#ceiling fan chain

[cconfusedkat]

I still stare at my header in awe when im feeling down ,, wwww

[enchantresscraftshop]

My name is Suzy and I make a variety of Pendulums with crystals and Stainless steel

Pull Chain Pendulums available on Etsy 🖤

✨@enchantresscraftshop on Etsy

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Teach Me How To Play Coach Miller

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Pairing: Austin Joel Miller x Female Reader Word Count: 3,275 Summary: You're home alone, relishing a lazy day when your hot neighbor knocks on your door. Seems his TV is out and he really wants to watch the Rangers game. You know nothing about baseball... maybe he can teach you a thing or two? Warnings: smut, porn with very little plot, age gap (reader's college aged, Joel's in his 30's), oral (f & m receiving), unprotected p in v, riding, baseball terms, Joel's a filthy liar but it benefits all of us, mentions of voyeurism and masturbation, big balls Joel Miller in gray sweatpants, no use of y/n, not beta read.

Masterlist

---

It’s another famous hot September afternoon in Texas. Too damn hot to do anything besides walk outside, roll your eyes at the sweltering temperature, turn around and walk back inside. The thick humidity and overbearing heat makes your skin slick and clothing stick in all the wrong places– or maybe the right places– it depends on who’s looking. 

A ring of the doorbell interrupts your lazy day movie marathon. The house is yours for the weekend, your roommates are all gone for a festival and your coursework is all done, so naturally you’re laid on the couch taking a reprieve from the overbearing temperature.

Another ring.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you grumble. 

You open the door, your knees buckling at your bad luck.

GOD DAMNIT. OF COURSE IT’S JOEL MILLER. *THE* JOEL MILLER. The hot DILF you and your roomies all lust after. The broad, golden skinned GOD of a man that you all argue over who’s going to get to bed one day. 

“Joel? H-hey,” you say, attempting to hide your embarrassment over how you look. It’s 4 PM and you’re still wearing what you woke up in… an oversized Rangers shirt of your ex-boyfriend’s over a pair of lace boyshorts… it’s too freakin’ hot for actual clothes. 

“Afternoon–uh–so my cable box just stopped working and it’s the clenching game for the playoffs,” he nervously huffs, putting a hand to the back of his neck. “I know it’s crazy to ask, but can I watch the game on your TV?” He lifts a six pack of beer enticingly, “I brought this as payment.”

“Oh,” your eyes widen in surprise. Joel Miller… on your couch? Yes! Joel Miller on your couch! You open the door wider and step aside to let him in. “Of course, make yourself at home.” 

He walks into your house… this is a dream come true, he’s in GRAY SWEATPANTS and they hug his thick body perfectly. 

You take a precursory look around your living room, silently thanking yourself for picking up the house yesterday. Now the hunk of a neighbor you’ve touched yourself to while watching him mow his lawn is closer to you than he’s ever been.

You quickly stroll over to the coffee table, picking up the remote and handing it to him. 

“Thanks for this, appreciate it sweetheart,” Joel says, sitting on the couch, taking up a whole cushion with his broad body. 

Ohhhh, sweetheart. His eyes darken at the sight of your breath hitching, before his eyes gaze lowers to your bare legs. 

“Yeah, o-of course,” you nod, feeling very underdressed with your handsome neighbor taking a seat on the couch you were just laid out on a few minutes ago. “I’ll go get an opener.”

Joel turns the game on and settles his back against the couch cushions, “Thanks sweetheart.” 

__

The ceiling fan chains clang against one another, it only does this on high, it drives you crazy but the soft breeze it sends down is worth the annoyance. Your skin’s too overheated sitting only a couch cushion’s length away from Joel. Your foot nervously taps against the carpet while you try to focus on the book you’re reading. You’re overwhelmed by his presence, hearing his lips form around the beer bottle and taking a swig, the movement of his body against the couch cushions, the smell of wood and coffee he’s brought into the house. You sigh, turning your attention to the game, maybe today’s the day you’ll learn about America’s pastime. 

“Why is it called a shortstop? Do they have to be short?” You ask putting your book down. 

“No,” Joel chuckles, “s’just what the position is called.” 

“Ah, and every team has one?”

“Yes,” he shakes his head, “what exactly do you know about this game, sweetheart?”

“Um, I know I like their tight pants.” 

“Oh really?” Joel looks over at you, crooking his eyebrow up. 

“Yep, and the guy throwing the ball is really tall and cute.”

“That’s called a pitcher sweetheart,” he shakes his head at your ignorance.

“And he throws to the…” your finger taps your cheek while you mock contemplation, “catcher?” 

“That’s right,” he nods, his voice dropping an octave. “What else do you know?”

“I know there’s bases and home runs, adorable mascots and Cracker Jacks.”  

“What bases?”

“Hmm. First base, second base, third base, and home.”

“Good girl,” he grins, “you’re a smart girl.”

“I know I am,” you smugly smile at him. “First base is kissing. Second base is above the waist, third base is bel—“

Joel’s laugh cuts you off. “Is that right? Seems you know all about baseball, you’ve… ‘played baseball’ before?” 

“Mm,” you lean towards him, “I like playing baseball… I just haven’t in a few months… you know besides practicing with myself.”

He shakes his head, a devilish smirk lights his face as he angles his body towards you. “You practice a lot?”

“Yeah, especially when my hot neighbor is outside mowing his lawn and he gets all sweaty. My bedroom window looks right out on his lawn.” Joel’s eyes widen at the realization that you’re talking about him. “Sometimes he lifts the hem of his shirt and wipes his brow, I get to see a peek of his stomach, it’s super hot.”

“Funny,” he puts his beer bottle down and licks his lips. “I have a hot neighbor too. I’ve, uh, ‘practiced’ before while thinking about how good she looks running in her tight shorts and tiny tank top.” 

Your core begins to pulse at his words, desire lights inside your body. Joel Miller has noticed you *and* gets off to the thought of you?! And now, he’s on your couch, sending you a lascivious look. Let’s ball. 

“Can I play?” you ask, head tilted with a smirk before scooting closer to him.

“Yeah?” his eyebrows crook up. “You want to play with an old man like me?” 

You nod. “Put me in coach.”

“Batter up baby,” he growls, grabbing and lifting you to straddle his lap. You’re thankful for your measly lace panties, less layers between you and Joel’s dick. “You wanna show me first base?”

You gulp, pouty lips agape begging to be kissed by Joel Miller. “First base,” you nuzzle your nose against his, “is kissing.”

“Mm,” he nips at your bottom lip, “then kiss me, pretty girl.”

You pull away, angling your head to look at the TV. “But what about the game?”

“They’re losing by four,” he grabs your chin, turning your head back towards him. “Plus, I don’t think it’s possible to care about the game when a pretty girl like you is on my lap.”

Leaning forward, you plant a soft kiss and suck his plush bottom lip into your mouth. Your heart flutters inside your chest when his mouth opens inviting you to lick into it as he lifts the hem of your shirt. 

You swipe his hand away, “Not at second base yet.”

“Fuck,” he pants. “Been wanting to see you since you moved in last year.”

His confession rolls through your body, sending waves of want through your limbs. You want to rock your hips against him, you want to feel your bare skin against his, you want to feel him inside you, but you also love the game you’re playing and it’s not just every day your hot neighbor comes over to watch a ballgame and winds up with his tongue in your mouth.  

You deepen the kiss, moaning against his lips as your tongues collide and explore each other’s mouths. Raucous shouting of the announcers on the TV interrupts your makeout session.

“Mmph, will you look at that? Rangers just hit a grand slam ’n tied the game. You wanna celebrate now?” Joel grabs the hem of your shirt and angles his eyebrow up.

“Show me second base Joel.”

Your shirt is lifted and tossed aside, your nipples pebble under the cool fan air and Joel’s attention. He stares, eyes wide in astonishment as he takes your bare chest in. 

“Second base is above the waist stuff,” you direct. His large, calloused hands mold around the weight of your flesh. 

“Mm, knew you’d be soft,” he rasps in awe. His touch drives you crazy, just an hour ago, you were dozing off on the couch to Romy & Michelle’s High School Reunion, now Joel Miller is holding your tits in his hands. He rubs the tips of his thumbs back and forth across your nipples. “Can I use my mouth on you baby?” he asks, his gaze moving from your chest to your eyes pleadingly. 

“God yes,” you pant, rising up to bring your chest to his mouth. He clasps his lips around your nipple, sucking and pulling, swirling his tongue around the peak before letting it go with a pop. Your back arches, your weight settling firmer against him when he nips his way across your chest, taking your other breast into his mouth and suckling. Your hands snake underneath his shirt and run across the plush of his stomach petting your hands across the smattering of hair across his belly. 

Joel buries his face between your breasts, breathing you in and groaning against your skin, his hands grab your hips and push your body firmer against his half hard cock still clad in his sweatpants.

He’s fully dressed, your teensy pair of lace panties do very little to stop your cunt from dripping onto the light gray fabric of his sweatpants. Your hips begin to grind against the shape of him, begging for contact. He ruts his hips up to tap against your core pulling a moan from you. 

He snickers teasingly, “We goin’ to third base already baby?”

You whimper a measly yes, rocking yourself harder against him. Fuck the pace of game, it’s going to be a quick one. You’re so needy for him, you can’t believe this is happening with Joel “hot dad” Miller. Your roommates are never going to believe you. 

You reach for the hem of his shirt, bunching it up before he chucks it off and throws it across the couch. You lean back, eyes widening at the sight of him. Good LORD, he’s perfect. His skin glows in the late afternoon light beaming in from the front window. His shoulders and arms are toned from all of the manual labor you always watch him accomplish. Your hands roam his soft muscles, exploring the plains of his body. He’s the whole fucking package. He looks at you with a smug smirk while you take him in. 

