaves, probably to go the lube in Hob’s jeans, “don’t be ridiculous,” he says, batting his lashes and Hob huffs, lubed fingers returning to his hole, one finger slowly making its way in.

Moaning, he can only hold on, grounding against Hob’s fingers, other hand scrabbling for purchase on door behind him as another finger enters him. Hob hums into his throat, stubble scratching the sensitive skin and Morpheus lets out a keen as the hand stroking his cock leaves to grab his hip.

“Now who’s being the te―” his sentence doesn’t finish as Hob lifts him up, eyes black as they stare up at him, and Morpheus can only blink and catch the breath that leaves him as he’s put onto the sofa, layers of boots and clothes being taken off as they kiss, Hob’s fingers going back inside him once they’re both naked.

Holding onto Hob’s hair, he arches into the fingers, insides burning at the way Hob’s fingers, still with their rings on, feel almost inside him, markedly different from the hot-cold way of holding his cock. “Had to restrain myself from fingering you in front of the club,” Hob states and Morpheus shivers, the image too much for him to think on, cock twitching.

Morpheus can only keen, holding onto Hob’s shoulder, mind shorting out as Hob continues, fingers being added and pressing insistently upon his prostate, “come on, I’ve been wanting you like this forever it seems like,” Hob mutters into his cheek.

The pleasure, the pressure is constant and maddening and Morpheus cries out, tears eventually streaming out of his eyes, and he can almost the carefully applied eyeliner start to run.

“There we go, so beautiful and wrecked,” Hob praises, fingers crooking and twisting incessantly, and his orgasm seems to almost come second to the pleasure, the feel of rings he can feel, to Hob’s quiet praise.

Morpheus is staring at the invoices he needs to look over in his email when it hits him.

I want to quit, he thinks with intent, because this job was yet another thing his parent’s herded, moulded him into, because it’s good money and a respectable job, when Morpheus ― can’t even remember what he does, the only bright spots at work being Lucienne and Matthew. Every day as droll as the wardrobe he’s been getting rid of, only keeping at least one suit and one pair of black pants and shirt as he fills his wardrobe with things he wants to wear.

Of course, there’s always the logistics of quitting to consider too, especially with the recent amount of the money being used to buy pretty clothes, and what he would do after, but he feels confident in knowing what he wants now, though working towards this may be more of a choice then what shirts to get.

“You okay there, boss?” Matthew asks, putting a cup of black coffee near his hand, and he nods distantly.

“If I did something crazy, would you and Lucienne follow me?” The words tumble out and Morpheus can’t find it to regret them as Matthew considers, scratching his chin.

“Just say the word, boss-man,” Matthe settles on, giving him a two-fingered salute.

“I… just thought of it, so I may need more thinking over,” he pauses, frowning. “Perhaps you and Lucienne can help,” Matthew grins and Morpheus scoffs, taking a gulp of the hot coffee. “Not right now, but eventually.”

“Fuck yeah! Consider it done!”

A month later and Morpheus once again stares at himself in the mirror, this time focusing on doing the winged eyeliner that Angel’s constantly gave him tips for. There’s a groan as Hob shambled in from bed, chest pressing against his back as arms go around his waist. “Fancy,” Hob says, voice thick and dark with sleep and Morpheus swallows, letting Hob nibble at his neck and collarbones as Hob’s hands go up the V of the shirt, frilly and flowing.

“I’m quitting,” he announces ― and that makes Hob’s head snap up, blinking awake.

“Fuck. Really?” Hob gapes, settling back onto his shoulder as he nods, Hob squeezing him tightly as he stares at his black pants, red ribbon running up the sides of it.

“I’ve already worked things out with Lucienne and Matthew for something new that we’re going to do, with artists and ― still figuring out the logistics, but it’ll be fun.”

Hob sighs and there’s a nip to his ear as they sway slightly, which Morpheus swats to stop, since he still has to do his other eye. “Look at you, getting so confident and sure of yourself. Hope you don’t forget the plebes like me once you become a famous auteur or whatever.”

“Don’t be absurd. This is all because of you,” he says, brows furrowing as he precisely does his other eye, then puts the eyeliner into the black coat hanging nearby before turning around to face Hob, who looks amazed. “You helped me figure out what I want,” he breathes, cupping the other’s face, thumbs caressing brown-grey stubble gently. “And you’re a part of that.”

