#and its more just uncomfortable. but these Fucking Cramps.

[the-kipsabian]

.

[lokh]

you might think. uti guy. why didnt you choose uti pain as the worst pain youve experienced given how much you complain about it when it happens. well i chose cramps because its the most recent in memory but also because it is more inescapable

[loonylupinblack3]

Period Trouble

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Reader

Warnings: swearing, nothing else i think?

Summary: you wake up with your period and are forced to go on a mission with Logan of all people

Word count: 2.4k

A/N: literally obsessed with this man rn so ofc i had to write about him. also wolverine has enhanced senses including smell but its like…. barely shown in the movies so i had to search it up to be sure, and some part of me still doubts it but for the purposes of this fic he does have it

You woke up with a groan, immediately curling into a ball. You were early. You were early and you hadn’t emotionally or physically prepared for having your period today, yet the world seemed ready to punish you, burdening you with an early cycle.

You checked the time, cursing every god and deity you knew when you realised you were supposed to have woken up half an hour ago. Wincing, you got up, your body screaming at the movement. Already your stomach was aching, the ghosts of cramps to come caressing your body. 

There was knocking at your door, quiet yet firm. You already knew it was Storm on the other side of the door, no doubt in search of a reason why you failed to get up on time. It was going to be a long day.

You yelled out to Storm, promising to be out in five minutes, and got up, groggily looking for your clothes. When you’d tamed your hair and brushed your teeth, you exited your room to find Storm waiting on the other side, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

She took one look at you and sighed. “What are you wearing?”

You looked down perplexed. “....my clothes?”

She raised her eyebrow. “You’re on a mission today, remember?”

Fuck. You nearly let out a whine. You were not in the mood to go skulking around doing Xavier’s bidding when you had a constant throbbing pain assaulting your stomach, unreasonable mood swings, and exhaustion weighing you down.

Storm sent you a questioning look. “You up for this?”

The mission was nothing big. Professor X needed you to collect some sort of rare herb that had recently been shipped into the nearest city, something he needed to complete a super secret experiment you weren’t privy to. He’d just asked for help and you’d volunteered.

Oh how you regretted that decision now.

“Yeah I’m fine,” you muttered. “Let me just get changed real quick.”

Getting into your previously decided upon outfit, a plain inconspicuous one intended to blend in, you left your room again, this time with no complaint from Storm. Your stomach gave an uncomfortable clench and you sighed, making a mental note to find some nurofen before leaving for the mission.

“Why aren’t you in your outfit?” you asked, just realising Storm wasn’t wearing what you two had agreed upon yesterday.

She winced slightly. “Can’t go. Filling in for some classes.”

Your face soured but you tried not to hold it against her. Storm loved her students, and given the choice of helping them or Xavier with a low level mission, she’d obviously choose her kids. You couldn’t blame her exactly, but it meant you’d have to go on this mission alone, while not impossible by any means it would make it slightly more difficult.

You sighed. “That’s okay. I can go alone.”

When Storm winced even more your eyes narrowed in suspicion, following her with caution. “Storm…..”

She sighed guiltily. “Xavier didn’t want you to go alone. The herb’s too valuable.”

You tilted your head slightly as you entered the house’s foyer. “So who am I going with then?”

Storm’s eyes darted ahead, and you followed her gaze to find Logan Howlett leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He smirked at you, “you’re looking at him sweetheart.”

You resisted the urge to groan, instead sending Storm a dirty look. You didn’t necessarily dislike Logan, but he was a lot to deal with, and you were already tired from your day that had barely begun.

You couldn’t say all that with Logan standing there however, so you muttered a, “lovely,” and walked past the man to the garage.

He followed you silently, no quip or smart ass comment which was strange for him. You’d just entered the garage, heading towards one of the cars, when you glanced back at him and found Logan stopped in the doorway, staring at you with a frown on his face. Or rather, a deeper frown than usual.

“What is it?” you asked him, standing at the hood of the car.

Logan’s eyes roved your body, searching for something. “You’re injured.”

It was your turn to frown. “What? No I’m not.”

He took a step forward, almost as if he was planning on looking for your alleged injury himself. “Don’t bullshit me Y/n, I can smell your blood.”

You made a face. “What are you talking about…..” you trailed off when you realised it, perhaps the most mortifying moment in your life.

Logan could smell your period blood. He thought you were bleeding from an injury. 

You cleared your throat, feeling your cheeks heat up. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

He scoffed, walking towards you until you were face to face. You tried to step back and felt the hood of the car against your legs. “I can smell the fucking blood seeping out of you Y/n. I wouldn’t call that fine.”

You gritted your teeth to stop yourself from snapping at him. “I can assure you, I am not injured.”

You moved to walk past him but he caught your wrist, forcing you back into your position pressed against the car. “If you think I am going on this mission with you while you’re wounded, you’re out of your mind.”

“I’m not-”

“Do you think I’m an idiot darl? Is that why you’re denying being hurt while I can literally smell it on you-”

You cut him off. “I’m on my period, Logan.”

He paused, staring at you with an indecipherable expression on his face. You waited for him to speak, feeling embarrassed and furious about it. Why should you be embarrassed of your period? He was the one who was pushing you, prodding you, forcing you to tell him the source of the bleeding. If your answer made him uncomfortable, that wasn’t your fault nor your concern.

Eventually he spoke. “Alright then. Get in the car. I’m driving.”

You scowled at him. “Says who?”

He didn’t even bother looking at you, already in the driver’s seat. “Says me.”

You sighed but didn’t argue further, silently getting into the passenger seat. Logan started the car, reversing it out of the garage and driving down the long winding driveway till you got to the street.

“It’s an hour's drive to the city, give or take,” you told Logan, setting the GPS up on the car.

Logan barely glanced at it, eyes on the road, a firm grip on the steering wheel. He didn’t even respond to you. You sighed and turned away, looking out the window as the scenery passed you in flashes.

As the drive continued, you noticed Logan sending you glances every now and then. If you really focused on them, you’d almost say they seemed worried, concerned even, but they were always too quick for you to tell for certain. You were too preoccupied with your cramps that had started up anyway, and the lack of nurofen you’d forgotten to grab.

Finally, you arrived at the city, driving into the hustle and bustle of the crowded area. Logan’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, obviously not a fan of the traffic the city provided. You watched the stream of people through the window as Logan looked for a space to park, muttering under his breath.

You were mildly entertained at the amount of road rage he had, cursing every car that wasn’t at least 10 metres over the speed limit. His jaw was clenched, hand fisting the steering wheel, yet he still looked at you here and there, like you were actually wounded.

When he eventually found a parking spot the two of you got out of the car and you looked at the address Xavier gave you.

“Should be somewhere along this street,” you murmured, eyes flicking from the piece of paper to the busy street.

Logan moved behind you, so close you could feel your back against his chest, and looked at the paper in your hand. He let out a grunt and moved past you, walking forwards. You frowned and hurried your pace, not wanting to lose him amidst the crowd of people.

Luck was certainly not your side, because soon enough you’d lost him, unable to see his black leather jacket in the throng of people. You hesitated, wondering if you should look for him or just go straight to the address, when you felt an arm around your waist.

“Stay close to me,” Logan murmured into your war, his voice gravelly. “Don’t wanna lose you again.”

You glanced at him as he continued walking, not moving his arm from your waist. “How’d you find me?”

He gave you a smirk. “Followed the smell of blood.”

Again you felt your cheeks heat but you glared at him defiantly, refusing to be embarrassed. He smirked at you, flashing his teeth, as you arrived in front of the address, a plain building home to some sort of florist. 

Logan finally took his hand from your waist, walking to the door with you trailing behind him. A bell gave a little jingle as you entered, and you were immediately assaulted with the smell of flowers. Different sorts of plants took up every corner of the room and Logan’s face soured as he looked around, obviously not pleased with the environment.

An old woman sat behind a desk, watering a plant with a mini watering can. You walked up to her, Logan hot on your heels. When you stopped in front of the desk Logan was so close behind you you could actually feel his chest against your back.

“Mrs May?” you asked.

The old woman looked at you with a smile, her eyes crinkling. “That’s me. What can I help you two lovebirds with? Bouquet of roses? Lilies?”

You opened your mouth, surprised, and tried to find something to say. Being mistaken for a couple shouldn’t have affected you so much, especially while on a mission, but you were flustered and could still feel Logan’s chest right against your back, his warmth almost dizzying.

“We’re not here for flowers unfortunately,” Logan spoke, saving you. Except why didn’t he specify you weren’t a couple? Did that not matter to him, what some old lady thought, or did he enjoy the idea of being thought of as your boyfriend?

Oh god. What were you thinking? Stupid period hormones. 

The old lady looked at you two curiously. “Then how can I help you?”

There was a pointed silence and you realised Logan was waiting for you to speak. You cleared your throat and spoke the random sequence of words Xavier had you memorise, that would inform Mrs May just what type of buyers you were.

The woman’s eyes lit up with recognition and she nodded her head slowly. “Ah, yes, let me just go to the storage room quickly, I’ll be back….”

Mrs May tottered around the desk and through a side door, half hidden behind the multitude of plants covering the area, leaving you alone with Logan.

You took a step away from him and turned around to look at him, finding him staring at you with a frown on his face.

You frowned back at him. “What’s up with you today?”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “What is up with me? I don’t know if you’ve noticed Darl but you haven’t exactly been up to par yourself.”

You rolled your eyes at his words. “That’s not what I meant, and besides, I’m on my period.”

Logan stared at you, arms crossed. “What did ya mean then?”

“You’ve been acting strange. Less talkative and annoying like usual.”

Logan snorted. “Ever the lady.”

“I’m serious. What’s up with you?”

Logan sighed and took a step forward until he was towering over you and you had to crane your head up to look at him. “You are what’s up. I can constantly smell you bleeding, and I can’t get it out of my mind that it means you’re hurt. You’re driving me crazy sweetheart.”

Well…. That certainly wasn’t what you were expecting. Logan smirked down at you as if he knew that, and enjoyed surprising you. You cleared your throat as your eyes darted to the floor. “Well, that’s hardly my fault.”

Logan chuckled. “Not your fault no, but it is your doing whether you mean to or not.”

You swallowed, looking back up at him. “Well…. Don’t you constantly smell when people are on their periods?”

“It’s different with you. Smelling your blood just drives me crazy, plain and simple. Can’t get the instinct out of my head that blood means injury.”

The way Logan was admitting all of this, with such calm, made you think he’d been wanting to say this for a while. The unspoken confession was there, and it was up to you to decide what to do with it.

“I’m glad you care,” was what you landed on, unsure of what else to say.

Logan chuckled again, one hand snaking to your waist. “I do a lot more than care, Y/n.”

You smiled softly, looking up at him. With his other hand he brushed your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The sound of a door closing brought you out of your little bubble and you took a step back, Logan reluctantly letting go of your waist.

Mrs May, either not having seen you two or graciously deciding to ignore it, passed you a package, informing you the herb and all information involving it was inside, and to handle it with care. You nodded and thanked the old woman before exiting the building, Logan again right on your heels.

As soon as the shop’s door closed behind you Logan’s hand was back around your waist. “Not losing you this time.”

You tried not to smile, though internally you were grinning like a maniac, and let Logan lead the two of you back to the car. You didn’t even get to argue your case of driving this time, Logan already in the driver’s seat. You sighed and got into the passenger seat, resigning yourself to another hour of silence as Logan started driving, when you felt his hand on your thigh.

You looked at him but he didn’t say anything, just gave it a light squeeze as he kept his eyes on the road. You looked away, grinning. So maybe the world didn’t have it out for you after all.

[soulwrencher]

ok so like this is my first ask so sorry if its worded weird!! but could you write a drabble for ellie where like reader is dinas step sister or sum and like reader lives a few states away and dina wants reader to meet her friends so reader visits and meets all of them and ellie is like nervous and stuff and dina teases her for it and eventually dina ships ellie and reader tg (once again sorry if its worded weird..😭)

it's okay! so i'm not gonna specify readers relationship with dina lmao, reader could be a family friend too... and it's longer than a drabble, sorry. but here you go!

why don't you stay, stay here after hours?

ellie x reader, just fluff, not proofread, enjoy :)

you haven't been here for a while. but dina's apartment stayed the same, citrus-scented air freshener and deep brown eyes meeting you at the front door, it was all so familiar, even after all those years. however, you didn't expect a pretty face to emerge from behind her, in fact you didn't expect your little trip to good old hometown to be interesting in any way. when dina told you about her friends, you weren't expecting much, sorry dina. but shit, her friend is more than pretty, she's incredibly attractive.

"come on in," dina says, hugging you, miss pretty face standing awkwardly to the side. you let go, dina gestures towards her, you've been dying to know about her at this point and it's been only a few minutes since you got here.

"so, this is my friend ellie, we used to be a thing but—" ellie clears her throat, are her cheeks slightly rosy?

"we're really good friends, that's what i was trying to say," she continues, shooting ellie a glare. you awkwardly laugh, exchange some 'hi''s and 'nice to meet you''s with ellie, her raspy voice makes it harder for you to remember what you're here for. pretty auburn hair, strands falling out of her bun framing her face, green eyes and long lashes, freckles and kissable lips... what were you here for?

and ellie can't help but notice your eyes wandering, it's making her nervous. it's making her nervous that a gorgeous woman like you was watching her so carefully, she isn't used to getting this much attention next to dina who's incredibly extroverted and drawing all the attention.

she watches you leave and go up to dina's room. pulling dina aside, ellie elbows her.

"ouch," she hisses, rubbing herself.

"what the fuck? why would you mention we used to be a thing," ellie whispers. dina gasps, then covers her mouth, a sly smirk creeping up her face.

"don't tell me you like—" ellie cuts her off with a threatening, well not so threatening, 'hey' hoping dina understands that she needs to quiet down, you're literally upstairs.

"no, she's just pretty. you didn't tell me she's that pretty," she whispers, her face turning red. this will be a fun game for dina, for sure.

you all sit in her very cramped, but colorful kitchen, snacking and drinking while you and dina catch up. however, ellie can't help but steal glances from you, she couldn't help but study your face, the way you speak, the way you'd wheeze when you thought you said something funny, or when you—

"—and ellie is so, totally so single, incredibly single," dina laughs, pulling ellie out of thought. and you too, you've been thinking about ellie's green eyes lingering on your lips, is something on there? dina is the only one laughing while you and ellie are exchanging glances, for a second it feels like the world stopped for you to step closer to something unreachable.

"i guess i am? but why does that matter," ellie then responds, annoyance lacing her voice.

"because she's single too? and i just wanna be able to say that i'm a matchmaker," dina continues, stuffing chips into her mouth. you laugh, but ellie doesn't.

"you really wanna make us all uncomfortable, huh?" ellie mutters, fuck, why would she say that? she's been so overly self-conscious, trying really hard to leave good impressions, but having a pretty girl watch her bicker with her good friend, not how she imagined this to go at all.

"oh i'm not uncomfortable, don't worry," you say, the tension was thick. and dina notices this too, this whole thing took the wrong turn.

"well back in high school i walked up to someone thinking it was dina and scared that girl from behind, talk about uncomfortable," she scoffs. dina immediately throws back her head and cackles, but you can hear ellie's soft and low chuckles. fuck she's cute and you want to know more, know more about her and all the stories she had to tell and lived up until now.

and ellie is more than happy to see the smile that emerged on your lips when she said that, her eyes on you while you giggle at dina's silly stories about teenage ellie and dina's adventures. she just can't look away, your nose scrunches when you laugh, your eyes literally sparkle, you are just so endearing, and ellie would be a fool to pass up on this chance, on this chance to get to know you.

and you spend the rest of the afternoon at dina's place, laughter filling the room, glances and hands brushing filling up your heart.