You want to taste him and see if he tastes like the sweat and sunlight. Your lips find his collarbone, licking and sucking, tasting the slight salt of the sweat the heat leaves on everybody’s skin on days like today. Delectable.

His throat groans against your tongue, he shivers underneath you, you’ve never wanted someone so badly before. 

“Fuck me,” you plead against his skin, “please.”

“Not yet, not yet baby, we’re still at third, you’re still learning all about baseball. I need to enjoy a game as sweet as you,” he implores, sliding a hand between your legs and petting your soaked panties. “This all for me?” 

“Yesss,” you hiss, licking your way up through his scratchy beard to his mouth. 

You gasp against his lips when he slides a thick finger inside. He chuckles a deep breath against your mouth, “So fucking wet aren’t you pretty girl?” 

Your only answer is a garbled moan and a clench around his second finger that stretches you. 

His fingers languidly fuck you while his thumb teases soft circles against your clit, you’re writhing from his touch, breathing mews into the air. He licks into your mouth swallowing every shattered breath that escapes from your throat. So many nights you’ve fallen asleep to the thought of this moment laying alone in your bed, gazing out the window at the Miller household. What would Joel Miller’s overworked hands and plush mouth feel like against your body? Well, now you know, and it feels even better than you could have ever imagined.  

He licks his way down to your neck, asking “Can I taste you?” against your skin. 

“Yes,” you cry out. 

Joel lifts you with a grunt and lays you down against the couch cushions. He stands over you, running a hand across your body, mapping his way from your breasts down your stomach to the trim of your panties.

“You’re gorgeous,” he muses, his eyes turning black as he pulls your panties down, exposing your pussy to him. You spread your legs open encouraged by the possessiveness of his stare. He tosses your underwear behind him before settling on the couch between your legs with a deep growl. Your legs are lifted over his shoulders. “Fuck,” he sighs, planting a kiss against your thigh, “you’re so fucking hot. Let’s get to third base sweetheart.”

His eyes flutter shut at the first taste of you when he parts your folds with his tongue. Everything about Joel Miller is wide- his fingers, his shoulders, his chest. Right now, his wide tongue is driving you crazy as it swirls against your clit. He devours you, licking and laving all over your drooling pussy, drinking you down and savoring you like you’re his last meal. His eyes stay on your face the whole time, watching you fall apart against his mouth. Your fingers wrap around the dark waves of his hair pulling him in closer, hips undulating against his mouth getting yourself off on the feel of the bristle of his beard against your sensitive flesh. His tongue flattens and runs up and down the shape of you before he dips two fingers into your entrance and buries them knuckles deep. Your back curves at the overwhelming sensation of his tongue on your clit as your soaked walls clench around his thick fingers. 

“Mm, close,” you whimper while your feet thud repeatedly against his strong back. He nods against your core, dark brown eyes still focused on your face. Your heart races at the way he watches you under his thick eyebrows creased in concentration. Of course Joel Miller is good at eating pussy, he’s a hard worker. You wail his name out when you orgasm against his mouth, your body tightens as you flood his fingers and throb for him. He kisses your swollen clit gently, letting a deep moan and chuckle out while you spasm underneath him. 

Joel’s face glistens with you when he lifts his head up, “Welcome to third base.” 

“You haven’t gotten here yet,” you arch an eyebrow and lick your parted lips, still panting for air.

He kisses each thigh with a loud smack before getting up. 

He looms over your blissed out body on the couch and yanks down his pants and boxers, a gulp rolls down your throat at the sight of him. So fucking thick and engorged with a sweet drop of precum rolling down his shaft.

“Wow,” you gasp, rolling to your side to bring yourself eye level to his twitching cock. Your eyebrows rise in awe when he wraps his hand around himself and strokes.

“Yeah?” his voice smolders through you. 

“I’ve thought about what you looked like naked, and now that I see it… wow.” You can’t believe the confession just left your mouth.

“Funny,” he collects a drop of precum on his fingertip and rubs it against your bottom lip,” I thought the same thing.”

Your tongue darts out to taste him, salty, bitter, so fucking manly. You want to taste more of him. 

You bring your lips to the crown of his cock, kissing the tip and running your tongue along the length of his shaft. He gasps, leaning forward to rest his hands on the sofa back. 

“Fuck sweetheart, that’s good,” he drawls when you suck him into your mouth engulfing the thick length of him in the wet heat of your mouth. 

You cup the heft of his balls in your hand… thick cock, big balls, of course Joel Miller has big balls. 

“You’re good at this sweetheart, really fucking good,” he huffs, rubbing his thumb against your cheek as you hollow them and suck him to the back of your throat. 

Your eyes flutter up to watch Joel snarl down at you while his hips buck into your drooling mouth.

“Can’t keep lookin’ at me like that sweetheart, or else we’re not going to get to homebase.”

Your pussy clenches at his words, begging to be filled like your mouth. It’s as if Joel can read your mind, his hand lands in between your thighs and begins petting your aching cunt. 

“Feels like she needs to have my cock in her, doesn’t she?” he says, tapping his fingers against your entrance. “Think maybe we should get to homebase?”

He pulls his cock out of your mouth and lifts you off the couch into his arms, he’s so fucking strong. 

He leaves a searing kiss on your lips before settling on the couch, still holding you close to him. 

“You ready for homebase?” he asks, gazing into your eyes. 

“Put me in coach, I’m ready to play,” you smile, giddy at the anticipation of getting fucked by Joel Miller.

“Go ahead sweetheart, fuck me,” his drawl drips in arousal as you slowly sink yourself down on him, gasping at the feel of his thick cock stretching you. 

Your hips rock back and forth to adjust to the size of him spreading you open. 

“Knew you’d feel so good sweetheart, knew it as soon as I saw you,” he says, peppering kisses across your face and neck. “So pretty, so soft, feels so fucking good.”

Joel Miller always seemed too intimidating, too closed off, too attractive to ever be interested in a neighbor much too young for him, and yet here he is ignoring the baseball game he wanted to watch, instead burying his cock into your pussy.

You ride him, your pace turning more frenzied and desperate the more he chants your name.

The ticks of the fan chains clanging against one another accompanies the sound of your pussy bouncing up and down on his dick. Hips meeting hips, skin hitting skin, breath gasping breath, chain knocking chain. Your fingers wrap around his curls pulling his head up to kiss you. Your breaths puff against his, you can’t hide the blissed out smile that lights up your whole face as he pounds into you.

Your body begins to tingle and quiver when his cock hits the gushy spot that makes you see stars. 

“That’s it baby, that’s it,” Joel grits against your neck biting and sucking, marking you with his mouth and owning you with his cock. 

You scream a choked sob when your orgasm lights through you, your walls clutch Joel’s cock as you come undone. He grips you harder, pushing you into his chest and holding you as close as he can with his tense muscles as he lifts you and pulls out painting your pussy lips with his cum. You collapse against him, gasping for air against his sweaty skin, darting your tongue out to lick some of the sweet salt so you can always remember the taste of playing ball with Joel Miller. 

“Can I tell you something?” Joel asks, his voice radiates through your ear resting against his chest. 

“Hmm? Yeah,” you sigh.

“My TV still works,” he sheepishly says. You sit up at the shock of his words. “I just really wanted to watch the game with a pretty girl.” He sends you a sultry, guilty smirk that you cover with your lips. 

___ Tagging people who showed interest in my WIP a couple weeks ago for this. Along with my camp coven friends who helped.

@luxurychristmaspudding, @sizzlingcloudmentality, @sawymredfox, @magpiepills, @yxtkiwiyxt

@beefrobeefcal, @ace-turned-confused, @yopossum, @mothandpidgeon, @bitchesuntitled

@maggiemayhemnj, @jennaispunk, @timelordfreya

[4mrplumi]

00. spiderwocky ── kid-buggy

‎‎ㅤㅤplatonic | spiderverse x spiderman!reader x batfamily | ms. list

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdisclaimers on masterlist!

index. prologue , chapter one , chapter two , chapter three ... to be continued. based on this

your head slams against the mech’s ceiling, and your vision blurs for a second. a troubled robotic voice keeps reading out statistics, leftwing engine down, visors breaking off, remaining web fluid at 17%, and enemy still engaged.

you have to wince, pushing your head against the whiplash, slamming a half-ripped off metal leg at the large metallic eyeball staring keenly in your direction. mysterio’s been trouble before but… you’ve gotten soft. 

a thin wisp of gas permeates the suit’s vents, and sp//dr’s robotic droning takes an almost human, frantic quality. “air quality has been compromised,” it hisses,  “(name), pulling out of battle is optimal.” you’ve got to ignore it, you think with strain, a thin string of web leaping out at the building behind mysterio, there are people in more danger than you.

pulling harshly on the string, you can hear the noisy clank of metal as the mech-suit’s arm bolts creak under the pressure, and propel yourself at the sphere. and you do it again, to the left, again, from the right, while sp//dr’s voice reads out the remaining fluid clerically.

"16%", slam it into the concrete building next to you, it makes a dent, "15%", swing it into a billboard, people are screaming, "14%", jump up into the sky on your- the suit’s- good leg, "13%" shoot out two strings to the ground besides mysterio-

"12%", slam him into the concrete, shattering the road under him. you’re running out of air. the sphere breaks a little, curling inwards like a cracked egg. you have to disarm mysterio- before he floods the streets with the brain toxin that-

that’s currently bypassed your filtration systems.

the suit takes a staggering step towards a boy inside the vessel, his head encompassed by a globe of white, a single eye etched and staring. you barely hear his “you’re taller in person”, more focused on another voice whispering to you.