Hob’s eyes are wide and shiny, a sound wrenched out of him as they kiss, which Morpheus easily falls into, and he shivers at the hands going up under his shirt, scratching up his back roughly that he’s sure he’ll feel it while at the last day of his job.

“Pick me up once I text you?” Hob should be clear all day, considering it’s a Saturday.

“You don’t need to wait around, Matthew,” he says quietly as they rest on the glass wall of their former workplace. Matthew scoffs.

“I’ve only heard like, two things about this boyfriend of yours, of course I’m gonna see what this guy’s like,” Matthew scowls. Morpheus huffs and looks at the omw ;) from Hob, smiling at the text. “If he gets you to look like that at your phone, he’s gotta be something.”

“He is,” he says, and there’s only silence between them, people and cars moving around them.

“Shame Luce won’t see this, maybe I’ll,” Matthew gets out his own phone and Morpheus rolls his eyes, looking for any sign of Hob’s car.

A motorbike parks in front of the building, which he doesn’t pay any attention to ― until the helmet of the driver comes off, and Morpheus takes a moment, not recognising Hob. Gaping, his mind stutters at the sight as Hob turns off the bike, taking his helmet off and putting it on the handlebars, black fingerless gloves poking out as Hob gives a small wave and a smile.

“That’s him?!” Matthew screeches, but Morpheus doesn’t pay attention, insides hot at the sight of Hob straddling the bike as he walks closer in a daze, Matthew following behind, talking and gesturing to his phone.

“You have a bike?” He croaks, and Hob grins, putting an arm on the handlebars, other hand coming to pull him in by his coat, kiss filthy and indecent for such a public area, and Morpheus resists the urge to just―”how?”

“It’s been in the shop for a while,” Hob says, pierced tongue licking the top of his mouth and he swallows a whine. Blinking, Morpheus rests his heated face on the leather of Hob’s shoulder, feeling him turn his head, with his free hand going around his waist. “And who’s this?”

“Yo, hi, uh, I’m Matthew, man, dude,” Matthew babbles and Morpheus groans, feeling Hob’s grin in the way he’s holding himself.

“Matthew! Nice to meet you finally! I’m Robert Gadling, but you can just call me Hob. I hear you’ve been keeping this one here sane while at that hellhole.”

Matthew squeaks, “that’s news to me ― good news, but I’m glad! Boss man here has gotten out of his shell lately and y’know―”

Morpheus groans and straightens up, “we have to go Hob, now,” both Hob and Matthew open their mouths, “I will give you Matthew’s number so you can talk, but we must leave. Now,” he reiterates through gritted teeth. Mainly because Hob on a motorbike ― and the combined chatter of his boyfriend and Matthew would make it a week before they’d leave the front of his old work.

Hob gives a what can you do? expression to Matthew, who laughs as Hob pulls out another helmet from the motorbike seat behind him. Hob gives him a kiss as the helmet is put on him, hands framing his face before the lock slides into place under his chin. “The boss has spoken,” Hob says, eyebrows wiggling as he sits behind Hob, feeling the other’s arm move as he puts on his own helmet. “Ready?”

“Of course,” he scowls as squeezes Hob tighter, Matthew ― still with his phone in front of him, probably recording this for Lucienne ― waves at them as Hob starts the bike, vibrations as hot and pleasant as Hob in front of him as they leave.

As soon as the rumble of the bike stops, their helmets taken off and stowed away, Morpheus corners Hob against the bike, kissing him deeply, hands going up to touch the stubble of the other’s face. “Knew you’d like it,” Hob breathes between them, the kickstand of the bike flipping to balance the bike as Morpheus pushes him more onto it.

Hob chuckles breathily as he nibbles down the other’s neck, the sweat and and musk delicious and salty as his hands go under Hob’s shirt, trailing up chest hair until he flicks at pierced nipples. Hob groans, arching into him as they rut into each other, the pleasure fizzling inside.