"okay guys, we need to wrap it up, jesse is on his way and you know how he gets," dina shoots a look to ellie, both nodding in some secret agreement.

"can you get her to her hotel? but take it slow guys, never fuck on the first date," she chuckles, ellie scoffs while getting on her jacket, ellie would never be able to even hold hands with someone as beautiful and kind as you. but it for sure is a nice thought, a thought she saves for when she'll go to sleep later. and your thoughts are racing too, you're about to get in the car with ellie, she'll be driving you, you'll be alone with her, you are freaking out, but you can't let it show.

instead you awkwardly play with the leaves on the ground while you wait in front of her car after you said goodbye to dina.

walking out of dina's apartment, ellie can feel her heart jump out of her chest. she's a fucking wreck, but her urge for more is too big to ignore, she has to do something about all the feelings you made her feel. and for once in her life, she decides to make the first move once you're in her car, something dina always made fun of, telling ellie she's the biggest coward ever.

but not today, today she'll make you fall for her.

what she didn't know is that the second ellie opened the door for you and the scent of patchouli and tobacco filled your senses, you already fell, really hard at that.

you sit in her passenger seat, imagination running wild, the two of you could be knee deep—

"you comfy?" ellie asks, pulling you out of thought. you nod, yeah too fucking comfortable. you struggle putting your seatbelt on because your hands are shaking, but ellie is attentive, already helping you out, with shaky hands too.

to your disappointment, the drive was mostly quiet, so quiet you could hear your own racing heartbeat. but it's stupid to believe that someone like ellie would want to get to know you, you feel stupid for getting your hopes up.

ellie's eyes are on the navigator the whole time, two more streets and you're at the hotel. two more streets, she has to do something. the wheel is getting moist under her sweaty hands, she has never been this nervous in her whole life. but she might never see you again and does she really want to risk that? risk never going to meet anyone like you again? ellie clears her throat, she can't live with the thought of never having tried.

so she inhales deeply as she stops at the red light.

"so—" she starts, looking your way, making sure she got your attention. you tilt your head, you're gorgeous, god you are making this hard, ellie thinks to herself.

"—i made dinner, you should stay." ellie says, her voice low, eyes searching for yours in anticipation, she is about to explode.

"i'd love to," you reply. ellie smiles and hits the gas a little harder than needed as the lights turn green.

[lokis-army-77]

A New Purchase

Eddie Munson x fem reader

Word Count: 1.6k

When you come home only to discover your boyfriend has bought something completely ridiculous.

Warning: 18+. p in v, riding.

Here's the little thing we talked about the other day @munson-blurbs @lofaewrites @chrissymjstan @hellfire--cult (it isn't as good as I think it could be but oh well)

Masterlist

Eddie was almost giddy with excitement when he saw the Facebook marketplace posting. The aluminum body was a bit rusted and the inside fabric was also questionably stained but hey it was a decoration for three hundred dollars and local pickup, hell yes, he was buying it. 

The only thing Eddie didn’t realize was that it wasn’t a small decoration. No…  it was real and he had no clue where he was going to store it until Halloween. Then came the brilliant idea of testing it out. He only wanted to know what it would be like to lie there, how comfortable would it be?

That’s how you came to find Eddie lying in a casket in the middle of your living room.

Walking through the door you stop suddenly, as the small walkway between the wall and the back of the couch is blocked. Eddie is lying there, eyes closed and hands crossed over his chest. 

“Eddie, what the fuck are you doing?” 

He can’t help the grin that paints his once stoic features. He squints open his eyes as he begins to laugh. “I’m testing out my new purchase. Do you like it?”

You sigh and whip your hand over your face, shaking your head. “What on Earth possessed you to buy a casket? Wait, hang on, where did you buy a casket?”

He sits up, resting an arm on the side, and goes into his explanation. “You are never gonna believe it, fucking Facebook Marketplace. It was so cheap and to be honest I thought it was a fake one that would have been maybe a foot or two tall but nope. Imagine my surprise when I get to this guy's house and he rolls this baby out. He slaps the side panel for emphasis. He even threw in the church trucks for free so it would be really easy to move around.”

You just chuckle and shake your head. “Okay, then why did you buy it?”

“I figured we could use it to decorate for Halloween and also because when I saw it was actually real I just had to test it out. Take it for a test drive before I actually do kick the bucket.” He said it so seriously like it was the most obvious reason in the world.

“Eddie, really?”

“Oh, come on babe, like you’ve never thought about laying down in one of these bad boys.” 

“Contrary to what you might believe, no, no I haven't.” 

Eddie reaches out then, making a child-like gesture of opening and closing his hand. You walk forward and curl your fingers around his. “Switch places with me, see how it feels.”

“No, I’m not getting in there.” You laugh.

“Why not? Do you really want the first time you experience this to be when you’re dead? You won’t even know if it's uncomfortable or not.” He pulls you forward even more. 

“Eddie no-”

“Come on… If you won’t switch then get in with me.” 

You give in, sighing playfully as you bend down and crawl into the cramped casket. Eddie tries his best to shift over so you have space, but the area inside is only so big and definitely was never intended for two.

You both are laughing when your knee suddenly loses its steadiness, atop the thin, almost non-existent padding layered over the metal bottom, and slides out from under you and you fall on top of Eddie’s chest with an “oomph”.  You look up and you catch a glint in his eye as they darken just a bit. 

It’s a familiar look, one that he has given you so many times no matter the situation or surroundings. A look that he knows you will give into. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” You plead with him, knowing where this will end. 

Eddie looks at you, eyebrows raised in faux confusion. “I’m not looking at you in any particular way, Sweetheart.”

You slap his chest playfully. “Eddie you are giving me your ‘I want sex’ eyes and I am not going to, not here.”

“Baby,” He wines. “Come on. It’ll be sexy. We could even role-play as vampires.” 

“No-”

“Please.” Eddie reaches his hand to cup your cheek, pleading softly as he brings his face closer to yours. You are trying to fight it but you know you can’t and Eddie knows too. As soon as he looked at you with those sultry brown eyes, you were plyant in his grasp.

When his lips press into yours, you sigh, relaxing into him. Your fingers curl into his shirt and you inch up, caging his hips between your thighs. It hasn’t even been thirty seconds from when the kiss started and you can already feel him hardening under you. 

Pulling away, you mumble into him, lips barely touching. “Does it really turn you on thinking of fucking here?” 

Eddie nods and surges forward to reconnect your mouths. His tongue flits past your lips and finds its way inside, caressing your own. 

You're barely-there resolve crumbles as you begin to roll your hips into him. You can feel his hard length as you grind, his breath catches in his throat. 

"Fuck baby," he mumbles against your lips.  "Need to feel you around me."

There is a heat coursing through you, clouding your mind as your fingers begin to unbutton his pants. 

Eddie is eager, his hips press up into your hands, pushing you to free him faster. The blue cotton of his boxers has turned a deeper color in a small spot where the head of his cock rests, the precum there being soaked up by the cloth. 

You slide a nail up his covered shaft and a great shiver overtakes his body under you. "Don't tease me- please."

A chuckle bubbles out of you. "But that's the fun part." 

Eddie just whimpers in response. 

You begin pushing your fingers past the elastic waistband. You pull the fabric down and bring your other hand up to help situate both his pants and boxers down to his mid-thigh.

His cock springs forward and you can't help the feeling of absolute lust coursing through your veins. You need him inside you, now. 

You silently thank your past self for deciding to wear a dress today. In your need, you don't think you would be able to wrangle yourself out of a pair of pants. 

Firmly you take Eddie's cock into your hand. He hisses at the new pressure you ar editing him. 

"Fuck baby, just like that." His hips jump into your touch. 

"Gonna let me fuck myself on you? Gonna let me take what I want?"

Eddie only nods. Words have left him as he stares into your sultry gaze. 

You begin to stroke him, up and down, spreading the stickiness leaking from his tip with your thumb. 

Then, you begin to scoot up his body. Hovering over him. Eddie watches in awe as you take him up in one hand and move your panties over with the other. A slow moan releases itself from your as you begin to sink down on him.

Eddie's cock was perfect. It always felt so good to be wearied around him, his head pushing deeper into you. 

Both of your breathing is labored. You try to keep yourself calm, you don't want to rush into riding him, you want to take your time making each of you feel wonderful. Eddie. On the other hand, is trying not to combust as he lays there and watches.

The way your dress is hiked up around your beautifully, thick thighs, how his cock disappears into you, surrounded by a curly thatch of hair. 

God he loved you. It was the only way to explain why his heart was beating out his chest. 

You groan as you feel him entering you. There is a slight burn as you stretch around him. Slowly, you begin to move your hips. Eddie starts to make choked noises and his hands reach out to grab you. His fingers grip your hips, helping you grind into him. Your own hands grasp at his covered stomach. 

There was an ache building as you moved. Low in the depth of your stomach and it began to grow. The more you fucked yourself onto Eddie the more the ache was felt. IT had you clenching down around him. You cunt milking his cock of everything he could give you.  

Eddie’s hands caress your body. When his fingertips touch skin, it's like an electric shock goes through you. 

“Eddie-” You moan.

“I know, love.” He mummers. 

“Can feel you so deep.” You grind harder, shivering as your clit rubs against his pubic bone. “Need more.”

“Yeah? Take it, baby, take anything you want.” 

You catch Eddie’s hands and guide them up under your dress and to your breasts. 

He hums in approval as he pushes your bra down and begins to play with your nipples, pinching and pulling them slightly.

Your head lolls to the side, hair falling down around you. It’s taking so much energy for you to keep moving. Your legs are beginning to tire out, there is a sting in your muscles. Your knees are screaming at you as they dig into the not-so-comfortable foam at the bottom of the casket. 

Body becoming rigid, you cry out, moaning Eddie’s name loudly into the living room. Your fingers cling to him as your body caves into him. You can no longer keep moving so Eddie begins bucking his hips into yours, helping you to ride out this high and bring him to his own. 

Eddie lets you fall almost completely on top of him once he’s finished. His arms wrap around you, your breaths in sync with the other. 

As you rest your forehead on Eddie’s chest, you feel the tiny movement of him jerking. He’s trying not to laugh. 

You crane your neck to look up at him. “What?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Eddie.” 

“Nothing, just that we fucked in a casket.” His smile was as wide as could be,

You let your head fall and you laugh into his chest. “Don’t get used to it.”

[in-som-niyah]

soft!oblivious!Jason Todd x fem!reader on her period

a/n: hey besties guess whos on the bathroom floor again haha its me!!!!! endo is trying to murder me but guess what jason's here to make it all better!!! this is entirely self-indulgent btw i wrote this to make myself feel better and to take my mind off the urge to rip my uterus out with my bare hands🫶🏾🎀🌸💝✨💖💗💕

Warnings: reader vomits, reader has a period, reader is in fucking pain, jason todd speaks spanish, reader is weakned, jason todd is a beautiful husband fuck you i said what i said

Note: reader and jason have a system where jason asks the reader what her pain is on a scale from 1-10 (10 being highest)

Jason's key turns in the lock of your shared apartment in Gotham.

To his surprise, the place is dark and lifeless. Upon checking his watch, which read 6:45pm, he noticed the peculiarity of the scene before him.

Usually, you would have started dinner by now, had some sexy 90's R&B playing (which you unashamedly sung along to) and would have greeted him babbling excitedly about what your colleagues thought about your new hairstyle.

But nope, there was nothing.

Though Jason was concerned, he tried to pass it off as a weird occurrence, until he heard a faint retch coming from the other side of the apartment.

Immediately, he parked whatever he was doing and came rushing (sprinting) to you, desperately needing to make sure you're okay.

When he found you in the bathroom hovering over the toilet, the sight clawed a hole in his chest.

You were gripping the edges of the toilet with shaky hands, trying to steady your unstable and shaking body. Your braids were tied back too tight, definitely causing you an uncomfortable and unnecessary headache.

Carefully, Jason stepped in the bathroom and lowered himself to you. He loosened your hair and re-tied it in a more comfortable way and kissed the top of your head.

In your dazed state, you barely recognized his lithe fingers in your hair, too exhausted physically and mentally to focus on anything other than the searing pain in your abdomen.

Finally empty, you reach to flush the toilet when a much bigger, scarred hand takes yours and kisses the back of it before flushing for you.

At this, you look up at him with bleary, tearful and irritated eyes, clearly indicative that you've been feeling like this for a while.

Jason's heart cracks.

Before either of you could speak, Jason pressed his forehead to yours and instructed you to steady your breathing. His hands expertly maneuver you to sit on your bum in front of him; this was not his first rodeo.

Jason was familiar with your illness, and what that meant for you sometimes. With practise, he was attuned to your needs and catered to them willingly. But still, his heart broke a little more every time he saw your body fold in on itself in pain.

When your breathing calmed he kissed your forehead just before another cramp seized your body, and your face crumpled in pain.

"Shit- You're okay sweetheart c'mere. Remember to breathe okay? In. Out."

You nodded lightly as you pushed yourself to move into his lap, the action only making your muscles strain but you were so desperate to feel his warmth you did it anyway.

As you continued to breathe Jason wrapped his strong arms around you and held you to his body, his hands came up to gently rub your lower back where he knew you were hurting.

"What's your number this time, amorcita." Jason asked in a tender voice, as to not upset your headache.

Through sniffles and shakes, you reluctantly surface your buried head from his chest to answer him.

"It was an 8 all day today..." you started, still in pain but able to speak.

"I took the painkillers too late, and they didn't work in time. I'm sorr-"

You're interrupted by Jason pulling you back into him. He would sooner take your pain than hear you apologize for a painful experience you couldn't control.

"Shhhh no sorries, princessa. You know that." He spoke into your hair.

Soon, the wave of pain settled, and you were granted a limited amount of small relief.

"I-I think I should move to the bed now. I don't know how much I have until the next one" you mumbled into his chest.

Through a positive rumble in his chest he agreed, and began to carefully untangle himself from you.

"Can you stand?" Jason asks, his eyes conveying sincerity.

You looked to the floor shook your head in shame. You couldn't believe you had to rely on Jason to help you so much.

"I'm gonna pick you up okay baby?" He says, but his eyes ask for your permission.

Upon granting it, he slips his arms under your body and lifts like you weigh nothing. He carefully walks to the bed, taking extra care in making sure he doesn't hit your head or legs on walls or doorways.

Once at your bedside, he places you down gently and presses a set of kisses to your nose, cheek and forehead. It is then when he notices how frigid your skin is, which worries him. But first, he needs more information.

"How long ago did you take the painkillers, mi vida?" He begins as he crouches to reach your eye level.

With an exasperated sigh, you close your eyes and shrug. Truly you had no idea how long it has been since you've been in such pain, much less since you've taken your last round of painkillers.

Jason returns your sigh, but with one of sadness as he reaches out his hand to absentmindedly rub your sore hips. Remembering your small remedies that help the pain, he stands and begins out the room.

Suddenly your hand grasp his ring and pinky, and he turns to face you again.

You look up at him with tears on your cheeks, silently begging him to stay.

At this, he leans down and captures your lips softly, silently letting you know that he would never do anything you wouldn't want him to.

With your hand still grasping his, he brings your hand to his lips to kiss, before breaking the silence.