 ‘make me nothing’, it says, it’s your father's voice. no, it’s sp//dr’s voice. a hand reaches up on its own, crushing a drone, ‘i’m a teenage weapon’. it’s your voice, your head, sp//dr. you can barely breathe, another hand sending a drone flying into the thin walls around you. "safe inside the colours", his face looks at you in pity, admiration. 

it’s a familiar look.

you stiffen, your mind clearing to sp//dr’s warnings. ‘i don’t need your love, boy.’ the suit’s arm slams against his skull, and he falls to the ground, with a strangled; “my voice!”. 

the brain toxin begins to leave your systems, flushed out by a steady, furious buzz in your ears, your vision clearing as you approach the man. his face is exposed, a bloody, spectacled and oat-haired figure. he croaks to you; “i hate my voice,” as though you’d care of it, “you don’t know me- i’m just a fan…”

his voice becomes shaky, and he’s struggling to blabber out his words. you’re tempted to web his mouth shut. “but i could have been anything to you…”

“did you ever get the mix-disc i made you?” he slurs, his cracked glasses breaking.

you don’t wake up with a jolt. there’s no chain of anxiety that hits you, no spider-sense going off. you’re well tucked under heavy covers when you open your eyes, rigid in your sleep. not in the suit, you haven’t been in it for a while. it’s sill broken, and you’re not… not at work. not right now.

it doesn’t feel natural waking up in the manor. you’ve been opening your eyes to the posters your roommate put up on your walls, insisting on brighter decor. grown used to waking to sounds of chatter, maybe the radio, or the school bell telling you were devastatingly late to class and would be reprimanded for it.

you’re not used to waking up to neat wallpaper in a dark, old room. in the house you’ve barely lived in, barely wanted to live in. wayne manor is a sad place, and you're suddenly glad they send you away for most of the year.

summer vacations are the most miserable time of the year, everyone being sent home or off on vacation with their parents until they come back for next term. all the time you're stuck going to a manor you don’t want to be in, in a city you’re close to hating, with people who’ve made it too obvious they don’t want you here. they never say it to your face. but you know well enough.

but- but this time it’s different. this break, you won’t go to trouble tim with a puzzle you’d hope would interest him, one he’d take from you with a nod, and never think about again. you won’t go watch jason sneak into the pantry from a distance, trying to muster up the courage to talk to him and inevitably fail each time, as he swiftly left again. you won’t even offer to ask alfred if you could help him tend to the garden, only for him to smile pitiably gently at you and ask you if you’d 'rather not spend your time having more fun elsewhere'.

this time, you have work. something to do. someone to be.

you take to sauntering awake to a little desk in the corner of the room at five? four? in the morning, and sliding the drawer open to pull out a thick and scrappy diary. you’ve been writing in this since they first sent you off, since you were nine. 

"SP//DR BOT" graces the page you flip to, in bright paint-marker-blue. the picture of a poorly sketched, vaguely-humanoid mecha-suit follows, on which you scrawl with a drying pen. for the last seven months you've had someone to be. so you'd best get to it; kid-buggy.

₊˚⊹ a/n : first fic i've planned up to completion,, let's hope all goes well!! let me know if you want to be in the taglist <3

prologue tags @sirenetheblogger @kenyummy @selvyyr

[dinosaurcharcuterie]

There's one part to this that often gets forgotten:

Evolution doesn't just have no plan beyond the next generation. There is no plan. There is no action or engine or imperative. It's a scientific theory, an explanation we have evidence, but no proof for. It neatly describes why offspring might look different across generations, and why genes that result in an early death don't get passed on, usually skewing results in favor of certain traits.

A gene mutation can give you the deadliest peanut allergy known to man, an objectively worse trait than those who came before you had, but it won't remove you from the gene pool if you live in an area where no peanuts show up during your lifetime. If you're a Stone Age Welshman, that puppy can stay in your lineage for centuries without anyone being bothered by it.

Adult lactose tolerance is a fantastic survival strategy and gives access to extra food--provided you're near at least semi domesticated animals you can get milk from. If you're not, it makes little difference to your life. It certainly doesn't matter if you only pass it on to some of your kids.

Thousands of people are born every day with either attached or loose earlobes, and they will continue to do so until one or the other is connected to something that kills you before you turn twenty.

If you had three dozen people who were the most perfectly adapted specimens of humanity, utterly safe from predators and disease, impervious to all poison and the elements, able to survive on absolutely minimal and even polluted resources; a small but significantly large enough population to realize every eugenicist's wet dream--it would mean nothing if the genetics for that were also connected to being born sterile.

Genes don't know what they're doing, or even if what they are doing works. They are only there to copy code, and if the cells they build to do so hold up until they get to mix their code with some other code, that's a bonus.

The thing about natural selection is that your genes do not care about what you want, beyond the necessity to make sure that you want what they want - which is to survive, and to pass on the aforementioned genes. For your genetic information, you are nothing but the current temporary little vehicle that they're scooting around, trying to guide you to the next stop, which is the next generation. Whatever the genes need to do to keep you alive for long enough to do that is just a means to an end.

Evolution does not operate by any intelligent planning or design, but mainly the same way that I navigate my way through life: By continuously throwing unfathomable amounts of random arbitrary shit to the wall until something sticks and actually works - not because of some inherent genius but because it was just too statistically improbable that nothing ever would.

No living thing intentionally evolves into the right shape to fill a specific ecological niche, some random works-by-pure-accident solution just happened to stick, and then continues to stick. And once again just like myself, your genes have no idea why something works, it just happens to work so they keep doing it. They don't care if you're happy if that doesn't personally benefit them - if your dad got laid by being a tragic miserable pretty boy who died at 27, you're going to have those genes because that worked for some reason, whether you like it or not.

Evolution works with no plan nor end goal beyond the next generation. Trees regularly eaten by giraffes don't have a desire to grow taller next time, and grow more spikes to avoid being eaten to death, and giraffes aren't doing any more planning than deciding which tree they will personally choose for dinner. And genetic code doesn't even know what an ecological niche is, it's not aware enough to specifically desire to find the perfect niche in which to belong. And it certainly does not care about whether any individual giraffe, personally, desires to be long.

[chrollohearttags]

°˖✧✿✧˖° lose it • e. jaeger °˖✧✿✧˖°

📃: musician!eren, influencer reader, nipple play, subby eren, footjob, overstimulation, mentions of other suggestive themes, riding, orgasm denial (if you squint)

📝: posted this on Patreon a while back but like with everything I wrote, it got taken down. So here it is again bc this man is on my mind again 😩 I’ll be revisiting this au again very soon

wc: 1.1K

═✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿═══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

“Shit!—princesssss..oh fuck…”

“Eren, babe..you gotta be quiet. We’re gonna get caught.”

a tall request to ask of your musician husband at the moment but you’d still try nonetheless. Tossing a cupped palm around his mouth, (y/n) (l/n) tried your hardest to stifle those loud moans escaping his lips but to no avail. To think that the same EJ the Don, who was just on stage performing and rapping the most obscene lyrics..had now been reduced to a babbling mess by his pretty little wife. Truthfully though, you were just biding your time until you could get him all to yourself. See, the two of you had entered into a contract for the duration of his international tour and your group, the Pole Assassins, would be hoping his collective, Dead Boys. This was following the aftermath of a scandal with another artist who refused to allow you to be the main dancer on his stage. Naturally, it was all of you or none at all. So your husband, entering a new era with his artistry..wanted you to be around for the journey. Although you were hesitant, and felt as if his fanbase wouldn’t be receptive to it, you were completely wrong. From the states to Europe, you girls were the talk of the entire performance. Whilst Eren and the rest of his crew swooned sultry lyrics during slower tracks, you all were right there twirling above them��doing unbelievable stunts. When it came to more high energy joints, you’d rejoin them and mirror that of the girls in the strip club. There was one track in particular where you and Eren had a solo stunt. You’d climb to the top of the pole and when the beat dropped, you’d come down split leg into his lap as he sat in a chair with his thighs spread wide. Money would fall from the ceiling and accompany you. It was a variation of your infamous Kiss of Death that had gone viral countless times. You’d even have segments where you’d invite fans up on stage to try and mimic your movements and they’d have a blast. Especially at the 18+ shows. Not to mention all of the offstage antics between your groups…even your manager, choreographer friends and hairstylists were on the trip and it was a ball. Needless to say, all of you were having a good time!

however, fans began to notice that a new sound wasn’t the only change in EJ. His appearance was different as well. His skin seemed to glow something serious. His once defined abs were back and his outfits seemed to become a lot more revealing. He was coming out his shirt more; chains banging against his chest during performances and that large collection of tattoos seemed to grow even bigger. Even some of the crew’s wardrobe resembled that of an idol group when they performed together with different variations for each. But perhaps the most noticeable change? Those silver bars protruding from his pectorals. Particularly his nipples! Piercings he’d acquired one night on a whim, when you divulged how sexy they’d look on him. Granted, it wasn’t as if you were pushing the issue or even begging him to but when it came to his princess, he’d all but jump off the edge of the earth to see you smile. Naturally, it was the exact reaction he got too!..you were utterly shocked when he came back to your hotel room, climbed on top of you and began ravaging your body. That night, he fucked you like an absolute dog!..fingers in your mouth as he fed you backshots, placing you into a headlock and even twisting you up akin to a pretzel as he forced you into orgasm after orgasm..pounding your throat from the side of the bed. He even went for some backdoor exploration when he discovered you’d brought an anal plug along for the trip! You’d definitely had your fair share of wild nights with Eren but this one was insane. Three years of marriage but he was treating you like a slut off of the street..it was so fucking hot! His only explanation? He was egregiously horny after getting his piercings done. All he could think about was getting back to you!