There’s more laughter ― than Hob pushes him away, which Morpheus whines at, grabbing onto Hob’s jeans as he goes in for another kiss. “Alright, I’m not doing this in the car park,” Hob says and Morpheus scowls, Hob grabbing his coat to pull them inside the apartment complex. Considering the stairways up to Hob’s flat, he manages to push Hob against the walls for more kissing and petting as they make their way.

“You didn’t tell me you have a motorbike,” he accuses as they get into Hob’s flat, and Morpheus holds back his desire until they reach Hob’s room, the messiness familiar as pushes his boyfriend onto the bed.

Hob grins, settling under him, “I wanted to surprise you.” Groaning, Morpheus leans down, hands scratching through soft black hair as Hob shivers under him. “Especially with your surprise announcement today, and how sexy you are,” Hob’s hands go under the V of his shirt.

“Consider me surprised,” he pouts as he takes off Hob’s jacket and shirt, biting down the other’s neck until he can lick at the silver nipple rings, causing Hob to whine and shudder.

“And really hot for it,” Hob says between moans, eyes sparkling as he glares up at him, mind too full of the motorbike he could feel under him, Hob’s body a solid heat to hold onto as he tugs off his clothes and the other’s belt and leather pants, though he grumbles as he unzips the leather boots keeping them from fully coming off.

Hob laughs, eyes bright as Dream leans in to kiss him deeply, brain replaying the rumble of the engine under him, biting at Hob’s tongue ring as he pushes Hob’s legs together, hard cock jutting up as Hob gasps. Morpheus stares at the crease between Hob’s legs, the body hair as he guides his own red cock to the crease, feeling Hob’s fingers dig into his hips, scratching around as they end up digging into his arse.

There’s a whine from Hob as his cock fucks the channel between the other’s thighs, coarse hair getting wet from the pre-come. “Yes, right there,” Hob moans, moving slightly to meet his cock, his nails digging into Hob’s thigh as they share a messy kiss. “Come on,” Hob whispers, dark eyes staring into him and it only takes a few more thrusts until Morpheus orgasms with a shiver, white come coating Hob’s thighs, all the way up to his chest.

Gasping, he brings a hand around the other’s cock, thick and twitching as he strokes it, unable to look away as one of Hob’s joins his. The other’s black fingerless gloves getting wet and sticky as they jerk Hob off to completion, arching into their joined hands as Hob lets out a strangled whine, more come joining the mess on Hob’s chest.

Morpheus wasn’t sure about what brought him to this club specifically, aside from the banality of his job. His life. Another late night and the club’s neon sight lit up The White Horse, which he’s seen on the way home, people in various leather and gothic outfits out the front.

“Whiskey shot, cheap. Please,” a voice says next to him and Morpheus turns, seeing a man in a leather jacket and ripped jeans, chains on the side of them. The man looks at him, eyes dark brown ― and lined, making them even more and Morpheus looks away in shock. “And another, for this one,” the man says and Morpheus gapes as a shot gets put in front of him.

“That’s not necessary,” he watches as the man leans on the bar and downs his shot, insides burning even without the alcohol as the man looks at him.

“Have you seen yourself? It’s necessary,” the man leans in, a hot line at his side and Morpheus tries not to blush too easily ― though, knowing his skin, it’s very obvious as the man puts the shot into his hand, callused fingers brushing against his and Morpheus swallows, licking his lips as he sees black fingerless gloves on the other man. “How’d they let you in anyway?”

“I am not sure,” he replies and the man giggles, face close enough and smelling of whiskey that Morpheus leans away to down his shot, brain stuttering at the touches, at how he can see grey in the man’s beard and temples. “I wanted something different from,” he blurts, putting his tingling fingers into his pants pockets so he doesn’t reach out to see if the man’s beard is as soft as it looks. “My life.”

The man nods, leaning against his arm and Morpheus tries not to squirm as the man stares at him, tilting his head. “If you want to do something different, then go all out,” the man smirks, leaning closer to him ― and Morpheus feels even hotter as the man obviously stares at lips ― then raises an eyebrow almost in challenge.

[Fin]

#dc #the sandman #dreamling #dreamling fanfic #dream x hob #hob x dream #hob x morpheus #dreamling week #dreamling week 2024 #writing #not sfw #feat goth hob!#and a dream so repressed he's not even goth 😱#he gets better though #very indulgent to me. a goth

58 notes · View notes