"'Tell you what, amorcita. I'm gonna go get you your heating pad and boil some raspberry leaf tea, then i'll climb into bed with you and i'll rub your back as you fall asleep. But you gotta let go of me so I can do it, bien?"

Reluctantly, you took his offer and released his hand before he left a soothing kiss to your hairline and took off.

While he was gone, your were desperately breathing through another wave, trying not to scream or cry out. The pain continued to ebb and flow, but it was pain nonetheless.

When Jason returned with the tea, hot water bottle and a little square of dark chocolate he found you almost asleep, knees up to your chest while clutching your abdomen. He knew you well enough to know that your back is not enjoying the position at all.

He placed the tea and chocolate on your nightstand and carefully took his spot behind you. You slightly woke up at his shifting, but upon Jason's placement of the hot water bottle to your aching abdomen, you relaxed.

Jason breathed a silent breath of gratitude that you're able to rest easier than you were before now that you're comfortable. He moved himself closer to your body, firmly but delicately wrapping his arms around you and stretching out your aching back.

You appreciated this, the pressure releasing on your back and the soothing warmth of your hot water bottle contributing to easing your pains.

Jason retracted one of his arms from your waist in favour of rubbing your sore lower back. A sleepy hum of appreciation followed his ministrations just before you spoke.

"Jason?" you mumbled into your pillow

"Querida?" he replied, semi alert

"Thank you" you finish as you let yourself drift into a light and more comfortable sleep.

A peck to the back of your head is his response.

Jason knows he can't take away your pain. But when it cuts you deep, he'll be your remedy.

Always.

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

a/n pt2: bro im so sorry if this makes no sense im in pain leave me alone im tired its sleepytime

[jiyansthesis]

LEON KENNEDY (post-re4) x reader

summary — you and leon never thought what would lead to the two of you fucking would be a surprise zombie and an aphrodisiac

note — a little something i had in the drafts for a while. i was gonna post it when re4make came out but i totally forgot. might as well post it while im getting traction on my other leon post ^^

tags — smut, aphrodisiac, basically in public, rough, overstimulation, fem bodied reader, fem implied pet names

i am not responsible for any minors that interact + nsfw below the cut

not proofread

"we're gonna get our asses kicked," you groaned, focusing on the scope of your gun which you used to survey your surroundings.

"no, you're gonna get your ass kicked. i can hold my own," leon shot back, trailing ahead of you.

there was a red wash over the two of you as you ran down the hallway, attempting to look for some vials before they get destroyed by the zombies lurking around.

"you don't happen to know where these serums are, do you?" you questioned, a zombie coming out the shadows only for you to quickly aim and fire your gun at its head, it immediately flying backwards to land lifelessly on the floor. "this is like some bad game of whack-a-mole. except without the hammer. and the moles are zombies. and we could possibly die. i'm getting tired of it."

"do you ever stop talking?" he opened a door, revealing a room with cabinets of liquids and something that looked like a chamber with a glass window.

"adding a bit of fun into this mission, leon. i can't just walk around shooting zombies and not have something to say."

he grunted, and went over to the cabinets, grabbing a container of blue liquid.

"this is it. i'll get all of these, you keep watch." you nodded in acknowledgement, considering the fact that leon was your superior.

you peered out the hallway you had come from, saw that it was clear, and shut the door, locking it.

then you decided to go into the connecting room, just in case something was in there.

the red emergency light was still messing with your eyes, and so you turned on your flashlight, scanning the room.

there were more bottles of substances. but it didn't look like the blue ones leon was getting. these ones were a reddish-pink, and had a certain glow to them. you stepped closer to it to examine it, but you swung around as soon as you heard a growl. you unsheathed the dagger around your waist.

the blade lodged in the zombie's throat, your reaction time saving you as usual. it crumpled over, but bumped into the display, causing the cases to break.

you thought it was a liquid, but it was like you could see the cloud of fumes rise from the broken vials. quickly you put a hand over your mouth and nose and ran out the room, but not before you caught a whiff of the strangely sweet, almost sugary flower smell.

you shut the heavy doors behind you, and let out a gasp of air. leon looked towards you, hurrying over as you fell to your knees.

"hey, you alright? what happened?" he held onto your arms, lifting you up and placing you in an office chair.

"th-there was a zombie. i killed it and it. . . it bumped into these flasks of pink stuff." your hands went to wrap around your stomach, a cramp suddenly appearing.

"pink stuff?" he asked

"yeah," you grimaced with pain. "there was this thing that came out of the broken tubes. it was like a gas or something."

"and how are you feeling right now?"

you felt immensely uncomfortable. there was a cramp in your lower abdomen and it felt like something was dripping out of you. your legs squirmed, not liking the feeling of your wet panties.

"i can-can't explain it." you stammered out. you think you know what were in those things, but you didn't want to make it awkward for you and leon. of course, you've known him since raccoon city, and congratulated him when he came back with the president's daughter. but you knew damn well you guys weren't this close.

even if you desperately wished you were.

"it hurts there?" he gestured to your hand over your abdomen, you nodded.

"it might've been something toxic." he glanced around the room at all the computers, lucky enough to find one that was unlocked.

you heard him type away as you shut your eyes. the pain was becoming excruciating, and you didn't know why you felt your crotch throbbing.

not only that, but your thoughts were bunching up, and you couldn't think straight. what were you here for again?

"hey, i think i know what it is." you felt him nudge you. "but you might not like it."

"i think i know what it is too. doesn't take much thinking to find out." you winced as you shifted in your seat.

he raised an eyebrow. "you know?"

"it's obviously an aphrodisiac. there's no other explanation." you slurred out.

"well, it's not a normal one. normal ones wear off with time, but this one. . . you need something for it to wear off. or you might die."

"die!?" you exclaimed, ignoring the pain of you suddenly standing upright. this definitely cleared your mind. "for fucks sake, leon. i didn't want to die from a fucking drug today!"

he let out a breath of air. "it's easily fixable. but i need you to trust me." his voice got a bit more husky.

"i always trust you, leon." you assured him. he hesitated, and slowly lowered you back down on the seat.

his fingers ghosted over the waistband of your tactical pants. "may i?" he looked up to you. never in a million years would you have thought you'd have leon kennedy under you.

you could already tell what had to be done for you to get rid of this feeling, and you gave him the okay. well, at least you get to have one of your fantasies out the way while also avoiding death from aphrodisiac.

he pulled down your pants, quickly followed by your underwear.

"didn't think to tell me about what was happening down here?" he smirked. "you're so wet."

you whined at the cold air, and urged him to hurry up and stop teasing you.

he followed your request, and instead of inching in his fingers like you'd expected, he immediately latched onto your dripping cunt, and you arched your back.

"leon, fuck!" you moaned out, a hand immediately going to grab a handful of his hair.

he hummed in amusement, leading you to clench your thighs around his head. leon quickly moved his hands to grab your plush thighs and spread them apart, locking them in place no matter how hard you tried to escape it.

it was like he wasn't even thinking about the aphrodisiac. it was all for his and your pleasure, rather than as an extremely awkward and embarrassing task that had to be done. or he was just too good at the job at hand.

every stroke of his tongue had your legs shaking, and you pulled at his hair every time he sucked on your clit too hard. it felt like a few minutes before you felt the buildup of something in your stomach, quickly overshadowing the pain you had previously felt.

"leon, m' gonna-"

his hands left your legs and went straight to your pussy. "make a mess for me, baby," he said as your hips bucked up violently and you let out what was almost a scream.

you panted, and you thought that at this point you'd be satisfied, the pain would be gone, and the two of you could put this all behind you and go on your merry way.

but you were wrong. it was like it got even worse.

your thoughts were scrambled, and all you could think about was the bulge in his pants. and it definitely wasn't his gun.

"why'd you have to do. . . all that?" you stammered out. you also realized he called you baby. your cheeks became even hotter.

"can't get my gloves dirty. and i wanted a taste." he winked. "are you feeling better?"

you shook your head, involuntarily grinding against the seat. maybe if you imagined it was his thigh. . . you wouldn't have to ask him to fuck you senseless. you were already shameless enough, with the fact he had just finished eating you out like his final supper, and the effects of the aphrodisiac were not helping.

just the sound of his voice and his smell was enough to send you into a frenzy.

"do you need some more help?" he began unbuckling his pants.

"yes, need mo' help," you whined. you never thought what would get you into leon s. kennedy's pants would have to be a mystery sex drug in a science lab. if you knew, maybe you would've done this way beforehand.

you almost drooled at how big he was. you would've put your lips right around him at that moment, but he was already lining himself up with you entrance.

"you ready, princess?"

"jus' hurry up," you moved your hips closer to him, sliding the tip inside which caused you to whimper. deciding not to let you suffer any longer, he slammed the rest of his throbbing cock inside of you. with every thrust he did, you were a whining, blabbering mess.

"does that feel good?" he whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. you could tell that the effects of the drug were making you more sensitive.

"s' good leon," you threw your arms around his neck and brought him down for a kiss, which he quickly reciprocated. he was biting on your lips, his tongue occasionally slipping through your lips.

"i fucking love the sounds you make," he got out once the two of you broke away for air. it was like he was feral and had the aphrodisiac himself, pounding into you without giving you time to breathe.

"fuck, leon, don't stop," you could feel tears streaming down your face as your mouth gaped wide open to let out all your noises.

no doubt you were attracting monsters, but that didn't matter when you had this hot man you've been pinning for for years making you dumb on his cock.

he admired the way he had you already clawing for whatever you could grab a hold on, which was his back, and the look that you gave him.

he'd wanted to fuck you for so long, although that developed from him falling in love after the events in raccoon city. you'd kept him sane, believe it or not.

thank god he had this reason to finally have you under him.

"you gonna cum for me, yeah?" he began relentlessly hitting your g-spot, which had you screaming. he left open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

you didn't answer. or well, you couldn't with how he practically fucked the breath out of you.

not receiving an answer, he quickly took you out the chair and placed you on top of the table. you whined as he pulled out, but were quickly shut up by him thrusting inside of you again.

and just when you thought it couldn't get any better, the new angle caused him to almost brush up against your cervix. his hand made its way to your tummy and pressed down on the slight bump, making your hands fly up to cover your mouth.

"hey, pretty girl. i want to hear everything." he persuaded you to place your hands to stabilize yourself on the office desk.

"i-mm, i think i'm gonna make a mess," you warned.

"you gonna come for me? good girl," he praised, and with those words he hungrily pressed his lips to yours, devouring your sounds of ecstasy as you convulsed with your climax.

you started feeling overstimulated, the pain and sensitivity mixing in with the pleasure.

"le-leon, jus' cum in me," you pleaded, feeling your third climax coming already. maybe it was because you were practically intoxicated, or it was because you haven't had sex in so long, but you were almost self-conscious about how short of a time it took for you to cum.

"yeah? you want me to fill you up baby? do i make you feel too good?" a pool of your cum was pooling on the desk.

"yes! wan' you to, wan' you to," you trailed off as he grunted and let out a few soft, low moans, and you felt a warmth seep inside of you.

slowly he pulled out, which still had you twitch, and he looked almost apologetic about that. he searched the place for something to clean you up with, before ripping a piece off an abandoned lab coat, and slowly wiping you up with it. the table on the other hand, required the whole coat to wipe up.

he helped you put your pants back on as you regained and put your thoughts back in order.

"holy shit, we're at least twenty minutes late from meeting up at the extraction point," you checked the watch on your wrist. the two of you scurry to grab all your things as well as what you came here for, and went on your out the building. leon then called chris, who was pissed about the time delay.

as you left, it was strangely silent, as if the two of you had scared the monsters away rather than attract them.

"never thought that'd ever happen," you admitted as the two of you made it outside and to the rendezvous.

"never thought i'd fuck you during a mission in the middle of nowhere." he agreed. "how about dinner later, pretty girl?"

"isn't it a bit late for that?"

"it's never too late to take a lady like you on a fancy date. you deserve it." he shouted as the wind from a helicopter overtook your hearing.

"hmm, i'll think about it!" you grinned, saluting. "nice work out there."

"if that was my real job, i'd be doing it all the time."

[prokaryotics]

warmth of doorways | joel miller x reader

pairing: no outbreak!contractor!joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel spends another late night at work. you pay him a visit.

warnings: MDNI. plot and porn. allusions to joel's unsavory youth. oral (fem receiving). mentions of violence, past arguments, and money insecurity. joel smokes one (1) cigarette. alcohol. fingering. unprotected p in v. no mention of reader characteristics other than wardrobe. overuse of commas and hyphens. proofread once. 5.8k

mildly inspired by it will come back / i'm on fire

The office clock ticks rhythmically with every second that passes, broken up by the muted whirling of the ceiling fans as they turn almost imperceptibly counterclockwise on the ceiling.  

Austin is quiet. Outside, orange streetlights glow in narrow cones on the sidewalks, humming, straining with electricity as the bulbs fight to keep the pavement lit. If he really listens, he can hear the faint footsteps of heels against the concrete, the soft sounds of giggling and the low baritone of the voice that follows. Somewhere further down the block, someone is closing their car door, almost swallowed by a dog barking. A breeze pushes against the building and flows through a draft near the window's ledge, pushes through the double-paned glass, and brings with it the smell of damp earth and wet asphalt, leftovers of an afternoon storm. The air is cool and calm as if waiting to be born again tomorrow morning into something more alive, more chaotic, as it simmers in the heat of the Texas sun. 

The other contractors have gone home, back to their wives or families or one bedroom apartments, leaving the office silent save for these sounds of a city reminding him that the hour is late, that the night will not wait for him. 

His chair creaks beneath his weight as he shifts, the leather uncomfortably warm from his body heat. 

Joel stares down at his work. Its contents blur together into a massive, nondescript monstrosity of a shape, small lines of scribbled pencil spilling over one another and morphing into a clump of meaningless letters. He tries to spread them out again into something he can read until a film gathers over his eyes. He’s forced to rub them with the heels of his hands, but even then they are still irritated, his tired gaze struggling to focus on anything other than the sting that radiates through his corneas from the strain of keeping them open and concentrated for so long. The paperwork never ends. It just seems to grow and grow in a pile of meeting briefings and documents requiring his signature, clipboards, a backlog of voicemails from clients to listen to, and notes to take. His palm and the space between his fingers are beginning to cramp with the pressure of the pen he’s holding, having gone through almost everything in one sitting, desperate to put even a tiny dent into the mountain that rests before him. 

The fluorescent lighting isn’t helping, blanketing his work space in a coat of sterile white, making everything around him feel sharp and cold and like he’d hurt himself on it, even the half-filled plastic water bottle sitting at the edge of the desk. 

He sighs, leans back, drags his carton of cigarettes against the wood then taps the bottom against its surface a few times, forcibly packing the tobacco tighter. You’ve been trying to get him to relax on his smoking, or at least cut back, but with shit storm after shit storm constantly coasting towards him with no remorse, the nicotine is the only thing keeping him from going entirely AWOL. He does his best not to feel guilty about it. It would be sad, and ironic, that if he managed to make something successful out of the fucking mess of building a business, his downfall would be lung cancer, and he knows you know that, too, but you never push. You’re never like that and he’s grateful for it. 

He lets his mind drift to you and what you must be doing as he lifts his lighter, a small, stainless steel zippo engraved with his initials, a gift from his parents when he graduated high school, and lights his cigarette before bringing his wristwatch to his face, squinting to read the time. 

Almost midnight. 