But now, it was time to return the favor…right after the show, the two of you found yourselves in (y/n)’s dressing room. Sprawled out on the pink leather couch with his fishnet top ripped around as your tongue swirled around his sensitive buds. You’d start off by slowly kissing them..licking and lapping. Meanwhile, your acrylic fingertips wrapped around his shaft and stroked it. His cock was seeping with precum and was equally as red as those rhinestones as your outfit for the night. You even made him sit in front of you with your legs coiling his waist as your clear Pleasers rubbed up against his throbbing member..you’d never seen him so overstimulated in your life. You were afraid he was going to bust any second! However, he’d just continue begging for more..panting and whining as you played his most erogenous areas. ‘Baby..calm down. Someone’s gonna hear us, okay?” Which was absolutely unfair to ask! He was so damned aroused, he didn’t know what to do. Being this vulnerable wasn’t typically how you guys’ sex life went. You were normally the one whining and whimpering for more!..but alas, tables had turned.

“B-but I can’t..just feels so good..” It was a crime how cute he looked at the moment! Rutting himself into the palm of your hand and biting his lip to attempt to stifle his moans. You’d make it all but impossible to refrain from reaching climatic bliss when you asked him to lie flat on his back so you could ride him. From the moment you positioned yourself on his crotch, peeling those panties back and sinking his cock into your warmth, you would’ve sworn that your husband was looking at a ghost. His eyes stretched three times their own size until they eventually rolled back. That thick, heavy ass ricocheting off of his lap as those thrusts got harder. All the while, your fingertips caressed his nipples whilst you finally began deriving your own pleasure. Just the thought of him alone was enough to make you reach ecstasy…

“Then let it out, baby..I won’t hold it against you..”

and the way you were fucking on him, was enough to make him lose it!

[claramelooo]

HEYYY! It's me again! I'm so happy with all the support words and the great proportion this story is taking that I got excited and I just want write more and more to you guys!! (I'm vacations btw lol)

First of all, I would like to say that I don't know much about the US admission system, so if I got it wrong, please correct me.

Second, if you have any suggestions to improve the story's progress or speed up my writing, feel free to contact me.

Last but not least: enjoy it and comment plsss <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Paring: Mommy Dom Wanda x Brat Fem reader

WARNING: +18

Summary : Wanda wraps you in the web she has created.

Read here: Prologue | Part 1 – Predator | Part 3 - On your knees

Velvet Chains

The Prey

It was around 3 a.m., and Wanda sighed, staring at the ceiling of the bedroom. The silence was broken only by the lazy whirring of the fan. Vision lay asleep beside her, turned away, breathing deeply. The space between them on the bed felt like an unbridgeable chasm. She turned her head to look at him for a moment but felt a weight in her chest as she realized there was no warmth there, no real connection.

Sex with Vision had always been… functional, almost mechanical. It was always about him—his needs, his desires. There were moments when she tried to convince herself that this was normal, that love was above all a commitment, but nights like this made it clear: something was terribly wrong.

Wanda shut her eyes tightly, trying to push away the frustration building up inside her. It wasn’t just the sex. It was everything. The suffocating predictability, the lack of intensity, the absence of something she had never been able to name but missed with an almost painful ferocity.

And then there was you.

The memory of your face, the way you looked at her during dinner, came rushing back like a storm. Your eyes held a mix of defiance and uncertainty—something Wanda couldn’t get out of her mind. Since seeing you, there had been a growing need inside her, something primal and overwhelming. It wasn’t just desire—though that was undeniable. It was the way you made her feel, as if she were alive for the first time in years.

Wanda sat up in bed, running her hands through her hair, frustrated with herself. It was wrong. That much was obvious. You were young, inexperienced—a delicate soul who deserved freedom, not the weight of the obsession she felt growing inside her.

But the more she tried to rationalize, the more inevitable it seemed. There was something about you—your innocence mixed with a quiet resilience, as if the world couldn’t break you, no matter how hard it tried. It was hypnotic. She wanted to shape you, to dominate your strength and fragility all at once, to explore every nuance of you until there was nothing left to hide.

A shiver ran down her spine, and she pressed her fingers against her temples, trying to stifle the thoughts.

“This has to stop,” she murmured to herself. “This isn’t who I am.”

But the truth was, she wasn’t sure who she was anymore. With Vision, with the life she had built—it all felt so distant, so colorless. And then you appeared, and the entire world gained a new vibrancy, an intensity she hadn’t realized she craved until she felt it.

She looked at Vision again, still turned away, still oblivious to the storm raging beside him. For a moment, Wanda felt a wave of guilt, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. Because the reality was clear: she would never feel whole with Vision.

The clock read 3:23 a.m. when Wanda slipped out of bed, her bare feet meeting the cold floor. She needed space, needed to think, but she knew that every step she took was leading her deeper into dangerous territory—a path of no return.

Reaching the living room, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey—Vision only drank it to celebrate work promotions—and took a swig straight from the bottle, hoping to drown out the chaotic thoughts of you, of Vision, of herself.

But they didn’t go away.

As the alcohol coursed through her veins, Wanda felt her body float. And then, she felt ready to do something she had never done before. With trembling hands from adrenaline and excitement, Wanda picked up her laptop from the coffee table and searched for what had been on her mind since the moment she first laid eyes on you.

The video was artificial, the expressions of pleasure fake, the moans hollow. But the scene itself sparked Wanda’s imagination.

She pictured you moaning beneath her as she slid a good, thick strap inside your tight little pussy, pinning your arms above your head, leaving you completely at her mercy. She imagined slapping your pretty face until you gave in, sticking your tongue out to accommodate her fingers, letting her lubricate them before slowly sliding them into your tight little ass, driving you wild.

Denying you orgasms until you begged her with teary, pleading eyes. Pushing you until you finally said the one word you so desperately needed to say—and that she so desperately needed to hear.

Wanda also fantasized about riding your face, making you drown in her wet pussy, suffocating on her juices. Marking your neck and chest with bruises she would proudly touch the next day.

These thoughts alone were enough to make Wanda forget the adult film on her screen and focus entirely on you. Her fingers worked diligently over her clit, her body trembling as the signs of orgasm built within her. Moments later, she came, her eyes rolling back, her legs shaking.

Oh, fuck. She had to have you soon.

 [...]

The city library was a sanctuary of sacred silence, where whispered voices mingled with the soft rustle of turning pages. You had returned to the country with a single purpose: to study. Your mother never missed a chance to remind you that your bright future hinged on a prestigious university. But after everything, Yale felt like an unattainable dream.

Not anymore.

You still had a chance to transfer and adapt to a new routine—though adjusting had never been hard for you. You’d spent your 18th birthday alone, blowing out the candle on a strawberry cupcake someone had given you, wishing for the power to change your life.

And now, here it was.

Determined, you worked tirelessly to achieve an excellent GPA, nurtured relationships with your professors, and spent the remaining months meticulously preparing your early decision application.

Then came the waiting—waiting and waiting for that damn call. Time passed. You turned 20—too old for a Christian boarding school, too young to face the world—and found yourself staring out of the same window.

When your father finally called, his expressionless voice carried the weight of your shattered dreams.

And now, here you were, standing before an old building with beautiful architecture that probably held some intriguing history. With a pile of notebooks and a battered binder in hand, you pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the library's main hall. The comforting scent of aged paper and polished wood enveloped you.

The plan was straightforward: find a corner, avoid distractions, and lose yourself in formulas, essays, and reading lists for the next few hours.

But fate, it seemed, had other ideas.

As soon as you entered, your eyes locked onto something—or rather, someone—that made your stomach churn. Behind the lending counter stood Wanda Maximoff.

She wore thin glasses that only accentuated the intensity of her piercing gaze. Her hair was tied back haphazardly, loose strands framing her face. When you walked in, she looked up, and a dangerous spark flashed in her eyes—something intense, hypnotic, and unnervingly expectant.

It was as though she’d known you were coming.

You felt the shift in the atmosphere before you could process it. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction—dangerous, predatory.

"Oh, my, my… What a surprise," Wanda murmured, her voice low and sweet, yet carrying an underlying weight that twisted your stomach. She left her computer and moved toward you, hands clasped in front of her like she owned the place.

You cursed softly.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure, Dekta?” she asked, her accent curling around your name in a way that made your core tighten despite your best efforts.

“I’m here to study.”

“Ah, yes… Yale, isn’t it?” Her lips curved into something between a smirk and a sneer, making your fists clench at your sides. “Your parents mentioned it,” she mused. “I admire ambition—though ambition without focus is a waste, don’t you think?”

Your eyes narrowed. "I have focus."

She took another step closer, her presence suffocating. “Do you now?”

“I’m not a child, Wanda,” you snapped—perhaps a bit too loudly for a space that demanded quiet.

For a brief moment, her pupils expanded, eclipsing the green in her eyes. If you weren’t so innocent, you might have seen the excitement pooling in her gaze. But you felt it—the way your body betrayed you, heat pooling low in your belly, your nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of your bra.

Her expression shifted, the intensity replaced by a false, sugary smile.

“Oh, of course, because you’re such a big girl now, aren’t you?” Wanda tilted her head, her tone deceptively kind but dripping with condescension. Her eyes seemed to dissect you, reading your every reaction like an open book.