Hours spent studying schematic designs, imagining rooms, and the lives that might be led within them, has made him lose track of his own. The days blend together, hours passing as easily and fluidly as water does lapping up against sand, every one of his thoughts curtailed by installation fees and HVAC subcontractors, schedule conflicts and site plans.

You’ve been good about that, too. Gentle. Guiding him back into his own existence. Making it easier for him to remember that although overseeing is his job, he doesn’t have to be invariably vigilant, that not every waking second has to be dedicated to worrying, that he’s going to burn himself out if he keeps going on like this. 

So he isn’t surprised when he spots your shadow first, cast long against the polished tiled floors, followed by your appearance in the doorway. 

He instantly relaxes. 

“What are you doin’ here? You should be sleepin,’” Joel chastises, although he’s smiling just a little, flicking his cigarette against the clay ash-tray sitting at the center of his desk, surrounded by notepads and coffee mugs and drafting pencils.

“You should be at home,” you counter, smiling back. 

He pauses, brings the bud back to his lips and takes a drag. The air goes thick and heavy. 

“There’s a lot of things I should be doing," he answers, stress and worry coupled in his voice as he sits forward and exhales, one elbow on the desk, pushing his fingers through his hair, the other dangling with his cigarette, billowing with gray smoke.  

You look at him for what feels like a long time, following the tense line of muscle in his shoulders as they stretch and roll beneath the cotton of his dress shirt, see his eyes close as he rubs a hand over his face, his breath leaving his body in a reticent, exhausted exhale. 

Then he’s watching as you push off the door frame and walk over to him, plucking the bud from between his middle and pointer fingers and quietly extinguishing it, your lips pursed. You lean against the wood of his desk, between his legs. 

Neither of you have forgotten about the plate you’d dropped. It was only some cheap ceramic thing you had picked up while out shopping when you first moved into your house, one of the ones with the grooves on the bottom to keep it from being knocked over as easily, dipped in bright yellow pottery glaze and dotted around its edges by bright blue flowers, the texture of the sponge used to make the design adding a sort of authentic, homey feel. A pretty thing that came in a set of six, the other five still sitting in your cabinets. It wasn’t difficult to clean up, broken into three solid pieces with only some of the powdery dust from its impact really needing to be swept up, but it wasn’t so much about the plate breaking itself than what it meant. What it symbolized. 

Your shattering frustrations. 

His fracturing exhaustion. 

“They can’t wait?” 

Joel leans back. 

“Not most of ‘em, no.” 

“So you’re killing yourself here? Instead of lying in bed with your wife?” You eye the half empty amber bottle of scotch and the glass filled with melting ice next to it, glance at his accolades hung on the wall, certifications he worked tirelessly to achieve. 

He sighs, hollow, empty sounding. “It’s ain’t that simple. I told you they can’t wait.” 

You go to sit in his lap, bringing your palm up to cup his cheek. “It could be. Divide the work. You’re just one man.” 

He grabs your hand. It’s not your fault you don’t know he can’t bring himself to when so much hinges on the success of this enterprise. Your future. Sarah's future.

“I’m just one man in charge of everythin’ else. It isn’t.” 

There’s another pause, filled by your heavy gazes as you look at one another, waiting for the other to yield. It’s been like this before, instances where you’re stuck within pregnant hesitations, expecting the other to give in, too stubborn to realize it shouldn’t be about who breaks first.

You’re learning that, though, no matter how frustrating it is. 

“I miss my husband,” you confess, although it’s not really a confession more than an admittance to what you both already knew, what you’ve both already felt, everything about this feeling delicate and intimate in a way that makes your lungs constrict.  

Joel frowns, turns his head and kisses the inside of your wrist. His gaze is soft upon you, as gentle as the quiet moon. 

“I know. ‘M sorry,” he murmurs against the delicate skin. 

“You could have called,” you whisper, breathy and painfully soft, not sure you’d be able to say it any louder and still maintain the fragile, stunned atmosphere existing in the space between your bodies. 

“I didn’t want to wake you.” 

You almost roll your eyes. No, better to be up and left worrying.

“I wouldn’t have minded.” 

Joel glides his hand up your forearm, his calloused palm warm and heavy, the pad of his thumb brushing soothingly across the bend of your elbow. 

“I would have.” 

Your chest swells up and suddenly you’re choking on bittersweet nostalgia, on memories of when your husband wasn’t being stripped away from you bit by bit by a business he’s trying hard to keep afloat. And you’re choking on sadness, too, on the overwhelming feeling of active loss, so you’re tempted to let yourself lean into it, to just drop the conversation even though you know that you need to have it because sometimes it's easier to let your problems fall asleep quietly rather than wake them by pushing too hard. It’s easier to let yourself rest.

Still, you persist. 

“You can’t keep going on like this. It isn’t just that I miss you, Joel.” 

He knows you won’t repeat yourself. He knows what you mean, anyway. It isn’t about clarity. He’s been doing what he can, suffering what he must. 

“Please, I don’t want to have this argument, honey.” 

The beginnings of a headache are settling somewhere just behind temples, spreading quickly across his forehead, behind his eyes. There’s nothing more he wants than to be able to do what you’re asking, but he chose this profession, and you chose him. He doesn’t have the energy or the will to fight with you right now. 

You reach up and trace the curve of his brow with your thumb, hoping to ease away the wrinkle that lives between them, and maybe mute the thought that has manifested it, the friction and stress of the situation rising until it’s nearly palpable. 

“I’m not trying to argue with you. I’m trying to talk to you, something I seem to be able to do less and less," you explain, palm dropping to mold against the curve of his jaw. 

Joel looks away, at the folders and blue and white floor plans in front of him, at the doorway, half-expecting to see someone standing in it, ready to give him another piece of information that will set construction back weeks and cost him more money than he has.

“You think I enjoy this any more than you do?” The sharpness in his tone is immediately countered by the look of frustrated remorse that softens his expression, a sort of tug on his eyebrows until that damn furrow is finally gone.

“No, I don’t,” you say gently. “And I know that you’ve got a job to do, but I’d like it if it didn’t tear you away from me completely.” 

You twist the hair at the nape of his neck between your fingers as you lean forward, resting your forehead against his own and closing your eyes. 

“I love you, Joel. I miss you. I don’t like sleeping alone in our bed.” 

He won’t apologize again, and he’s sure you wouldn’t want to hear it anyway, but not for any spiteful reason. You’ve both got your hands tied, but he’s sorry for a lot of things - for keeping you awake, for worrying you, for stressing you out, but mostly he’s sorry he’s given you a marriage like this. A marriage filled with nights spent alone in a house he had picked out because it was the safest, because that’s what he needs to think about instead of whether you like the view, or what the outside looks like. He’s got to think about whether the locks will hold, whether the windows won’t shatter completely, whether - god forbid - you can have neighbors to rely on if something were to happen because he’s away all the time now, gone, trying to build a life. 

He’s got to think of these things and you’ve got to make the sacrifices. 

“I don’t like it either.” There’s an unspoken end of his sentence, an ellipse, a part that he leaves out that neither of you wants to say. I don’t like it either, but... 

But this is my job. 

But this is our life. 

But you’ll have to get used to it. 

So he masks it with an exhale, an empty and low sound, as if he’s been waiting for too long with too much, not relieved but resigned. 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been alone.” He changes the subject, sitting back in his seat as you open your eyes. 

“Yeah,” you agree, trying not to feel bad about it. “Too long. It feels like we’re dating again.” 

Joel chuckles, low and warm and light, like smelling laundry through an open window when the wind carries it through the house, cool and placid. He still looks at you that way, the same way he had when your relationship was just starting, with honey-dewed eyes and a sort of crooked, half-smile, like he wasn’t doing it on purpose, just couldn’t help himself. The same way he’s looking at you now. 

“Except this time your father isn’t here watchin’ us, lookin’ like he wants to kill me.”

Your groan is superseded by your laughter as you shake your head, glad for it but also feeling like time is moving too quickly, too fast for you to really keep up with it. Where had that time gone? Where is it now? 

“Thank God that he isn’t. And he likes you now, it just took him a while.” 

Joel rolls his eyes, scoffing. He’s sat through too many tense dinners and awkward conversations to believe that, even coming from you. 

“Uh-huh. You keep tellin’ yourself that, honey.” Your father is a hardass, but he’s well-intentioned, their every interaction peppered with warnings about providing for you like Joel doesn’t feel guilty enough about dragging you down with him. 

He looks at you, still grinning. 

“Yeah, I know,” you sigh, the remnants of laughter still in your voice. “But I still married you.” 

“For reasons I’ve still yet to understand.” 

“For reasons I’ll remind you of until the day I die.” 

Joel quiets and shifts his gaze to some point of interest on his desk, where one of the edges is chipping, maybe, or maybe he’s looking at a stained ring discoloring the wood because a drink had been left to sweat without a coaster. Nothing important, nothing that warrants catching his attention, the movement secondary to the thoughts in his head to retreat. You both are aware of the alternative to that sentence. 

You guide him back to you. 

“I mean it, Joel. I don’t regret marrying you.” 

“I know you don’t.” Joel rubs his mouth with his hand. He finally meets your gaze as he continues. “But sometimes I wonder what your life could have been like, if it could’ve been better.” 

“It would have been nothing,” you correct fiercely. 

“You would have been comfortable, provided for-.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know that I put you through hell every day that you’re with me.” 

“Stop it.” 

You don’t even know half of it, he thinks, through no fault of your own. He’s shielded you from what he can, has kept things to himself, given you half-answers when you’d ask why he’s adding overtime dates to the calendar on the fridge, checking to see if Sarah’s lunch is packed before making his own, tossing change into an old paint can on a shelf in his closet. 

‘Things with work,’ he says.

‘Issues with the client,’ he says.

‘I need to stay a little later,’ he says. 

‘This company might fail,’ he doesn’t. ‘And it scares the shit out of me.’ 

“I’m sorry, honey. How can I make it up to you?” 

It isn’t about making anything up to anybody. This is far too complex for that, but he can at least give a little. You sacrifice so much for him, for a life you didn’t really ask to be living, so whatever he can give he knows it won’t even begin to replace what you’ve lost. Your sleep and sanity and security. And it probably won’t ever, but he can try to return the comfort that you give him, the peace of mind, the love. 

The kind that has to be fought for, torn from your chests in hissing, passive aggressive outbursts in the middle of your kitchen that burn like acid with each word that crawls up your throats, or falling easily after being pulled gently from your hands in moments like this, when you’re trying to convince one another that your biggest concerns shouldn’t be each other because you both can’t stand the feeling of being a burden, unable to handle the lurches of guilt and the helplessness that accompanies it. 

“Coming home at a normal hour would be nice.” You aren’t looking to make this conversation any more serious, to be stuck spending a night convincing him that he hadn’t damned you to some sort of anxiety-ridden, fearful existence by proposing to you because for all the bad, all the heartache and stress and worry, there are the good moments too. The early mornings, subdued afternoons spent sitting in the sunshine reading, evenings spent dancing on your patio bathed in warm light from paper lanterns he had hung up the summer before. Moments that are perfect, beautiful, and real and everything you hang on to when the bad ones come. 

Joel senses this and wants to protest, and while he gives you a searching look he refrains from saying anything that might carry the conversation backward. 

“It won’t always be like this,” he says instead, moving one hand to rest at your lower back, his thumb rubbing the soft skin beneath your shirt. “But I like these visits.”

“I’m sure you do. None of this looks at all exciting.” You turn to the desk, at the documents scattered everywhere, at unfinished contract drafts, at illustrations of building models that are far from perfect, with stairs and doors leading nowhere like they lead to some ghost elevator, at the crumbled-up balls of paper. 

“Unfortunately even the borin’ parts are still my job.” 

“Good thing I’m here then, huh?” You shift in his lap, draping your arms around his neck. 

“Yes,” he agrees, both palms now molded against your waist, digging slightly into your hips. “It’s a very good thing you’re here.” 

It feels nice to have these instances, tediums between bigger periods in time like the one you just had, insignificant and maybe not that meaningful but sweet nonetheless, where you can be happy, flirt with your husband while trying your best to speak in hushed, shy voices so the nighttime janitor doesn’t come skirting down the hallway, wondering why he’s hearing a woman’s voice so late at night coming from the contractor’s office.

So you take his face in your hands feeling like a lovesick teenager, his cheeks flushed warm with affection, a little scratchy from a day’s worth of stubble, his eyes soft, and for the first time since you got here, free from the burdens that normally cloud them, and you kiss him, saccharine and slow and easy. 

He tastes faintly like the scotch, and his lips are little bit chapped but they’re amiable in their movements, as if he’d be content to just go on like this kissing you, not worried about where it will lead, or if it’ll lead to anything at all, making you feel slow yet hyper aware from his gentle caresses, and his hands when they climb higher, having moved beneath your shirt, are rough and hot and careful - always so careful with you - and you don’t like to think about why even though you’ve got a pretty good guess. Careful hands that have a history you know only in bits and pieces. Careful hands that have curled into fists, become bloodied and bruised and scabbed. Careful hands that sweat around the grip of a saw, or a hammer, nowadays, the scabs of his youth long gone, but hinted at in the fading white scars that litter his knuckles.

Careful hands that don’t want to risk letting that seep into you, as if you’re something he’d be able to taint, convolute. 

You lean away, then move even further back when he follows, quickly speaking before he’s on you again. “Touch me like you mean it, Joel. Please.” 

“Anythin’ you want, honey.” 

You card your fingers through Joel’s hair, tug slightly at the roots and try not to get too lost in his answering rumble as his kisses slowly grow in intensity until it becomes nearly desperate, finally indulging in the need for closeness he’s stifled to keep himself from cracking beneath the pressure of work completely. 

Joel pulls you closer with a shallow groan, shifts his seat so that you’re right up against the desk, the lip of it digging into your back, but his warmth is seeping into you and through your clothes, so you really don’t care how the wood bites a little into your muscles, coupled with the way his cock is already straining through his jeans, hard and thick and it makes you feel like this entire thing is sort of scandalous. It is dangerous, and even though you know he wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t sure the building was empty, the possibility of being caught does thrill you; makes you grin against his lips, lets him pull you apart piece by piece, his kisses loving and devoted and his hands roaming across your rib-cage and breasts like he isn’t sure where he wants to keep them, wanting to touch all of you at once. 

He rises to his feet, takes a step forward and places you onto the desk, his focus so far away from the papers and other shit that decorates it he doesn’t notice or even really care how they’re being pushed or crumpled or ripped by your movements, desire curling and slivering throughout his body, pooling in his belly, settling itself in his lower abdomen and pressing itself against you, his hips between your legs, the thin fabric of your work skirt doing little to fight the hard outline of his cock against your thigh. 

Joel keeps kissing you, fingers pressed against the space between your shoulder blades, the other flat against the surface of his desk, pausing only once to check the doorway again as he kisses your cheeks, then your jaw, before descending down the gentle curve of your neck, trailing his mouth down and across your collarbone before sucking a bruise into the skin at the base of your throat, right next to your fluttering heartbeat. 

You say his name, syrupy thick and mellow, inhaling sharply when he rolls his hips in response and hums a pleased, vibrating sound that makes you pull him closer and wrap your arm around the broad expanse of his shoulder while the other goes to his belt, untucking his shirt with a shaking, hurried hand, feeling like it's unfair that you’ve got two layers to go through while he only has one, his lips slanting against yours again making it even more difficult to focus on getting him undressed especially now that the palm that isn’t on you is suddenly sliding across your thigh and he’s - God - he’s -

He’s making you feel worshiped. Murmurs of his supplication whispered against your mouth, swallowed by your answering, pitiful moans.  

He has to help you with his belt, lightly pushing your hands away to do it himself, tugging the leather through the buckle and then out of the loops, tossing it haphazardly onto the chair behind him, turning back to you without saying a word, looking so in love with you that it makes your chest ache. 

“Joel-” His name gets caught in your throat, but it doesn’t matter because he’s talking and he knows. He knows exactly how you’re feeling because it’s the same for him too - this longing, this incredible, suffocating, twinge of remorse and grief all jumbled up and twisted somewhere beneath your breastplates for things left unsaid yet still acknowledged, the terrifying things, the things that bring you here when it's midnight and you should be asleep but you aren’t because they’re the same things that keep him away and keep you awake. 

“I’m right here,” he murmurs and it’s like you’re drowning in how much he wants you, his eyes raking over you in a way that makes your entire body feel warm, taking in every inch of you with a reverence that makes your thighs tense up and your cunt squeeze around nothing. 

He urges you to lay back, heavy-lidded and following as you do what he says, your skirt bunched around your waist, waiting for him to do something, anything at all that’ll relieve the restless thrumming that’s settled just below your belly button, spreading like an opening fan throughout your abdomen, converting with every second that passes into a dull pounding that makes everything you’re wearing feel insufferably uncomfortable, hyper aware of the way your panties stick to your cunt, and you’re about to say something again, plead with him to move faster, but he’s leaning down and kissing you - placating you - earnest and cloying and you’re just relaxing into it when he leans away, traveling down and down and down your body until his shoulders are between your legs and he’s - 

You open your mouth to say something but you don’t know what. You can hardly think with the way he inches lower and lower, hooking your already spread legs over his shoulders with so much ease it makes you blush. His arms are positioned on either side of your legs and his breath is hot and swirling over the insides of your thighs and the realization of what he intends to do and the seriousness of where and why and the fact that you’re on his fucking desk of all things makes you tremble and your chest bloom in flustered warmth and your fingers curl into the pliable material of your skirt, waiting for him - always waiting - to do something. 

He starts at your knee, with kisses gentle and sweet, works his way up to the inside of your thigh, humming against the delicate tissue nonsensical praise and muses before giving your other leg the same treatment, the same pattern, sucking bruises and nipping at them pinprick sharp before soothing it with his tongue, making you squirm and gasp with every press of his lips, unsure what to do with the overwhelming affection you hold for him growing exponentially in your chest. 

This continues for a long time, hazy and drunkard slow, calloused palms sliding up and down until it feels like you might explode from the tension and you whisper his name, deferential and restive and it nearly makes him grimace in anguish at all the things he can’t do for you, his heart feeling as if it’s been filled with cement and splintered, then shattered completely - the fragile, desperate whine in your voice splitting it in incomplete halves and you think, unsurely, that if he keeps going on like this you’re going to burn up - catch fire and asphyxiate on the smoke. 

But then his thumbs are hooking beneath the lines of fabric that curves across your hips, and he begins to pull them down, tells you to bend your knees and you listen without a second thought, allowing him to strip you of the garment and then they, too, join his belt on the chair and you’re left with nothing really at all protecting you aside from your skirt but its bunched up around your waist like it has been since he laid you down and not doing a damn thing to stop the shiver that makes you shudder against the desk, your heated skin erupting into goosebumps. 

Joel settles himself and brings his hands to your cunt, reaching out to spread you open. There isn’t time to formulate any sort of thoughts about it or what he’s doing because you can hardly breathe let alone think, Joel’s mouth hot against your pussy, his tongue dragging over your clit and you’ve been so worked up that it hurts, almost, and you’re left trying to push him away and pull him closer in equal measures. 

Your lungs stutter, muscles tensing, all the while panting and keening and rocking your hips with no real sense of direction as he brushes a spot that makes you moan and when you twist your fingers in his hair he makes a sound that’s nearly a growl, then he has one finger inside you then another, fucking you slowly with his fingers, taking his time, curling them up and flexing his wrist, his watch digging uncomfortably into the juncture of your leg where it meets your thigh but its okay because all of its mingling together and he’s suddenly yanking you closer as if he wants to fucking devour you, looking up at you with hungry eyes and the next few seconds seem to last for entire years, everything so intense already that you flutter around him, helplessly keening. 

He sucks gently, looks up again in time to see your eyes screw shut, your eyelashes fluttering as he puts his whole mouth on you, rumbling rich and low at the taste of it, your brows creased tightly in coiled pleasure. Joel groans at the sight from somewhere deep within his chest, his cock twitching, his belly feeling like it's been filled with magma as you dig your nails into his hair, fracturing into little pieces. 

The words he drags from you are babbling, halfway to a cry or sob, something equally as frenzied in its neediness, syllables of his name and something that might be please catching against the rounding of your teeth. 

“I’ll give you what you need, baby. Relax,” Joel appeases against your already oversensitive cunt, the pleasure too much and so much that it makes your toes curl until they hurt, like he’s injected gasoline into your bloodstream and made you swallow a match, ready to snap and burst into a fucking supernova, so close to cumming it feels as if every nerve has been stripped to its bear components. 

The pressure against your clit intensifies, becomes sharp and fierce, his tongue circling over and over again, so acute that your hips twitch and he keeps you pinned - holds you down, keeps going and going and going until the world turns white-hot and bright and you’re choking, every breath drawn in fighting against some invisible leaded anchor and fuck - it’s too much all at once, too much after what feels like so long, too much that life can’t always be like this. 

He eases away from you, presses his lips to your shuddering thighs wet and shiny with your cum, deliberate in his motions as he crawls back up your body, soft and pliant and slightly sore, guiding your legs carefully - tenderly - around his waist. 

“I love you.” 

God you love him too. So much that it physically hurts. 

But arousal, harsh and blinding, eclipses your every sense, keeps you from saying anything at all other than his name, moaned pitifully when you glance down and see him undoing his pants and taking his cock in his hand, hard and thick in his fist and you clutch at his back, feeling spun out and delirious as he pushes in gradually, gently, turning your body into a liquid quiver. 

Joel gasps as if the sound was wrenched from him against his will, and your eyes flicker over him, at the muscles tensing beneath his shirt, the sweat darkening his collar, at his lips, red and raw and plump from kissing you beneath his beard glistening with you, his shoulders broad and his arms are sturdy, and his eyes, when you finally meet his gaze, are blown with affection and desire and love. 

And then it’s broken. 

His hips snap forward and you shift a little up the desk, one of his hands moving to cup the back of your head while the other finds your own, lacing your fingers together and you let out a shaky, short, involuntary whimper as he starts to move, getting pleasantly lost in the feeling of being so stretched and full. 

He trails open-mouthed kisses along your neck, curled over you, and the picture of it in your head, of him so big and broad and draped over you like a second skin, makes your cunt clench and rips a groan from his throat that sounds just as wrecked as you feel, his lips dragging along the underside of your jaw, his fingers squeezing your palm. 

Neither of you are going to last much longer. You’ve already been made too taut, too tight and stretched out and resting on the precipice of something, like fingertips pulling back a bowstring, fiery bright pleasure cementing you to his ministrations when his thumb catches your clit, swiping once, your body singing, then over and over again until your shoulder blades are folding against one another as you rock off the desk and into him, his arm encircling your waist, never stopping, working you through every roiling wave and every filthy noise you make until you collapse - falling away from him whimpering. 

“You’re perfect. So good for me, sweetness. So fuckin’ good.”

His rhythm falters, his breathing hard and burning and shuddering as he holds you against his chest, leaving you to wail against his shoulder, puffing against his neck, clinging onto him like he’s the only thing keeping your grounded and then he shatters too, fingers suddenly in your hair, whispering sentences that you can’t quite make out, adoring among a slew of curses. 

His office comes back in pieces, blurry splinters and slightly out of focus. 

His head tips against your shoulder and you both stay like that for a long while, resting against each other, breathing. You sigh, shuddering and low and content, and he leans back to look at you, his expression open and sincere and it’s the most vulnerable you’ve seen him in awhile. 

“I’ll try to come home earlier.” 

You know that he’ll try. You also know that it doesn’t matter. 

You’re not going to dwell on it. 

“I don’t know if you should. This visit was fun.” You grin, exhausted but happy and glad to be near him, glad that’s happy, and if anything at least he’s here - in this building where he’s less likely to get hurt, less likely to do anything other than listen to conversations and go through paperwork. 

‘Yeah, until we get caught,” he agrees before pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

You hum in agreement, then start to giggle. You’ll go home with him tonight in one piece. That’s all you can ask. 

“Then it’ll really be like when we were dating.” 

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

Shark Week with Sebastian | MDNI 18+ only | Period sex, blood ofc, gentle Sebastian, ambiguous era, smut, obviously, could be gross use your fucking discretion | I'm PMSing. Cramps are fucking awful stope.

Of course Sebastian knows. He keeps track of it better than even you. Sometimes even reminding you of its approach.

(Victorian era!)Sebastian has knowledge from all parts of the world so while other ladies bleed freely, feeling uncomfortable and having to repeatedly change clothing, you are offered a makeshift pad, with special cloths torn and arranged by the demon himself. (Modern!) Sebastian knows what pads, tampons, and menstrual cups are too he buys and stocks them for you. Making sure you have plenty for when you need.

Sebastian also makes sure you have hot honeyed tea to help soothe your cramps and sweet treats to go with it as well. Cakes, biscuits, chocolates.

And when all else fails, Sebastian knows a little massage will help you better than anything else anyway.

He starts at your feet. Carefully pulling and prodding at each toe and your skin. The ache that settled in your muscles immediately scream relief as his supple fingers glide across atop the expanse of your body. You can feel him- edging dangerously closer- closer- closer to your core.

You can't help wiggle. Despite having had this happen before it feels awkward for you to having him touch you while you're bleeding.

Sebastian moves further up, loosening the tight knots in your waist and back. His long fingers expertly knowing just where to rest, where to press down, where to be hard and where to be gentle. You're mere putty in his hands, shaped into a creature of desire.

You can feel your core grow warm. Heat blossoming in your abdomen as Sebastian bends down to lay a chaste kiss to your shoulder. "My lady, it seems you are in more pain than I initially thought... Perhaps a more personal massage will help better."

You giggle. A personalised massage...was that what it was called?

You see him out of the corner of your eye pull his glove off with his teeth – a sight you aren't still accustomed to. His blackened nails glint in the dim light, cold and unforgiving; desperate to taste the warmth you have to offer.

He flips you onto your back with as much ease as if he were lifting a kitten and while keeping his eyes on you, pushes his fingers into your bloody cunt. There's next to no barriers, and the feeling instantly shoots up right to your navel, sending signals to your brain that are too many and too quick for you to comprehend.

His thumb finds your nub, and he circles it, round and round, barely touching the button while pumping two long fingers in and out your hole. The blood drips down your ass and onto the bed where Sebastian had strategically placed a thick towel for you.

"Seb-" you breathe a sigh of relief feeling the fingers prod at your gummy walls. "Sebastian, don't stop. It f-feels so good.

"I wouldn't dream of it, my Lady."

His lips press against your skin, sinking into the plush fat of your tender breasts. Your senses are heightened making it difficult for you to reign in the cries that escape between your teeth, but it only seems to spur him on as he picks up pace.

When his lips latch around the hard pebble of your nipple, you gush warm wetness below. A dribble that amplifies the obscene squelches. But the demon remains unfazed.

His mouth suckes on your breast in a slow deliberate repetition, breathing life into your orgasm. A rhapsody of pleasure that builds in you, spiralling upward as his fingers curl inside and his thumb teases your clit over, and over till you feel yourself peaking. White hot and shuddering, you come, spilling blood and your release over the hand at your entrance.

Sebastian releases your nipple with a pop and looks down at you with flashing red eyes; your chest rising and falling with each deep breath. A part of you suddenly disappointed with how short it was.

"Is my Lady satisfied?"

"Y-yes."

"Liar."

Your cheeks reddened. Of course he would find you out. Yet the tall figure swooped in and captured your lips in his. You heard the soft sound of fabric moving and felt him push into you gently. His lips dropped from your mouth, to your jaw, your neck, fingers finding purchase in the formerly neglected nipple.

"Let's fix that shall we?"

I think I'll write for Agni next. Man had BDE and I need him. Why are the white haired men always so pretty to me ughhhh

[c0llisiion]

Pairing : lee know + f!reader

★: npr, drabble , car sex , unprotected , fellacio , gagging , riding — lmk if i missed any!

W/C : 606

A/N : back with another skz fic hehehehehheheheh! Sorry if its too short i js didn’t have much to work with 😭😭😭☝️ ANYWAYS ENJOYYYY <3

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ MDNI. Please refrain from reading if the topics make you uncomfortable. ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Where do I even begin with car sex and minho.. Having sex in the car has got to be this man's favorite spot. Something about your sweaty bodies pressed up against each other in a cramped place and the way you guys can get caught anytime was so thrilling. He enjoyed every aspect of it. Having aftercare kits stalked up in every storage space. He just loves it.

And there you were. He was parked in what seemed like an abandoned parking lot as you ran your mouth up and down his hard length. Minho gripped your hair tightly. His other hand on your ass. Rubbing your clothed pussy and slapping your cheeks every now and then. You gagged around his dick as he thrust up into your mouth. Eyes swelling with tears, and pussy dripping. Minho grunted and groaned as your throat spasmed around his cock. Your fingers gripped his thighs, marking them. He grabbed your hair and pulled your head off his cock. A stream of your drool ran down his length. You looked up at him with tear-stained eyes and a small pout as you whined at him. Minho melted internally at the sight. His thumb swiped over your chin before pushing it into your mouth, and you sucked on it immediately. “Back seat, now.” 

The windows were all fogged up by now. His cock was buried deep in you as you rode him like there was no tomorrow. His hands gripped the thick flesh of your ass, guiding your pussy on his dick. He thrust up into you every time you slowed down, sending jolts of pure pleasure throughout your body. Your eyes rolled back, and your mouth fell open as he hit a specific spot. “Yeah? You like this shit, don’t you, princess? Fuck- haaa- milk my cock, baby... Be a good girl and take all of my cum in your tight little pussy.“ You buried your head in his neck. Hot tears stained it as he increased his pace after finally taking control. His strong arms wrapped around your tiny body, holding you close to his own. You were a moaning mess. His cock hit your gspot every time he pulled out and hit your cervix every time he plunged into you. Your arousal ran down his heavy, cum-filled balls. Minho was pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you. “Minnie… gonna c-cum~~” you mewled. “My princess is gonna cum? Hold it in a little longer, baby, lets come together... cum when I say so.. okay..?” You nodded weakly into his chest. Minho threw his head back and moaned loudly as your cunt clenched. His thrusts got harsher and faster. His hips worked swiftly, pounding into your fucked-out pussy. Minhos thrust slowly got sloppier, signaling that he was close. "Minho!! Gon' c-cum...!" You screamed out as you felt the knot in your stomach come undone. "Just like that baby- fuck!" He dropped his head on your shoulder and gripped your hair before a load of his hot cum got fucked into you. You lost your breath as you came all over his lap. You saw stars as you felt him fill you up to the brim. Rope after rope kept getting pushed up. He continued fucking you through both of your intense orgasms. He slowly pulled you back and made you look at him. Your mascara ran down your face, and your lipstick smeared. Minho stared at you with love in his eyes and a small smile, like you were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He slowly placed a kiss on your forehead before soothing your back. “Goodjob” 

A/N: thank you sm for reading!! I might work on this more and write a detailed version cus minho. My inbox is open rnnnn! Make sure to send in your rqsss! Ily <3

[solbaby7]

Enchantress

pairing: rhysand x reader

warnings: kinda dark, mild swearing, possession, possibly some smut

summary: You accidentally release something you're not supposed to but maybe its not so bad after all

—

You should've stayed put.