“I’m an adult,” you retorted, forcing your voice to remain steady. “I don’t need anyone treating me like I’m still in a school uniform.”

Wanda’s steps were deliberate as she sidled past you, gesturing lazily to a nearby table. “An adult, you say? Funny, because what I see…” Her gaze swept over you and then to the table, “…is a little girl with big dreams, crumbling at the slightest challenge.”

Your entire body tensed. You loathed the way she spoke to you, as though she had the right to dissect your maturity.

“You don’t know me,” you shot back, defensive.

“Don’t I?” She raised an eyebrow, her smile slow and menacing. “Then why are you trembling, Dekta?”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words caught in your throat. She was right. Your hands, clutching the binder, were trembling slightly, your heart pounding too fast.

Wanda noticed. Of course, she noticed.

“See?” she whispered, stepping closer, her voice soothing yet laced with control as she reached out to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Adult or not, you still have a lot to learn.” Her words dropped to a murmur, almost too soft to hear: “And I’ll teach you everything.”

Before you could react, Wanda straightened, creating distance as she adjusted her glasses—a deliberate motion that left you inexplicably yearning for her touch again.

“Now, find your table and study. Show me this sharp ambition of yours.”

“You don’t control me,” you snapped, anger flaring briefly.

She chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth. “Oh, Dekta… I don’t have to. You’re already doing exactly what I want.”

With that, she turned and walked back to the counter, leaving you trembling and unsettled, as though you’d just lost a game you didn’t know you were playing.

After 40 minutes of calming down and trying to stop thinking about the woman, you finally manage to focus and regain control of your thoughts. Math had always been something very abstract to you, perhaps even more so than philosophy. There was something about numbers that seemed to elude the logic of your brain, as if every equation were a puzzle with its solution written in a language you couldn't quite comprehend.

You sigh, your eyes fixed on the book's page, where a series of elegantly aligned formulas stared back at you with an almost cruel indifference. It had always been this way. Essays were your forte—your words flowed like a river, structured and persuasive, but numbers? They slipped through your fingers like sand.

With the pencil in your hand, you begin to scribble what seemed to be the first step toward a solution, but your mind soon wavers. Math, with all its precision, left little room for intuition. Every mistake was exposed, every misstep impossible to hide. You had always hated that.

Suddenly, Wanda's presence invades your thoughts again, like a shadow you can't escape. The way she looked at you, as if she knew exactly where your weaknesses lay. Worse, as if she was willing to exploit them.

You shake your head, trying to banish her image, but it’s useless. It’s as if she were still there, standing behind you, watching, waiting for you to fail.

And maybe that was exactly what you needed.

"Okay," you whisper to yourself, turning the page of the notebook with more determination. "This isn't about her. This is about me."

Your strength had always been your ability to adapt and overcome challenges. No matter how impossible something seemed, you had an inner resilience that kept you trying. That was what made you special, even when everything seemed against you.

But that strength came at a price. You were stubborn, almost obsessive, and the idea of failing—for yourself, for your parents, for Wanda—was intolerable. That need to prove your worth, to be good enough, was both a gift and a curse.

Feeling a touch on your shoulder, you jump as if you’d been shocked. Looking at the hand that touched you, it belonged to an elderly woman with a friendly expression on her face.

"Looks like your study session was productive, right?" the lady asked in a voice trembling with age. You simply nodded, still confused by the sudden approach. "But I must inform you, dear. We’re closing now."

"Oh. Yes, of course… I’m sorry," you said as you stood, hastily packing your belongings. "I didn’t even notice the time." You offered an embarrassed explanation.

The lady just laughed, sweetly.

"It's all right! Wanda asked us not to disturb you," she said as if it were nothing, but for you… you felt your pulse quicken with your heartbeat, felt your heart warm at Wanda's indirect gesture.

You looked around, hoping Wanda would appear again to provoke you—to make you surrender to her dominant aura.

But with a click, the library lights turned off, leaving you alone with your confused thoughts.

Letting out a tired sigh, you enter your house. Today had been exhausting, but your mind was at peace from finally breaking out of your loop of procrastination and self-sabotage. It was draining, but it was gratifying—enough to make you proud of yourself.

Arriving in the living room, you see your mother smiling, which makes you raise an eyebrow at her unusual gesture. Noticing you, she stood up, laughing.

"Sweetheart! Come here!" she called, making grand gestures that filled the room.

As you reached the center of the living room, you saw her.

There she was. Wanda Maximoff, sitting in your living room as if she owned the place. Her posture was impeccable—relaxed, but not sloppy. Long legs crossed, her expression composed. She held a teacup in her left hand, her long fingers resting on the porcelain as if it were a luxury item.

Your heart raced. You froze in the doorway, looking from your mother to Wanda and back to your mother.

“Oh, sweetheart, finally!” your mother exclaimed, her voice full of enthusiasm. "I can hardly believe our luck. Wanda offered to help you with your studies! You know how much I worry about your preparation for Yale, and now she's willing to guide you!"

You opened your mouth to protest, but no words came out. Everything felt like a blur. Wanda? The woman who had just turned your afternoon into an emotional whirlwind? Now she was here, in your house, looking more dangerous than ever?

"I simply did what anyone would," Wanda replied, her voice soft but firm. The tone carried a duality: apparent humility, but a pride you could feel beneath the surface. She rose slowly, placing the teacup on the coffee table. Her gaze met yours, and you felt that same shiver from the library.

"Good evening, Dekta," she said with an intonation that made your skin tingle. “I hope you don’t mind my visit. Your mother and I were discussing how I might be helpful for your academic ambitions.”

“Of course,” you responded automatically, trying to keep your composure. “Thank you so much for your help, Wanda.”

Wanda smiled, a small, calculated smile. There was no genuine warmth in it, only something... satisfying. As if she were celebrating an invisible victory.

"In fact," she continued, taking a step closer to you, "I thought we could make this mutually beneficial. Your studies require dedication, and I noticed you have potential. In exchange for my guidance, perhaps you could help me a few hours a week at the library. There are tasks that require... youthful energy."

Your mother seemed more than thrilled with the idea. “Oh, that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? You’d spend more time learning, in such an inspiring environment!”

You knew you had no choice. Your mother was already beaming, and any refusal would be a family disaster. But above that, there was Wanda, with that look that seemed to pierce your soul, as if she knew that deep down, you didn’t want to refuse either.

"Sure," you finally replied, trying to sound neutral. “That sounds great.”

Wanda took a small step back, satisfied. "Excellent. We’ll start tomorrow."

Your mother clapped her hands, excited. "I’m so proud of you, sweetheart! And so grateful, Wanda, for being willing to help my baby.”

Hearing your mother’s last words, Wanda’s body tensed, clearly disliking the way she referred to you.

Wanda looked at you again, placing a light smile on her face, but her eyes... they had an almost predatory gleam.

“It will be my pleasure,” she said, but you knew there was much more to that phrase than your mother could understand. "Well, it’s late, and I still need to put Tommy and Billy to bed. S/n, would you walk me to the door?"

Finally, you snapped out of your trance upon hearing your name. "O-of course."

As the older woman passed through the door, she turned to look at you again, her eyes gleaming. “You looked beautiful today, darling.”

The compliment made you blush, and the air felt thin, making it hard to breathe.

“Hmm, what do we say when we’re complimented, Dekta?” Wanda broke your trance once again, touching your chin in a firm grip, forcing you to look at her.

"Thank you, Wanda," you replied softly, in an almost submissive tone. Almost. The exhaustion of the day weighed on your shoulders, and Wanda’s sweet voice left you weak, hypnotizing you and slowly turning you into a needy kitten.

"Good girl." She caressed your face with her fingertips, almost as if you were a raw diamond—precious and ready to be shaped. By her. By her hands.

You hadn’t noticed—perhaps due to exhaustion—but Wanda's hands were trembling. The woman trembled as she touched you, as she felt the warmth emanating from your fragrant, untouched skin. Wanda felt blessed, as if finally that scared kitten was learning to trust her.

"We’ll see each other tomorrow, yes? Good night, beautiful girl." She didn’t want to say goodbye to you. She wanted to stay, make you kneel, rest your head on her lap, and stroke the top of your head to hear you purr.

The mark she left on you lingered until you fell asleep, embedding itself under your skin, making you dream of her, of her floral scent—it was something citrusy. Orange? Lemongrass, perhaps? The fragrance clung to your body, your mind, and suddenly, Yale seemed like a distant dream, and Wanda was the only thing you could dream about.

~*~

Poor S/n... A milf caught her.

Tag list <3

@rosekjsses @vyvvycg @3liyuh

If I forget someone, pls remind me in the comments!

[honeyed-hedonist]

Pairings: Aged Up!Damian Wayne x Reader Word Count: 3.1k Summary: You're always just a phone call away for Damian, so he calls when he needs you. And tonight? He really fucking needs you. Warnings: SMUT--MINORS DNI. unprotected sex, creampie, degradation, size kink if you squint, face slapping (once), oral (male & female receiving), orgasm control (kind of???), basically just 3k words of Dami tearing you apart in the best way. A/N: Hello again! Posting another old fic on mine. I still blame @heli0s-writes for sending me on a Damian Wayne spiral. I will never recover from this and it's all her fault. Enjoy :3

IF YOU LIKE THIS STORY, PLEASE REBLOG IT.

It’s late. It’s always late when he calls you—3am and you’re answering the phone, the pitch of his voice deepened and gruff with need. A need that only you can satiate. “Come over, darling.” You’re out the door before you end the call, hailing a cab to the manor, pulse racing because you know what’s coming.

The path you walk when you reach the gate is so familiar, you could do it with your eyes closed, feet carrying you to the front door. There’s no need to knock or ring the bell, the second your shoes hit the porch Damian swings it wide open, the cowl stripped off, blackened liner still smeared around those beautiful green eyes. He’s looking at you like he wants to tear you apart, but you’ve always had an affinity for pretty, dangerous things. 

A step closer and you catch the way the warm light of the entryway bounces off of the thin gold chain hanging around his neck. It sparkles, and your mind conjures up the image of it swinging above your face when you’re folded in half on his bed. It makes you clench, taking another step while your eyes make the slow trek downward, his bare chest and rippling stomach that cuts to narrow, defined hips has your mouth watering. You know what they feel like against your tongue, beneath your fingers.

There’s no need for words, his calloused hand closing around your wrist to tug you inside, the heavy door shutting with a definitive click that reverberates off the walls and arched ceilings of Wayne Manor. He’s already hard, you can feel it when his arm snakes its way around your waist to pull you even closer. And then he’s crouching down, sweeping his other hand behind your knees to lift you into his arms.

You’re trapped in the heat of his gaze, the salty, earthy smell of his skin--still damp with sweat from his night spent in triple-weave kevlar. Fingers dance up the back of his neck, tangling into that silky, black hair, and his chest vibrates with something akin to a growl. It sends your pulse rushing between your legs, desire warm and heavy in your belly as he walks you up the stairs towards the master suite. 

The second you’re past the threshold, you reach for his face, wanting to feel his hot mouth on yours, but he doesn’t budge, the corner of his lips quirking in an amused smile at the whine that comes tumbling out of your throat when you try, and fail, to kiss him. “Patience, beloved.” Damian is gentle when he sets you down on the lush, thickly weaved rug that spreads out from beneath his bed, forefinger and thumb coming up to pinch your chin. His nose brushes yours when he speaks again, breath hot and sweet as it fans out across your face. “Be good.”

You watch with baited breath as he settles himself on the edge of the mattress, thighs spread open, palms flat against his knees, his posture perfectly straight. He looks like a king on his throne, and you’re prepared to bow at his feet. “You’re very overdressed, don’t you agree? Perhaps you should remedy that.” The tone of his voice leaves no room for argument, your hands falling to the hem of your sleep shirt, tugging it hastily over your head. Your shorts are your next target, swiftly yanking them down your legs. Shoes, socks, and bra all join the pile of your discarded clothes after that, and Damian hums his approval. “Much better.” 

Lifting one of his hands, he points to the space between his feet. “Come.” There’s no hesitation from you, moving immediately with a step forward, but then he scoffs, eyebrows drawn down in admonishment. “Really, pet? Is that how you’re meant to approach me? As my equal?” His words make you short circuit, brain muddled with the fog of submission, because you will always submit to him--it’s not even a question at this point. He’s in charge, he owns you, and he knows it.

Dropping to your hands and knees, you crawl towards him slowly, eyes trained on his face, trying to read him--but Damian has mastered the art of impassiveness. His calves brush against your shoulders as you wedge yourself between his legs, the only sign of his pleasure is the tent in the front of his joggers and the rumbling in his chest. It’s enough--has you salivating from your place on the floor, eagerly awaiting instruction.

He leans forward, strong hand circling your throat, fingers tightening until he can feel the ripple of your swallow. “Have you missed me?” He asks, but you know better than to open your mouth, choosing instead to nod your head. Damian hums thoughtfully, free hand stroking at his slightly stubbled chin. “Hmm, I’m not sure I’m convinced. Why don’t you show me?”

“Yes, sir.” You answer, and he relents, releasing your throat to lean back on the bed, propped up with his arms extended so he can watch you--he’s always watching you--calculating, observing, learning. Damian Wayne knows all of the ways to take you apart, and all of the ways to put you back together again, but now he’s testing you, wants to see just how much you’ve learned since you began spending nights in his bed.

Shaking fingers dip beneath the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down his thighs until the heavy weight of his cock springs free, slapping against the hard plane of his stomach with a dense thud. You moan, how can you not? He’s impressively large, perfectly curved towards his bellybutton, nestled in coarse, dark hair, thick and throbbing just for you. His head is shining with pre, glistening in the orange glow from the roaring fire in the hearth nearby. Your eyes meet, faux innocence batting up at him from beneath your lashes. But Damian knows better, knows how filthy you are, and he’s losing his patience.

You let your hand circle the base, tongue dragging a hot, wet line beneath his length until your lips close around the tip, precum tangy against your tastebuds. You moan again, eyes rolling back. The musk of his night perusing the city is still fresh on his skin, and he always tastes so god damn good like this. Dirty. Natural. It spurs you onward, his tip popping into the back of your throat as you take him all the way down. He reaches out after that, fingers gentle against the skin of your neck, his cock seated so fully inside the wet heat of your mouth that he can feel himself beneath your esophagus when you swallow. It makes him grunt, satisfied with your efforts.

It’s all the encouragement you need to move again, cheeks hollowed as you suck him off. The only sounds in the room are your labored breaths and the nasty, wet squelch of your mouth on his cock. Damian’s eyes are blown black, watching you like a predator tracking its prey, hand shooting out to curl into the hair at the crown of your head and shove you down until your nose is pressing against his taut abdomen. He holds you there, testing your limits, keeping you still, voice strained with his pleasure when he speaks. “Swallow.” He commands, and you oblige, whimpering while your thighs shift in an attempt to alleviate the ache in your cunt. 

“What’s wrong, pet? Do you want to cum?” Damian smirks at the desperate look in your eyes before he answers his own question. “Too bad.” He mocks your arousal, knowing all you really want right now is for him to fuck a hole right through you, but he needed to feel your warm, wet mouth first.  And Damian will never apologize for having his needs met, because he always reciprocates in kind. Especially with you.

He volleys with you back and forth, letting you have control before ultimately usurping you to fuck your face. When he’s satisfied, your cheeks are hot, the remnants of the mascara that you carelessly forgot to wash off is smeared down your face, and your chin is covered in your own spit as he yanks you free from his cock by your hair. “Tch--look at you, such a mess.” Damian’s free hand breaks the string of spittle connecting your mouth to the tip of his dick and smears it across your face. He’s not gentle, and you don’t want him to be, moaning open-mouthed when his palm cracks across your cheek. “Get up.”

Your actions are instantaneous, done without pause or thought, rising to your feet with his hand still fisted in your hair. He stands, too, spinning you both around until your calves hit the mattress and he shoves you backwards. You fall gracelessly onto his comforter, and he gives you no reprieve, no chance to catch your breath before he’s peeling your thighs apart to inspect your slit. Your panties are an encumbrance, one that has him growling as his long, dextrous fingers tear the fabric clean off, ripping them away to toss on the floor. 

He wastes no time, hands framing your pussy to peel your lips apart, leaning forward, he takes a deep inhale, the tip of his nose bumping against your throbbing clit. It makes you jolt, body bowing off of the bed, but his eyes cut to yours and you still immediately, knowing that he’ll stop if you don’t behave. “You have the most beautiful cunt, and she’s all mine.” Damian hums, mostly to himself, pink tongue slipping out of his mouth to circle your clit slowly. Your hands fist his expensive bedding, knuckles bone-white as he begins to work you over with his mouth.

He’s an expert at many things--knows over a hundred ways to kill a man with his bare hands--and can get you to gush against his mouth in a matter of minutes. Damian plays your body like a fine-tuned instrument, hits all the right notes to make you see stars. He curls those long, rough fingers of his against the velvet walls of your pussy, free hand applying pressure at your belly, while his plump lips suction against your pulsing clit. Barely two minutes in and you’re already hurtling towards bliss, whining and whimpering and writhing--all for him. 

“Dami, please!” You want your release. Want to cum all over his handsome face. He can feel it in the way your cunt grips his fingers, fluttering in time with the expert swipes of his tongue. He knows it’s only a few more licks until you’re careening into your orgasm. His eyes meet yours between the valley of your breasts, glittering with mirth as you cry out, begging shamelessly for him to let you cum. And then, like the menace he is, Damian releases your clit with a wet pop, effectively slamming you into a brick wall, your orgasm slipping right through your fingers with a pained cry.

Tears of desperation brim in your eyes and he tuts, rising to his feet, forearm wiping your glistening arousal from his lips and chin. “Do you have no shame? Begging like a common whore.” He’s on you in a flash, joggers discarded, fully naked as his hand once again finds your throat and he snarls above you. “Your orgasms belong to me, beloved. I decide when you deserve to cum, and tonight, you’ll be coming all over my cock. Do I make myself clear?” 

He expects an answer, but you’re transfixed, completely mystified by his overpowering, eclipsing presence above you. Damian makes you feel small. It fogs your brain, makes it hard to do anything other than mewl, thighs parting to accommodate his hips as he settles above you.  “Tch--useless little thing. All you’re good for is being my tight hole to fuck, isn’t that right, pet?” You nod, helpless and desperate beneath him, every nerve ending in your body thrumming like live wires. It’s a fact that he captializes on, slapping the mushroomed tip of his dick against your drenched slit, the wet sound that reaches his ears making him moan.

There isn’t a sound on Earth prettier than hearing Damian Wayne moan for you, your mouth falling open as you gaze up at him in awe. It’s the perfect opportunity for him to sluice the middle fingers of his left hand over your tongue. Ever the obedient pet, your lips close automatically, suckling as those same fingers push so far back they make you choke. Through your bleary eyes, you can see the sadistic smile that graces Damian’s face. It’s dangerous, and it sends a fresh rush of arousal leaking from your cunt. 