Rhysand said he'd be right back and to stay right where you were but it felt like a hundred years had passed and he still had yet to return. You turn in place, eyes catching on a display on the far corner; far away from all the other precious artifacts Rhysand had been throughly explaining before disappearing.

You'd actually been quite interested.

Ignoring the grumbling sounds of your belly in favor of his voice, rambling on about his great battles; the land his ancestors had pillaged and the great treasures they took as souvenirs.

You stayed in place a minute more, going to far as to call his name but no one responded—and the display looked really lonely.

Your feet are moving before you can second guess it, before your instincts can kick in and sound their warning bells to your brain to stay the fuck away because something certainly wasn't right. The closer you get, the more transfixed you are with the contents; a box filled with a stone that glowed emerald. You hand hovers against the glass and just before your fingers touch it, the display opens; a smoke tinged in green kissing your face and the stone is in your hands in seconds.

It hums in your grasp, deep power residing inside and you're only certain because you can feel it; can hear it calling to you in that hiss of a tone. "Release me for I am your destiny and you are mine."

Rhysand finally returns when your hands are high above your head, eyes dazed as if in a trance and he can barely get the first two syllables of the word 'stop' out before the stone is no more; a series of shattered emerald pieces and a dark force emerges free. It happens so quickly, your eyes widening in realization, a sharp cry before the ebbing darkness is seeping into your skin and fusing into every pore.

Its intrusive.

Cramped.

Like sharing a small room with two full grown bodies and not enough space to breathe or move or think.

"I can fix that," That hissing voice whispers in your ear, freezing cold hands curled around your shoulders but it's not as uncomfortable as you'd anticipated. "Just say it. Say the words."

It feels like the walls are closing in, pushing and nudging and squeezing you whole like they did with grapes to make wine and you're gasping for air when you respond. "What words?"

"Enchantress.” One word and your skin is littered in goosebumps. “Call my name and we shall become one."

Become one?

What was that supposed to mean?

There's no time to think—Rhysand always said not to make bargains or deals under distress; not when you aren't thinking clearly and paying attention to the wording but you just can't breathe and right before it all goes black, you gasp out. "Enchantress."

She sucks in a greedy breath, your clothes shifting into something similar to the outfit Rhysand had handed you to wear on a visit to the Hewn City—to the Court of Nightmares. "Such a youthful body." The Enchantress whispers out, voice seeming to adjust to your own; it takes a few tries for the sentences to come out smoothly after so long without a mouth but she quickly adapts. "Much better than my last one."

"Your last one?" Rhysand questions sharply, standing firm but his body language was prepared for a fight no matter how unsure he was about the whole situation. He couldn't hit you; wouldn't be able to use much force and the thought of raking those sharp talons against your brain made his stomach churn in distaste.

"I'm a large package," She grins, dark magic smoking off her figure like the shadows that Azriel summoned. "It's hard to fit it all in such fragile meatsuits but this one seems to be quite used to taking such power."

If Rhys notices the underlying sexual innuendo, he swiftly ignores it. "You can read her mind?"

The Enchantress keeps her distance, eyeing the High Lord up and down, silently sizing him up and there's genuine surprise when she realizes his power was alarmingly similar to her own. "It's our mind now, Lord of Darkness."

"Don't call me that."

She inches closer, eyes glowing at the button she'd pushed and Rhysand's fingers flex at his sides. "You're right, she says you actually prefer Lord of Destruction."

Rhysand can't help the way his body responds to the nickname that's said in your voice with a woman wearing your face, dressed in a body he worshipped night and day. "She says?"

The Enchantress sighed, almost bored when she answers; voice more clipped as she explored the room she'd only ever known from the confines of that damn display. "Your mate is still in here; just pushed to the backseat for a little bit. Don't worry she's having a good time."

"She didn't know any better—"

"Don't underestimate us, she gave full consent. The girl’s probably delirious from the power as we speak."

Rhysand's eyes squint in suspicion, searching for a tell; determining if the mystical being was bluffing or not. "What do you want from her?"

"Nothing really, just a body and maybe even some entertainment if you're up for it. Of all the things that your girl could be thinking about and the only thing on the brain is your cock fucking into her while she's like this." Rhysand sucks in a breath at the words, her tone more like yours than ever before and he can feel the blood rushing between his legs, the growing tent against expensive fabric.

He really couldn't help it. Those clothes, your figure; the promise of fucking his seed deep in your body that was just thrumming with power more similar to his own than he'd ever once detected in his life. "Would it hurt her?"

The Enchantress laughs, a quick shout of a thing that made your shoulders shake. "Hurt her? With all of my power inside of her, she'll be coming before you can even fit all of it in."

She can hear his gulp and even from your spot as backseat driver you don't blame him for a second for considering it. The power was exhilarating, rooting deep in your blood and settling into your bones until just the smell of the High Lord had your thighs clenching in anticipation.

"So, what do you say?"

A pause before the unmistakable click of a lock. "Take off your clothes."

You make a noise, a pleased sound and Rhysand’s knees buckle when the fabric of your clothes melt into water. It drips to the floor, body bare and glistening; ripe for the taking and soaked with want. “Don’t hold back, High Lord. It’s been a long time and I’m feeling greedy.”

He’s too careful at first; fearful of hurting the soul behind the body presented to him while his mouth is trailing kisses up your neck. The Enchantress is more than patient, accepting the exploratory touches and arching into the fingers trailing down the slippery length of your back. “The water was a nice touch.”

“You’re charming but if you don’t touch me, I’ll do it myself.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time—I quite the fan of watching.”

Your eyes light up at the words whispered into your ear and it’s second nature when you grab for his hands and place it between your thighs. “You’re not this talkative in her memories of you,” The mystical being croons, teasingly dragging his fingers up the dripping arousal seeping past your lips. “—are you trying to impress me?”

“Is it working?” Violet eyes bore into yours and you don’t need to guide his hand any further, two fingers sliding through while the pad of his thumb worked tight, slow circles around your clit.

She was right; encased in so much power even just Rhysand’s fingers felt like pure euphoria, whiny moans and choppy breaths proving the pleasure he drew from you without even really trying.

Your chest is heaving when you answer, eyes half-lidded and the room smells like lust and jasmine scented oils burning over a candle. “Maybe a little.”

It was a lie.

One he doesn’t call you on when your body does it for you, hips writhing as his fingers curled into you, dragging against spongy walls while pumping in and out and in and out until your eyes squeezed shut. “Open them, you wanted me to fuck you so bad—watch me while I do it.” It takes real effort to follow the orders given and when you do another moans rips out and the smile on his face. “Watch yourself come on my fingers.”

You do, mostly, eyes closing towards the end and when his fingers slide out you quickly realize your mistake.

“You’d think for a mystical being that you’d be good at following instructions.”

Words no longer exist and for once, you’re the one left speechless.

You can nothing but watch as you fall pliant to powerful hands that lift you like nothing and carry you to the thin desk adorned in rare vases and busts sculpted from stone and Rhysand’s swipes them clear off to make room for you. You barely hear them disintegrate into specks; too focused on the clothes at disappear and you have to double check that you aren’t drooling when you take in the inky tattoos marking tanned skin. “That’s okay though,” The High Lord affirms just barely over a whisper when coating his cock in your juices. He’s got a hand curled around your thigh, legs spread wide and your backs propped up against the wall. “—I’m used to beautiful deviants like you.” The thick head of his tip breaches your cunt with embarrassingly little resistance, hips shifting to meet him and a moan drags from your throat when he fit every excruciatingly perfect inch inside. “I could make you my bitch on my worst day.”

You’re prepared to answer, a snarky remark dying on the tip of your tongue when his pace starts; quick and unforgiving. It takes everything to remain rooted in place, not to float away and defy gravity because his cock felt so fucking good.

It’s primal the noises you’re making, body electrified and every touch lingers like he’d branded them on your skin. “Rhysand.”

“Can you take it, baby?” He hasn’t even broken a sweat and no amount of skimming through memories could prepare the being sharing your body for the true extent of the High Lord’s stamina. “I really hope so, ‘cause I’ve got a lot to give you.”

Something flickers in his eye; something dark and twisty, a side of him he always reigned in because not everyone was equipped to withstand such power. You could handle it though—at least you were going to try because if you though it felt good before, the pleasure increases tenfold when that power becomes a tangible thing, slinking out the shadows and latching onto you.

Your vision goes white, another orgasm being worked from you and even as you try to writhe away, the darkness keeps you in place; forcing you to take it—to take him and that perfect cock and that perfect mouth sucking his mark onto your breasts and he lets out a groan when your back arches, his teeth scraping gently against your nipple and your certain your eardrums have burst.

You can only register white noise and consistent warmth encasing your body. It take a while for your vision to focus and once it regulates, Rhysand looks no better than you; hair mussed and cheeks flushed and a quick laugh pulls from his mouth when he looks at the ground.

“I don’t see what’s funny, those were priceless artifacts—probably irreplaceable.”

“I couldn’t give less of a fuck; I’ve never come that hard in my life.” The cooling darkness is already kissing at your neck seconds later, a smirk tugged at the corner of Rhysand’s full lips. “You wanna go again?”

[cutsiewitch]

A Mechanic’s Worries about Pilots.

A gifted mechanic is called in to service a pilot. As The Mechanic begins to head towards her station to work on the pilot, she can’t help but ruminate on her feelings about pilots. She honestly doesn’t like them.

It’s not a personal thing, she’s sure that they were great people at one point, but it’s hard to see them like that anymore. She finds the whole thing creepy and offputting. She see’s what they do to pilots, knows how they’re made. She probably understands the process more than anybody on the base. She’s a prodigy in mecha suit engineering, which also includes pilot systems.

It makes her uncomfortable. The pilots are treated like objects, tools of war. That’s what they are too, what they’re made to be. Their skulls are full of tech that hooks them straight into their mechs, their brains fried with dopamine and other kinds of chemical soup to reward them when they shoot targets into slag. They even end up sharing the space in their head with the onboard ai’s of their mechs. They’re locked into the mechanical nerves and metal muscles of the mech. It makes them amazing killing machines, but their minds are practically crippled outside of the suits, raw and untethered, ungrounded.

The weirdest thing to her is they seem so happy. It doesn’t even look like it’s just the chemicals, it can’t be. They like it, whatever fucked up experience they’re having, it’s making them happy as can be. They want to get back into the suits, they want to push more. They like getting bossed around like dogs by their handlers. They love their ai’s almost like some weird fusion of a lover, a sibling, and a reflection. They can barely even articulate how they feel, most don’t bother, but The Mechanic has worked in this business long enough to learn anyways.

She gets to her workshop. It’s honestly kind of pathetic, barely worthy of the name. She knows that the pilots are treated as tools, but mechanics aren’t treated much better. Human but still not really worthy of respect. They work her and the other mechanics like slaves, cramping them into the crawl spaces where stuff needs fixing. Even with her advanced position all they afford her is this broom closet from hell. The room is cramped and humid, like a small metal sauna. It’s still marginally better than the communal workshop. Even with the bigger and more open room it still somehow manages to be claustrophobic and hot.

The Pilot is already there, sitting on her workbench, completely naked. The Mechanic isn’t surprised, but her face still burns with heat as she blushes when seeing The Pilot’s bare ass resting on the same giant hunk of tungsten-steel alloy she uses to fix delicate parts and machinery. The Pilot’s augs are invasive and take up a good portion of its body. Its arms, its legs, and a good portion of its back are more machine than human at this point. Normally the jumpsuits account for this, but those would get in the way of repairs. Normal clothes would too, and developing some kind of modesty cover for them is more trouble than it’s worth for the higher ups. They don’t have to deal with the nudity, and it’s not like the pilots even care.

The Mechanic wipes the sweat from her brow and crosses the room. She doesn’t actually acknowledge The Pilot aside from the blushing, but The Pilot’s gaze follows her as she makes her way over to a box of tools. She sets the box down next to The pilots thigh and pulls over the ratty stool she uses for a chair.

She starts servicing The Pilot. She pulls out delicate tools and with ingrained precision she begins opening up The Pilot’s augs, starting with the legs and going up. She hooks its systems up to an old box of a diagnostics unit and begins manually inspecting the parts. She pulls wires aside with tiny fractions of force and checks on the tiny sensors and servos that are no bigger than her fingernail, cleaning them with tiny swabs and lubricating them with drops of oil.

The entire time she keeps hearing weird noises. Soft whines and sounds of scraping play at the edge of her attention, distracting her just the tiniest amount. The Mechanic can’t tell where the noises are coming from, and it’s bothering the shit out of her. When she takes a step back to unfocus and wipe the sweat from her forehead, she sees where it’s coming from.

It’s the pilot. It’s breathing heavily, like it’s exhausted. Its face is almost as flushed as The Mechanic’s when she walked in. The metal tips of its fingers scratch at the polished surface of her workbench. Jesus fucking christ, was The Pilot turned on right now? With the face it was making it had to be.

Fuck, now The Mechanic was thrown way off. It was already hard enough to try and pretend this was just normal machine servicing when all of the machinery was attached to a sweaty, naked girl, it was impossible to do it when she knew it was getting off to her poking around in its augments.

The Mechanic just couldn’t get back into the same groove she had before. Every stifled moan disrupted her concentration. Every squirm messed up her precise motions. Everything just kept bringing her back into the moment, where her face was inches away from the pilot’s crotch.

The Mechanic slogged through the rest of the grueling work, doing her best to try and travel into that little place in the back of her mind where she could just stop thinking and do what she was good at. She finished with the legs and then told the pilot directly to lay down so she could begin on her arms.

The Pilot laid down like it was told. The Mechanic scooted her stool forward and raised the seat for a better vantage. In the end the new position wasn’t all that much better than the old. The Pilot’s left arm was cradled on The Mechanic’s lap while she popped it open and began working on it.

It was more of the same. Nothing wrong but basic cleanup, which meant The Mechanic wouldn’t be busy enough to zone out. She could see its face clearly now. It looked so human, so lively. When she pressed a sensor its hand tensed and squirmed, pushing against her stomach a bit. A tugged wire elicited a slight yip of surprise. It felt so carnal, to dig into this things innards and just mess around.

Seeing it like this, The Mechanic couldn’t help but wonder about the difference between the two. Right now it looked just as human as she was, so she couldn’t apply the same cold business mentality she usually did with her work. She felt like they were almost one in the same. I mean, look at it, being a pilot can’t be so bad, right?

The Mechanic’s thoughts ground to a halt. Her surprise was so sudden it caused her to tweak a wire hard enough to get The Pilot to let out a proper yelp. Neither could tell if it was a yelp of pleasure or pain.

What had she just thought? Seriously, what the hell was that? Was she serious? Of course being a pilot is bad, being treated like a mindless dog, worked like a machine, and used like a toy. The Mechanic barely knew where that thought had even come from. I mean, it and her were nothing alike.

The Mechanic stewed in those thoughts, trying to reassure herself that she was nothing like it. She wasn’t an it. The Mechanic was a person, and it was just a pilot. The Mechanic tried her best to just focus on the work, but she couldn’t. The thoughts bothered her so much, and she really couldn’t dismiss them.