It’s almost like he can smell it, and he probably can, his irises disappearing until all that’s left are the whites of his eyes as he inhales deeply. There’s no warning, no preparation, just his gaze rolling back to meet yours when he snaps his hips forward with perfect aim, his cock stretching you open and filling you in a way only he can. It makes you scream, your back beginning to arch, but Damian is right there, pulling his fingers from your mouth to grip your throat and pin you back down against the mattress.

His pace is unforgiving. It’s brutal and deep, carving his way into your body with harsh thrusts that have the headboard knocking flecks of plaster off the walls until they cascade down like rain onto the comforter. “You. Belong. To me.” He spits it through gritted teeth, and it’s not something you’ll ever deny. Your relationship may be unconventional, but you wouldn’t trade it. Any time spent with Dami, to you, is a gift, especially if it means he’ll fuck you absolutely boneless in order to reassert his control on those nights when he feels like the world around him is spiraling. 

You take it all--every thrust, the gnashing of his teeth into the juncture of your neck and shoulder, the suffocating grip around your throat, the drizzle of spit that falls onto your waiting tongue when he pries your jaw open. Anything Damian dishes out, you take without complaint, because while he craves control, you crave subjugation--the metaphorical yin to his yang.

Your voice is hoarse when you try to speak, breath stuttering with every powerful roll of Damian’s hips, barely heard over the lewd sounds of being fucked open. Each strike of his cock inside of you hits that spongy mound of tissue, dragging his silky, hot length against it with each withdrawal. It has you climbing right back towards your inevitable peek, the only question is-- will he let you finish this time?

“Dami--m’gonna--please, m’so close, baby.” You wheeze, and he smiles, teeth blindingly white even though the haze of your oxygen deprivation. You find some reprieve from the deliciously pleasurable pain when he finally peels his fingers back from your throat, hands sliding to your shins to fold them up and into your chest. His pace never lessens, he never slips out, following the bending of your body, the new angle allowing an even deeper stroke inside your gummy walls. It has you keening, hands clawing at his chest, his gold chain bouncing against the backs of your palms.

“Very well, I think you’ve earned it.” Reaching between your bent legs, Damian’s thumb slices through the lips of your cunt that are spread wide around his cock to seek out your clit. He’s precise, circling the aching bud in a way that makes you choke, throat vibrating with a squeal. You’re close again, rapidly approaching your release, so fast you can barely keep up, the pressure in your belly building to an unbearable tightness. This time, when you meet his eyes, the malice is gone, replaced with what you can only describe as devotion. “Go on, make a mess on my cock, cum for me.”

That’s all it takes, his permission coupled with the expert swirl of his thumb and the perfect drag of his cock have you seeing stars, bursting with a cry of his name. You scream, back arching up, chest to chest with him as he cradles you close. “I know, beloved, I know. Let it all out.” He coos, still thrusting wildly through the resistance as your pussy tries to shove him out with each fluttering pulse. Damian can feel your cum weeping out around him, it wets his thighs, dribbles down the seam of his sack, drips down onto the mattress. It makes him groan, balls tightening as he reaches the point where he can no longer stave off his own release. 

With a low moan of your name he pumps into you once, twice--the third sending the first spray of his cum deep in your womb. You can feel the pulse of his length as he bottoms out with a grunt, forehead pressing against yours, breath hot against your mouth. Jet after jet of semen coats your insides, filling you up so full it almost hurts. You whimper out, and Damian shushes you, cupping your face to plant a soft kiss against your lips. “Shh,” he murmurs. “You did so well for me, my darling. Such a good girl. I’m so proud of you.”

All you can manage is a hum, Damian’s fingers carding through your sweat-slicked hair as he peppers soft kisses over your cheeks, the tip of your nose, your forehead. This has got to be your favorite part, because while he knows how to completely wreck you, he’s also right there to pick up the pieces and stitch you right back together again. 

He carries you into the bathroom, runs a bath for the both of you, coddles and keeps you close until the pair of you are falling into his freshly stripped bed beneath the sheets. His arm is slung snugly around your waist, his lips on the back of your neck as you settle in preparation of sleep. “I’d like you to move your things into the manor.” His voice is soft, there’s a hesitation there that is so uncharacteristic it nearly shocks you back from exhaustion. But again, all you’re able to offer him is a hum of acknowledgement, wiggling further into the warmth of his body, heavy eyelids closing as your consciousness wanes and you drift. 

You’ll tackle this moving in business when you’ve got a clear head and a full belly, but the prospect of taking the next step in your relationship with Damian brings you the most pleasant, peaceful sleep you’ve had in years.

[robin374]

𝕺𝖓𝖑𝖞 𝖆 𝖋𝖔𝖔𝖑 𝖜𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖉𝖗𝖔𝖕 𝖆 𝖌𝖎𝖗𝖑 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯; Alastor x reader, romatic

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: I think we all agree that Alastor would say this phrase. Maybe I got too carried away, sorry if it's too long. Unedited

Carmilla waited for all the overlords to arrive and take their respective seats. Her silver eyes serenely observed the situation, while she prepared her probable monologue in her mind. A war would be one of the worst options to choose. They had already lost many souls since the last extermination, and losing even more would serve no purpose, except to amuse the angels. All the powerful demons sat down and Carmilla waited a few seconds for the various conversations between them to end, seeing that she got nothing waiting she coughed to get the attention of her companions. "I have gathered you here today to discuss this year's brutal extermination..." She began to explain, her eyes full of determination with a subtle light of hatred, which was directed towards the cruel exterminators up there. 

Suddenly, the door opened with a loud bang and two shadows appeared; one taller than the other. The little fashionista Velvette, a member of the Vees, appeared first with a superior smile on her face. With her back stretched and chin held high, she pulled the metal chain around her hand, causing the other shadow to walk involuntarily. However, the big difference between the two demons was that one of them was walking with her head down, as if she had been defeated and humiliated in front of all Hell, as if she was going to be sacrificed. Carmilla scowled at Velvette which diverted the attention of the other overlords and they looked towards the fashionista. Y/N didn't look up, she had already felt too ridiculed on the way there to feel even more so under the gaze of the other overlords. Especially under his gaze, under that smile that conveyed no feelings at all. 

"Speaking of the exterminators..." Velvette's distinctive accent echoed through the room, no overlord daring to speak. Anyone could cut the tension in that room with a butter knife. Y/N didn't even flinch at the confident sound of the voice, she was now as vulnerable as a puppy just abandoned on a highway. A few thumps accompanied the fashionista's small laugh, thumps that sounded too soft to be a blow from a fist but too hard to be a single piece of flesh. A golden drop landed on Y/N's slipper, she swallowed dryly, feeling closer and closer to the permanent presence of eternal death. Ironic, isn't it? A dead girl being afraid to die. She didn't hear the next sentences of the argument between the two overlords, she was too focused on the pain of the silver chains around her wrists behind her back. Never in eternity had she thought that being in hell she would burn, let's just say those holy chains silenced those thoughts for her. 

Velvette needed only a single tug on the chain to smash Y/N's face into the long table in the living room. Her hand pressed her face against the hard material, it looked like she wanted to put her face through the table. Y/N's gaze jumped from overlord to overlord, she knew full well that none of them would help her. "She was the one who killed that flying rat." Velvette began. "If those...Things can die, we're in a whole different situation." She paused for a moment, "we could start a war..." She turned to look at Y/N, her gaze as callous as her actions. "Not without killing this bitch first, it wouldn't suit us well for a girl as normal as you to get all the fame, what would my fans say?" His voice became a bit sharper, clearly seeking more attention than he already had.

Y/N looked away, her eyes fell on a spot between the ceiling and the window of the room, she didn't want to see how the overlords looked at her as if she was a mere bug, which they had no intention of keeping alive. She noticed her vision blurring, she knew these would be her last moments, as Velvette kept her word whenever it would do her good. "Who's for killing her and dropping her body in the nearest trash? Right where she deserves." The room was filled with murmurs and different conversations, some agreed with the fashionista, while others did not. Y/N had stopped listening long ago, she had accepted her permanent death since Velvette found her near the angel's body. She hadn't done it, she was just being more noisy than she normally was, not everyone gets the chance to see a dead exterminator, no? It was just bad luck, she wasn't the culprit, "It wasn't me..." She whispered in an attempt to get someone to listen to her, but these were overlords we're talking about, they wouldn't hesitate to kill someone. That's how ambitious they could be to have more power in their hands.

The sound of radio static came on, which was getting closer and closer. The pressure on Y/N's head disappeared in less than a second, and for a moment she thought she had finally been killed and her thoughts were slowly leaving her head as she completely lost consciousness. However, one hand helped her up, and even with her hands still tied she met those red eyes she loved to stare into so often in the hotel. With the other hand, Alastor pushed Velvette away from her, "I'll take care of it." 

The last thing to go. That demon Y/N thought she loved was going to betray her as soon as she left the building. She felt his hand brush against her back as he silently guided her through the halls of the building until he was outside. Once there he began to walk towards a particular direction. Y/N stopped in her tracks, confused. Maybe what she was about to say would be a big mistake, maybe she shouldn't say anything to stay alive, though curiosity killed the cat, right?

"You're not going to kill me? Kill me and then drop me in the middle of the street?" She watched as the Radio Demon's back tensed, and so did his ears. As much as she didn't see his face, she knew that smile twisted into an irritated one. He turned around slowly, and that annoyed smile softened the moment their eyes connected. He laughed softly and moved closer to the girl, his free hand coming to her cheek. "Only a fool would drop a girl like you." He smiled. That sentence made Y/N ironically feel like she was in heaven, a strange warmth rose to her cheeks. She heard the laughter of the overlord who was now offering his arm to walk beside him, "Alastor, my hands are chained." Y/N began, "I can't hold your arm."