Because they were alike, very much alike. Not in the sense that The Pilot was a person. In the sense that The Mechanic wasn’t.

The Mechanic couldn’t help but feel it. She was a cog in a much larger machine, a tiny piece. She was treated almost the same as The Pilot

The Mechanic was worked like a dog. She was given shit conditions and forced to do shittier things. She was expendable, one in a million. You could point to almost any outward aspect of the two of them and they would match up.

The thing that frustrated The Mechanic even more was how they were the same on the inside too.

The Mechanic knew what it felt like to become something bigger. Working in the engineering wing was like being in a hive mind. You’re practically shoulder to shoulder with the people next to you. You become parts of the same whole, you work together, you sweat together, you create together. She can’t even remember how many times she had needed something, a part, a tool, a towel, anything, and a mechanic next to her had just known, and given it to her. She knew she had done the same for others all the time.

She could admit to feeling like an it sometimes. Stripped of your identity, down to everything but your use. She didn’t know The Pilot’s name, and The Pilot probably didn’t know her’s. She was a mechanic. She was nothing but the job she did. A function, not a person.

Her head pounded as she adjusted her grip on The Pilot’s arm. Her head buzzed and it felt like her brain was melting in the heat of the room. She could imagine the wires burning up and melting their rubber casings. The copper and metal fusing together into a frenzied mess as her thoughts jumbled into each other.

She shook her head violently. God she was losing it! Her brain wasn’t made of wires, it was made of meat! She wasn’t overheating, she was just getting some kind of headache. She closed up the first arm, not even sure if she was really done, and told the pilot to swap sides through gritted teeth.

She wanted things to be simpler. She wanted to stop thinking. She just wanted to do her job. The Mechanic missed the engineering floor. She missed the absent thrum as she worked alongside her fellow workers, their thoughts synchronizing into a beautiful and productive symphony. She wanted to be a part of that, of it. She just wanted to be a Mechanic, that was so much easier than all of this.

Is that why pilot’s are so happy? Are they so content because that’s what it feels like? The Mechanic thought about it in her own terms. Would she give up her body to work more efficiently? Would she open up her mind, just to be even closer with the other mechanics? Would she shed all of the cumbersome weight that thinking like a person had, and just become a simple and unbothered it?

The answer was yes. The Mechanic wanted that. The simple, pure existence of it. The Mechanic wanted to be that, and nothing more. When it realized that, it had a much easier time working on The Pilot’s arm.

It finished up The Pilot’s back in no time too. Without all of the messy thoughts clogging up its head, the whole thing went smoothly. The Pilot was sent on her way, on wobbly legs and with shaky breath. The Mechanic might have messed with it a bit more than necessary, but it liked to consider that a reward, for good behavior.

The Mechanic realized it wanted a bit of a career shift. It thought that if being a mechanic was good, then being a pilot must be great! It loved working on machines, but it wanted that sense of empty completion even more. Plus, it’s not like it won’t be allowed to also do mechanic work still. It would be a lot better for everyone if it got to service its own mech. It would be a win win. The Mechanic wiped down its workbench for the last time, and with renewed vigor, went to sign up to become a pilot.

[dadsbongos]

the ogre problem

moots that aren’t oxy… LOOK AWAY LOOK AWAY LOOK AWAY pleas please please

1.3 k words / warnings - anal (least scary), non-con, monster fucking, body horror?, mind break, choking x-treme, size difference, uncomfortable amounts of drool, zombie fucking?, muscle kink? muscle emphasis?, bros in yo guts!!

summary - You’re just a little guy in the dungeons of Fear & Hunger, hopefully you don’t run into any big scary prison guards…

~~~

The cobblestone has been laid with little care; jagged, raised lips with wide grouts begging to be tripped in. Buzzing thin, restless flies’ wings ring around each corner with gossamer webs shining iridescent once caught in torch light just right. Layers of dust cling along each stone wall and crate and barrel. And aside from those tiny wings, and the distant, thudding footsteps of nightmarish creatures far larger than you -- it is silent. So silent, you can hear the blood thrumming through your ears, and the tingling bubbles of your saliva being swallowed down, and the soft breeze of your breathing.

So silent, the cork popping from your bottle of ale echoes down the dungeon’s sprawling, vacant passage.

Raising the bottle to your dry, cracked lips, you note how the ale itself is bitter and borderline undrinkable; and the bottle’s chilled glass gnaws at your palms. As you drink, you think -- despite drinking to avoid the unnerving process of planning and scheming for survival. The longer you loom within the dungeon’s shadows, the more impossible it is to stop thinking. Currently, you wonder if the bottle, once emptied, will make a sufficient diversion.

Or, if you’re truly desperate, a weapon of its own.

Fire rages down the narrow canal of your throat, a more soothing warmth spreading through your chest and swirling into your gut. Mixing there with thin, spindly mushrooms and dried meat strips to settle the shakiness of your hands (if only for the following hour or so).

Prickles of goose flesh serrate your skin as your body nestles against the frostbitten, lumpy, carelessly laid stone that compiles this miserable dungeon. One large, thumping mass of mangled flesh and dried, blackened blood with a single mind. Death clings, the scent of rot perpetually clogging the back of your throat.

Terrible.

Rags do little to protect you from the wafting freeze. Or from the destructive, overpowering blows of grayish creatures with bulging, tumor-esque, crowded lumps for muscle.

You clutch the bottle, cursing each God -- old and new -- as the once faraway footsteps creep towards your secluded hall. Scrambling off the floor, the soft dizzying sway of alcohol is scrubbed sober as you search for any protruding column or statue to crawl behind. With not even a large crate to duck inside, you are left to cram yourself flat against the deadend hall.

The song of droning wings and swallowed spit is replaced with your heartbeat jumping up into your jaw, throbbing behind your eyes, and the harsh suck of air between clenched teeth. You swirl the bottle to judge how much ale remains and pat yourself down for a match. A single match.

Echoing, heavy footfalls pause, and your knees wobble. Lavish jelly replacing bone and tendons. The measly mix of minimum nutrients and ale now punching back up from your stomach -- scorching you alive from the inside.

An hour cut down into mere seconds. The bottle of ale rattles in your trembling hold.

Your sweat-slicked fingers curl around a single match, deep, deep in your ragged pocket amongst loose herbs and bread crumbs.

The ogre stands at the opening of the hall. Piercing, white eyes shrouded by a thickened brow bone pin you to the wall. A sickly golden shine peeks over the edges of its shoulders from surrounding torches, but your hall is dark.

Your hall is cramped.

Your hall is terrible.

The ogre’s rusty, chipped meat cleaver glints against firelight. Browned blood staining the cloth wrapped around its ankles in splotches. Flecks decorate the ruffled, short material of its loincloth. You don’t dare look beneath the flint-hued cloth, between those daunting legs.

Faint, varying shades of reds and pinks persist in the joints and curves of the ogre’s large body -- blood, most definitely. Whose, you aren’t sure (you only pray to the Gods you previously swore off that yours doesn’t join the mix). Blue wires vastly unfurled, barely visible, beneath the ogre’s stiff skin. There must be crimson there. There must be life.

But shadowed, searing pale eyes tell you otherwise.

It resembles every cadaver you’ve passed in these corridors. Devoid of color, devoid of spark and light and blood that drums in ears.

Your grip on the ale slips from moist fingers, but you fasten your grip before it free falls and shatters across the floor. The ogre steps forward, then again, and again, and again, until it's walking in a full, swift cycle. Its speed shocks you further back into the bumpy wall -- shocks you into momentarily forgetting your shoddy, desperate plan for escape.

Fear jumpstarts your heart -- you fling out the remaining half of ale over the guard and hurriedly swipe your single match to strike against the wall.

The match spits a lone spark.

Your wrist is enchained by the guard’s thick hand.

You cannot hear yourself breathe. You cannot hear the flies. You cannot hear your spit. As blazing sunfire eyes absorb your frame in a single, unblinking stare -- you cannot even hear your heart.

You forget you have one. You look between its legs.

The stinger twitches against the widely gapped cobblestone floor.

Ale rolls down the beast’s face. It drops the meat cleaver with a tingy clang and lifts you, already turning down the long, dank hall towards the cells.

Terrible.

…

Overbearing heft skewers you to the nipping cold floor, heavy hands pressing your spine into a low bow. The flesh of your rear plush around the obnoxious imprint of the ogre’s stinger. Swollen sagging firm meat squishes between your thighs, nudging impossibly into your legs through the thin material of your trousers before they’re ripped off completely. Threads snapping and shredding apart sings through the stuffy cell, you spot the torn pieces of dark fabric in the corner of your vision.

Maybe your brain is melting itself down into mush to preserve what scraps of sanity remain, but your initial thought is how the cloth could make for a good tourniquet. Or perhaps ample wrapping for a torch.

Cold hands stretch open the cheeks of your ass. One hand leaves.

Your eyes take in the stone wall directly in front of you.

A surly bulb pushes against your tight rim. The hand returns, fingers curl around the curve of your hip and the rippling rotund masses of the ogre’s chest muscles sink into your distended back.

You are punctured by the ogre’s stinger.

“Ggh- !” sputum webs out over your lips, streaking the floor, as you choke on air. You fling an arm back, beating at the sturdy arms holding you down.

The ogre only displays vague irritation, easily shoving an arm under your chin and around your pulsing neck, yanking you against its dense body. Oxygen flows thinly, you rasp for it in a panic when the ogre’s arm tightens. Your pulse vibrates through your entire body, even down to your groin.

Terrible.

Worst of all, however, is the fullness. Fullness that makes you squeal between strangled gasps, thighs twitching and hot. Your instinct is to hide the gushy evidence between your legs, but you realize quickly when the ogre pays this defiant arousal no mind.

Those glassy eyes and icy skin. You realize now, the ogre cares not for anything past the warm hole it fucks.

As the ogre’s stinger repeatedly spears your smaller body slobber gums down your lip and chin, muscles lax and pliant under the barbarie. Your thighs clench, knees scraping against the cellar floor, the pressure’s relief is fleeting. A garbled, boorish whine stutters through your cinched throat and fastened jaw -- you’re embarrassed. Mortified, even.

The ogre smashes its ballooning, obtrusive hips to yours. A strange warmth unfamiliar from the swathe of ale glows from the back of your thighs - mingling with the ogre’s. Warmth blazes across each charged jam of flesh over flesh.

Drool strings down over the ogre’s arm, rivaling the weepy valley of your thighs. All of which the beast ignores to tighten bruisingly around your throat, securing you between the floor and its back.

The ogre cares for nothing, except the warm hole it devastates.

Terrible.

~~~

:3

[boysbellyrubs]

Harry's Illness

I'm deep into assignments and the looming exam season, but here is this fic. Bit short, but sweet :)

---

A sick feeling rested in the centre of Harry’s stomach. It gurgled and growled like a swamp, making him hyper aware of everyone else in the room at the moment. He turned to face the white board, staring at the interconnecting strings and photos of their latest case. They had been working on it for more than a week with absolutely no leads, no suspects, and one detective coming down with a gnarly stomach bug. Harry felt his back twitch as a cramp squeezed his middle, more fiery noises coming from inside. 

The board provided no cover for the noise, but it did allow him to subtly push on his bloated middle, desperately trying to get it to shut up. 

“Hey, Lawrence, does staring blankly help or are you going to help?” One of the other detectives spoke behind him, tense words spitting out of his lips. He couldn’t remember his name for the life of him. 

He turned then, fixing his gaze on the man shuffling through some papers. “Sorry, just not in the mood to look through 500 prison records.” The man scoffed at him but turned back to his work. Harry looked out of the squad room door, watching as Jack approached with a fresh mug of coffee. 

“It’s 6pm.” Harry said lightly. 

Jack shrugged, gulping down a mouthful. “I’m useless if I get tired, these two know.” Jack had worked with the other detectives, but Harry hadn’t met them until that morning. So far, he was only partial to liking Detective Watson. 

“Zombie Woods not making an appearance?” She said, smiling as Jack came to steal a few papers from her. 

He huffed, “Not today. Found anything useful?” He directed the question at Harry, and that was the moment where his stomach decided to announce its distress the loudest. He physically felt his cheeks pale and his knees buckle, the cramp ripping right through him. “Jesus. Hungry?” Jack continued, eyes glued to Harry’s stomach. 

The other shook his head, moving back to the board. He opted to just ignore it along with the wobbly edges to his vision and nausea crawling up to his chest. He felt the others give him looks behind his back, but he couldn’t care less. It was important for him to not fuck this up, he couldn’t destroy his first big case around his older coworkers. Especially in front of Mr Prison Records. God, what was his name? 

“Anyway, I got word from one of my possible witnesses that she usually saw our guy doing his service around the shopping mall near the City Centre. Probably some other witnesses around there.” Jack said to Watson. She responded quietly, or Harry just lost the ability to hear. 

All he heard was the oncoming tidal wave of nausea that was rapidly approaching his throat. He swallowed thickly, an uncomfortable grimace on his face. His stomach was aching and cramping like no other, echoey gurgles bubbling up and out. He knew if he didn’t get out of here quickly he was going to puke all over the floor, ruining the carpet and his reputation. Harry felt himself gulp again, spit gathering faster than he could manage.

Without any warning, he left the room at lightning speed. He walked on unsteady ground, feeling seconds away from tripping, as he made his way to the bathroom. It was the longest walk of his life. 

Bursting into the room, he bolted to the nearest stall and doubled over. Hot, thick vomit poured out of his mouth, the gurgling now residing at the base of his throat. It hurt terribly, both his stomach and his throat. Harry stabilised himself on the wall, palm flat against the plastic, and groaned through a dizzy spell. He felt the urge to vomit again and quickly dropped to his knees, bracing his hands on his legs. The next round was watery but burned worse and it made his eyes squeeze shut. 

Harry groaned, rubbing a useless hand over his tumultuous upper belly. The cramping powered through his touch. “Fuck..” He mumbled, then spat out bile and saliva. The smell was vile. It filled his nostrils and sparked another hearty gag, causing him to cough and choke as nothing came up. With his eyes closed, he fumbled around for the toilet paper, quickly gathering some up to wipe up the mess on his face. The unexpected force had caused tears to leak from his eyes and his nose to run. 

He was a pitiful sight, especially kneeling on the dirty ground. Harry flushed the toilet. He couldn’t take the smell anymore. He just sat down on his butt, leaning against the door as he tried to calm himself. His stomach felt like it was never going to settle. Harry imagined his breakfast and lunch fist fighting inside the organ, swimming around in his stomach acid. The image made him gag. 

Going back into the squad room was going to be a disaster. He didn’t even know if he would be able to pull off being healthy, not with the way his hair stuck to his forehead and his shaky breath and hands, they would immediately suspect something was wrong. Not to mention the disastrous stomach gurgle that everyone had heard. He was done for. 

As if further agreeing with his point, his stomach fired up again. A strong cramp hit his middle alongside another sickly grumble. “Ooh, god.” He moaned, sitting up to lean over the toilet again. Harry wrapped his arms around himself, letting his mouth hang open as saliva dribbled out, jaw aching. Food splashed against his oesophagus and he was vomiting once again. It made his back curl. 

He continued to spew up his insides for the next ten minutes, occasionally interrupted by a random officer asking if he was okay. It was humiliating. Harry breathed deeply through his nose, eyes closed and head resting back on the door. His hands were slowly rubbing along his belly, desperately soothing it and forcing it to stay down. So far, it was actually working. Harry had always been one for physical touch when it came to sickness, so a little belly rub was doing him wonders. 

But, he needed to get up. He was starting to shiver and his ass was hurting from being on the ground for so long. Jack and the others were probably wondering where he was anyway, if they hadn’t already left. Picking himself up was more difficult than he anticipated. His fever was raging, making him dizzy with every movement. 

As he pushed open the door, Jack’s face was the first thing he saw. 

“There you are. You look like shit,” He really needed to work on his bluntness. “Are you sick?” He pushed himself off the wall, arms folded as he peered into Harry’s glossy eyes. 

Harry knew he shouldn’t lie. “Um.” Good job. 

“I see,” Jack nodded, laughing a little, “Right, let’s get you home, rookie. Stomach bug? Think there’s one going around.” He put his hand on Harry’s burning shoulder, steering him back down towards the main room. He didn’t give Jack an answer, embarrassment overtaking his rational mind. 

They walked past the squad room, Harry glancing inside. Watson and the asshole were still in there but they looked off task. 

“They’re really useless. I’m going to miss you over the next week.” Jack spoke quietly into Harry’s ear. His words made Harry feel slightly better. 

“Sorry.” 

They approached their desks, Jack collecting up both of their things. He handed Harry his jacket, waving his car keys up to his face. “I’ll drive. And, don’t say sorry, can’t help getting sick. Just wish it wasn’t right now.” He chuckled a little to soften his words. It was a long walk to Jack’s car, but Harry was grateful to finally sit down somewhere soft. His stomach had begun to hurt while they were walking, so he sank down a bit and held his middle. 

Jack fumbled around in the back for a bit, then got into the driver's seat while chucking a plastic bag onto Harry’s lap. “Use that if you need to be sick.” The car engine revved, Jack immediately pulling out of the spot. Harry was grateful for his partner knowing exactly what he needed. Perks of being detectives. 

Harry kept his eyes closed as the streetlights flashed by. The movement mixed with the flashing was creating a nasty storm of nausea and sickness in his belly. It was a battle, but Harry managed to not puke at all on the way home. 

“Do you need help getting inside?” Jack said, expression blank. 

“Why are you so good at this?” His fever-addled mind made him speak the first thing that came to mind. 

Jack laughed at him, “Younger siblings. Do you need help?” He pushed. 

With his head and stomach spinning the way it was, Harry did. He nodded slightly, unbuckling his seatbelt to plant his feet onto the footpath. Jack’s hand held his forearm, gently pulling him up to standing. 

The entire walk to the door, Jack had his hand strongly planted on Harry’s back, guiding him. Jack probably didn’t realise how much Harry appreciated it, something as simple as a hand pushing him forward calmed his sick mind. 

Being inside was luxury. Harry instantly collapsed onto his couch, hugging the bag to his middle. Jack stood a little awkwardly in the living room after turning on some lights. His eyes wandered around the decorations and eventually he walked over to draw the curtains shut. 

“Okay, you think you’ll be alright? I can come around tomorrow with your car and some supplies.” Jack’s voice gave away his concern. Harry felt himself smiling at the fact that Jack was letting his walls down around him a bit more. 

“Yup.” He spoke quietly, exhaustion now his leading symptom. The room fell silent. Harry could feel his muscles unwinding, his stomach finally letting him rest and he shut his eyes. 

Jack’s footsteps walked away. They stopped. “Get some rest, kid. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

[collidescopeeyes]

Random Relationship Headcanons: Viego

- Wants to be near you literally all the time. Loves physical contact and will find any excuse to get it.

- He physically can't blush, which is a tragedy because otherwise you could see how flustered you make him :( you still catch him just staring at you with open adoration so it's ok though

- Gives you privacy if you ask for it but his default state is wanting to be around you. Kind of guy who would be thrilled to watch paint dry with you cuz it means you get to spend time together. Will follow you around until you pay attention to him, 100% sulks if neglected for too long but can't stay mad at you for long.

- Gets jealous easily but is working on not being so possessive, so he just gets clingy(er) if he's feeling insecure. It's kinda cute.

- Low key gets freaked out if he doesn't know where you are. His last love died painfully in front of him ok he's got Trauma

- Can tell immediately if there's something up with you, pls talk to him about it, he worries and he just wants to help

- Likes to read, from romance novels to historical texts. Goes through surviving texts from Camavor frequently, trying to jog his memory. Keeps a journal now, in case the mist takes any more memories. A lot of it is prose about how pretty you were today, a fair hand at sketching too.

- Likes animals, especially dogs and horses–royal hunts were a big family event growing up. Animals do not like him anymore, the mist makes them uneasy. It makes him sad sometimes :(

- Has strong opinions on wine and ballroom music. Will talk about the composition of a symphony for hours if you let him. Would love to teach you to dance.

- Used to care a lot about how he dressed, but those memories are still pretty fuzzy and he doesn't really think about it anymore–dying kinda puts vanity into perspective. Likes dressing you up though, and will definitely dress to match if you're going somewhere. He likes the idea of coordinated outfits.

- Gets moody occasionally, it all gets a bit much for him sometimes and he starts thinking about all his fuck ups. Alternates between sad and self-blaming to frustrated and kinda bitchy, but does his best not to take it out on anyone. Instantly feels bad and apologizes if he says anything out of line. Give him time, cuddles and reassurance and he'll start feeling better.

- Can't sleep without you in his arms. Doesn't choose to sleep often anyway (he gets bad nightmares), but will happily lay there all night watching you sleep. Doesn't like to admit that though bc he knows it's kinda weird.

- Doesn't need to eat or sleep or drink, but likes doing it anyway. The other wraiths in the isles are shadowy mist creatures because they're souls the mists have taken, and the bodies are somewhere else. Viego’s situation is closer to him ACTUALLY being the crown and just possessing his own body constantly, sort of like he'd possess anyone else’s. He's still technically undead though so his only real bodily need is the magic that's keeping him walking around

- The crown can't be moved, his head just moves with it. It's sort of like horns, except they're not actually attached to his head. Yank him around by it ;). He can demanifest it if he tries but it makes him feel numb and weirdly claustrophobic

- Speaking of, is claustrophobic. Man was trapped in a sword for like a thousand years; he was only quasi aware that whole time, kind of like having a nightmare or sleep paralysis, but it still makes him uncomfortable. Doesn't come up much since he just kinda mist teleports out if he starts feeling cramped. If it's ever for some reason necessary he will be holding you like an emotional support stuffy and you won't get a choice about it.

- His tears are black and dissipate into mist after a bit. It's very goth. Can control the amount of mist pouring from his heart; at its thickest it's almost like a small waterfall.

- Lets you put your fingers in his chest hole exactly one time. It was so cold you couldn't actually feel anything. He described it as akin to someone squeezing his heart.

- He can float but it takes concentration and he honestly prefers just walking. Also, he's tall asf. You need something off a high shelf, he's your man.

- His sense of temperature is fucked. He can tell if something's hot, but if you hand him an ice cube and a piece of wood he can't tell which ones colder without looking. Worries his hands are too cold for you since you always feel warm to him (they're not)

- Looking at his reflection weirds him out, and sometimes you catch him staring at his hands. Man doesn't have an introspective bone in his body though so he couldn't tell you why, but really he only sort of remembers what he used to look like and sometimes the dissonance gets to him.

- In the far far future of TIARW some of the restored shades will choose to stay in the kingdom, since apparently Viego was beloved by the people before his wife died and he went fully off the deep end. Viego gets the opportunity to redeem himself to his people and kingdom, and another shot at being king but older and wiser now. With you as his queen, he swears not to make the mistakes of his past and to rule with the best interests of Camavor in mind. Maybe I'll write an epilogue along those lines at some point.

NSFW (under cut)

- Look he's perma stuck in honeymoon phase he's Thirsty

- High libido. A menace if you let him be but 100% respects if you aren't feeling like it, he knows he can be a bit much. Does need lot of physical intimacy but that doesn't need to be sex necessarily, he just likes making you both feel good

- Despite this, doesn't jerk off much. It's being with you that gets him going, not that he specifically wants to get off

- He doesn't get tired. Like ever. 0 refractory, will just go until either you tap out or he's so overstimulated he can't anymore. Watching his cum drip out of you just gets him so worked up though so it's a vicious cycle

- He's got a filthy mind and will have you every which way he can think of, in every room you'll let him. Fav position is probably you riding him cowgirl though; he likes the view

- Likes leaving lovebites, but he lowkey feels bad if he bruises you by accident. He gets carried away and forgets his strength sometimes, you'll have to convince him you're fine. He heals too fast for you to leave marks on though, it's tragic :(

- He's touch starved, we all know this, he was trapped in a sword for a thousand years. In particular though, his neck is very sensitive, as well as his thighs and lower back. Doesn't like the area around his chest cavity being touched. Loves having his hair pulled.

- He's got experience. He was a heartbreaker in his youth and he figures out exactly what you like uncannily quickly

- Love love loves going down on you, he loves watching you and he gets to make you feel good, doesn't even care if he cums as long as he gets to eat you out

- Boss him around, he loves it when you take charge. Loves being both praised and degraded, will try so so hard to be good for you. Edge him until he cries, make him cum over and over, yank him around by the crown and tell him what a pathetic cum drunk slut he is, he'll take it all and beg for more <3

- Not specifically dommy so if you aren't taking the reigns he's the perfect combination of loving and so horny he can't think straight. Tells you how pretty and perfect you are while he makes a fucking mess of you.

- He's so loud. If he's not telling you how good you feel or how perfect you are, he's moaning and whimpering and swearing. Ask him a question and watch him struggle to put a coherent sentence together in real time.

- If you want to give him a task you know he'll fail, tell him to keep quiet. Fucks it up immediately and he gets SO upset, full tears in eyes begging to make it up to you.

- Will happily do whatever makes you both feel good, willing to try most things you want to. Hard limits, wouldn't like saying mean things or hurting you even as part of a scene (receiving tho, yes pls). Also, very mixed feelings about doing it anywhere anyone could ostensibly see you–on one hand everyone should know you're his and he's yours, on the other he'd have to kill them. It would be the only way, they gotta die.

- Aftercare is a must, whole nine yards, hot scented bath and cuddles and affirmations all around.

[sugar-omi]

TRANS MASC COVE TRANS MASC COVE (sfw +nsfw hcs pls,, id love your thoughts)

NO BC NOW YOU'VE PUT THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD N I NEED HIM DESPERATELY eta while im in the middle of writing: after this i... i can no longer hold onto my fem!cove thoughts. n i am eating up trans!cove like a starving ANIMAL.

tags : SFW + NSFW, transmasc (ftm) cove, switch cove/reader, some mentions of body/gender dysmorphia, im sure theres 1 transphobe walking around sunset bird so the smallest mention of that clown

SFW

i've been seeing a lotta top surgery scar tattoos on my twt timeline lately, and pls some of them i need for myself bc they're so!!!! pretty!!!!

so i can definitely see him getting tattoos there

not because he wants to cover em up, i just think he sees so many flash sheets over time that he's SOLD

mmm i wanna say that fem/afab!cove would have small boobs

or B cups at most

either way, i almost wanna say that his boobs before surgery wouldn't bother him as much unless someone was sexualizing him or he was exercising n his boobs were bouncing too much or smth like that

even then its usually complaints of, "ugh, this bra isn't supportive..." or something like that

ofc he still has his moments

i also think he only binds sometimes, rarely

doesn't do it often since it's often hot outside, or especially if he's sporty, its uncomfortable

(also looked it up just to be sure) but since he's always on the beach its inconvenient/unnecessary to wear if he can't wear it in the water

but like i said i think he'd be pretty flat/small anyway, so i think he's okay

mm definitely doesn't give up having long hair, or wearing the occasional dress/skirt ofc

but will correct one of the old sunset bird residents if they try and say "see honey, it was a phase, you're wearing a dress today!"

also idk abt yall, n this is more of a general thought, but i feel like step 2 cove's impulse control is. deathly low.

so one day, he has long/long-ish hair

and the next he has a mullet, wolf cut, or buzz cut.

he's so chaotic to me pls

now i've had fem!cove on my mind for weekssss now

so i'm not just saying this

but cove is still buff

thick muscly thighs, NICE ARMS. REALLY NICE ARMS

mm so i feel like he looks pretty androgynous or masc anyway

now im projecting here.

but cove has irregular periods, n they're pretty heavy most the time

or lasts awhile (ok im done projecting. sorry cove</3)

also think he deals with cramps (IM SORRY COVE)

i think his period is the biggest trigger of his body/gender dysmorphia too

although i think fem!cove would hate her period anyway altho tbf who doesnt

he'd definitely appreciate some comfort!!!

bring him another heating pad, your comfiest hoodie or blanket and snacks

he's very happy for the thoughtfulness and the company

step 2 cove would definitely be moved by such thoughtfulness... he's in tears

so after the first time it's a trend to spend time together in his bed, watching movies or something while he's cuddled into your side or next to you in a cove-rrito, all sleepy n comfy...

NSFW

had to stop writing the SFW to write this bc i had a thought

cove laid out all pretty... his chest rising and falling and he's all teary eyed as you're between his legs, eating his cunt until he's seeing stars.

pls his cunt with be so sensitive, and he'd be so pretty to fuck

would shake so much too

his thighs quivering so bad he clamps around your hand

you'd have to hold his legs up so he doesn't nearly flatten your head between his thick thighs

"y/n!" cove cries, his hands tangled in your hair and he's trying so hard not to squish your head between his thighs, but your tongue is flat against his sensitive clit, sucking and bullying the poor button while your fingers make a loud, sloppy mess of his hole.

he whines, hips shaking in your hands.

you tighten your grip on his waist, your fingers digging into the flesh, grumbling irritably around his clit but cove just cries out a loud moan and slurred word, torn between your name, a cuss word, and a cry for god.

you pull of his clit, your fingers still curling against that spongy spot inside his sloppy walls. "stay still, you're gonna crush my head..." you start to kiss his thighs, small kisses turning into you sucking deep hickeys into his tan skin, and that turning into biting.

cove gasps for air, his eyes fluttering closed as he squirms.

"fuck, y/n, please..." he mumbles, tugging at the bedsheets.

you stop the assault on his thighs, leaning up on your elbows so you can give cove a kiss, your lips lazily moving together...

anyway... horny aside for a moment<333

mm i could see cove not getting or really wanting bottom surgery

i think trans cove would be pretty comfortable with his body's appearance overall

and he's probably read into it a lot since it's not like he hasn't thought about it, i could just see him probably deciding its not something he wants

ARGGHH HE'D BE A DEMON WITH THE STRAP THOUGH

ahh. cove holding you down or folding your legs against your chest while he slams his hips against yours...

his strap hitting your poor prostate / cervix, he'd coo about how cute your whines are and that you're making him leak

would definitely upset he can't fill you up w cum

especially if you wanna get pregnant, rambles about how much he wishes he could fill you up with his cum again and again and again...

arghhh fuck imma lose my MIND

definitely takes advantage of those squirting dildos

can at least admire how you look oozing milky lube

omfg definitely wakes up all excited to tell you if he dreamed about it too...

has an array of straps

we already know he has a tentacle dildo or two deep in his closet...

yeah tries them out on you

"don't get tired yet, i have one more.. and it has a knot!!!"

he just likes to experiment on you a little~~ bit <333

ohh please tell him he looks handsome/sexy while you're giving him head

he'll die.

FUCK HE'D GO CRAZY IF YOU RIDE HIM TOO I KNOW IT

yeah he's still the same cute, secretly horny, big crybaby pookie <3333 i love him pls