[luigilore]

doin’ time- l.m

info: luigi mangione x reader, historic heat wave pwp, NSFW: a lot of sweat… ft. his chain, he’s a bit dom idk, riding him, popsicle antics, (a bit of nipple play & cock warming), 2.8k wc

(a/n: yeah… yeah. idk. title from lana's cover of doin’ time by santeria... lmk what you think! <3)

It’s too hot.

It's too hot and it reminds you of the night you met Luigi; it was hot and hazy and crowded in the club but there was something in his eyes that you couldn’t ignore; unashamed intrigue and adoration that still hadn’t ceased. When you were initially simultaneously intimidated and intrigued by Luigi, wanting so desperately to know him; when you would act like you didn’t care but Luigi easily saw through everything. 

It reminds you of the hot days you spend together on the beach, when the coarse grains of sand scorch the bottom of your feet. When you wade in the water and he kisses you sweetly; when you feel weightless and Luigi is quiet in an observant way that’s only ever for you. The heat reminds you of the familiarity of Luigi, entirely. 

It’s hot in a blistering and abrasive way that makes you seek refuge in your cramped apartment, old AC cranked up as high as it can go and the two fans you own pointed towards your bed. 

You lay in said bed, staring at the ceiling aimlessly, drowning out the static voice on the radio that details what is supposedly the hottest heat wave in the past twelve years and the subsequent power outages that are happening across the city. 

You roll over, kicking away the sheets that threaten to stick to your bare skin– decidedly foregoing clothes except for Luigi’s oversized shirt from some tourist gift shop years ago. You grimace at the uncomfortable sensation of the humid heat as Luigi pads back into the bedroom, holding an enticing cherry popsicle. 

Luigi has temporarily relocated to your apartment because his apartment complex lost power a few days ago. But you think he practically lives here anyway, with an extra toothbrush already placed diligently by yours and a drawer in your dresser devoted solely to his clothes, it wasn’t a huge inconvenience. 

Luigi fans himself with his free hand, moving to the bed languidly yet quick, like his legs might give out underneath him if he stands any longer. 

You watch, almost mesmerized like you're in some heat-induced haze. Luigi’s dark hair has gotten longer recently, hair curling around the nape of his neck. He’s only in a white tank top and boxers and you continue watching; watching the way his hand comes to lazily scratch at the tan expanse of his stomach through the thin material of his shirt, raising the material only slightly to expose his toned abdomen. 

Luigi’s hand rubs the back of his neck and your eyes follow the movement, suddenly enticed by the thin gold chain that drapes loosely across his collarbones that gleam with a noticeable sheen of sweat. 

He swats at the radio on the nightstand roughly and suddenly the muffled chatter stops, leaving only the sound of the rattling AC and the whirling of the fans as he sits down next to you. 

“Baby,” he says roughly, voice gravely and low, body now flush against your own. 

You can feel his breath against your shoulder and the heat that radiates uncomfortably from his body but your hand still instinctively runs down Luigi's waist and hips, squirming to move closer to him; even if it feels almost unbearably hot and you can feel the tacky sweat on your boyfriend’s skin. 

Luigi groans, his hand immediately reaching to press against your wrist. “You,” he complains, hand pushing you back gently. “Fuck,” he mutters, “‘s too hot.”

You whine half-heartedly before easily relenting and rolling to your now designated side of the bed. 

Luigi just turns to grab the popsicle he had left on the nightstand and fiddles with the wrapper— the cherry ones he knows that you like. 

“Is that the last one?” You ask quietly, head turning around with peaked interest as you suddenly crave something cold, something sweet— anything to distract you from the almost suffocating heat. 

“Yeah,” He says simply, preoccupied as he pops it in his mouth, grinning around it at your frown.

“Not fair,” You mutter with a frown, prepared to drag yourself away from the bed to try and rummage around for something else from his freezer. But Luigi just shrugs casually, popping it out of his mouth to look at you as he extends the popsicle out towards you, smiling, very sweet and diplomatic. “I’ll share.”

He looks at you expectantly and you roll your eyes half heartedly but too interested in the popsicle to really protest. 

Instead you let Luigi's hand guide the popsicle to your mouth. You wrap your lips around it, sucking the artificial, overly sweet flavor from the ice as he watches with suddenly dark, concentrated eyes.

You internally preen at the way Luigi looks so affected as you continue and bob your mouth somewhat obscenely— definitely unnecessarily, around the ice for a few quick moments before stopping. 

You blame it on the heat, on how restless and insatiable it makes you feel. But the look in Luigi's eyes when you catch his gaze doesn’t help, the consuming gaze that’s saved solely for you. 

“It’s good,” you murmured around the popsicle, biting off a chunk of ice before pulling away, “Thanks.”

He hums, seemingly satisfied still with a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Of course, baby,” he says easily before popping it back into his mouth. 

You watch, squirming, hating the feeling of sweat beading on your skin. You watch Luigi suck on the popsicle, his plump and already red lips. It’s too hot. You mourn because it’s really unfair. Because it makes you want more, want Luigi, want everything. 

He seems to be able to tell, like he always can, looking down at you fondly. “What— you want more?”

“Yeah,” you rasps, hand quickly wrapping around his wrist to pull the popsicle back into your mouth. Luigi helps to slide the popsicle back in your mouth, hitting the back of your throat uncomfortably, your lips almost touching Luigi’s fingers. You pull back, drool pooling around your parted mouth, a little embarrassed suddenly at your desperate display. 

Luigi just looks at you, eyes amused. “C’mere,” he tosses the popsicle on the nightstand and you almost start to protest at wasting the cold, cherry flavored relief but Luigi’s lips suddenly on your neck successfully distract you. 

When you turn totally to him, his lips meet your face quickly, licking into your mouth with a red-stained tongue. It’s messy and tastes like cherry, tastes like Luigi. 

He pulls away too soon, face still so close. “It’s too hot,” he complains, with a pout that makes you immediately want to kiss him again.

You squirm and move closer, wanting and determined to feel totally encompassed by Luigi. You grab at his jaw, at the skin tacky with sweat, wiping the remaining spit away carefully. You pull Luigi back closer, deepening the kiss intently, one of your hands still running over the stubble dotting across his jaw. 

When you pull apart, you reach up to brush Luigi’s hair back gently. “I don’t care,” you say eventually, thumbing over his ear and the sensitive skin there. He just hums and smiles, like he’s already convinced. 

“Come on,” You still whine in a whisper with a pout, “it’ll be quick, please.” You huff, running a hand down Luigi’s arm, the firm skin. “I’ll do all the work.”

Luigi doesn’t really argue with that, You aren't sure if he could really argue with that extremely compelling offer. He just reaches over to angle the closest fan more toward the two of you.

“You’re that needy,” Luigi asks bluntly with raised brows like he’s enjoying this, because you know he’s not really that surprised. 

“Yeah,” You agree quietly, “please.” You lean into his arm, looking up with a tiny smile that you always have when you know you’re getting your way— when Luigi looks at you like he’s totally gone. 

“Okay, baby, do it then,” He leans back against the headboard casually, like he’s patiently waiting. 

You make a big scene of clambering onto Luigi’s lap, tugging your shirt over your head in one swift motion, and sitting right in his dick immediately, wasting no time in pushing and rubbing your ass directly down on his cock. Luigi’s mouth parts in a knowing and amused way as you rocking back and forth, making sure to press your full weight onto his lap. 

His hand moves to grip at your waist. “Fuck,” he groans as you can feel Luigi’s dick begin to harden already underneath you, you shift to the side and slides a hand down to dip underneath his boxers carefully, hand wrapping around his cock with a familiar ease. he exhales shakily and you smile down at him. 

You love him like this, you love Luigi in a lot of ways, but especially like this; skin shining with sweat, tired, dazed, and entirely focused on you like you could be Luigi’s entire world, and you want to be— You love the rapt attention and trust. 

Luigi's hand travels from your waist to your chest, pinching your nipple a little meanly before running his hand down your sweaty chest and stomach. 

You just lean forward in his lap and jerk him off for a few more strokes languidly, not rushed, just tender and slow because you have time.  

Luigi’s hand kneads your ass, almost massaging and it feels good as his other hand spreads your thighs, slowly dipping one finger inside your already wet pussy. As his other hand still plays and pinches the supple skin around your hips. A whine escapes your throat when his finger is finally inside of you, wet in contrast to everything else that feels so humid and hot. 

You exhale shakily as he adds a second finger and plant your hands firmly on Luigi's chest for some stability, hands slotting under the loose straps of his tank top, thumbing at his collar bones and the cold metal of his chain. 

Luigi looks up at you, watching your expression as he raises himself up so you can lean down to meet his lips for a few moments, messy and sweet. His fingers move even further inside you, long and nimble, curling inside of you expertly–because he knows you, knows your body. You whimper into Luigi’s mouth, feeling increasingly desperate. 

“Hurry,” You groan, sighing at the way Luigi moves his fingers inside of you and the overwhelming want that’s beginning to build inside of your core, always so impatient. You help to finally shove his boxers down, cock hard and leaking, springing free. You hold still as Luigi lines his cock up to your pussy, the thick tip already pressing against your lips, as he laughs to himself at your impatience. 

Luigi presses into you slowly, watching your face carefully as you just sigh, exhaling a long breath you didn’t really realize you were holding. It feels consuming and hot as a steady heat builds inside of you. You look down at Luigi, who already looks similarly affected, flushed and lips parted. 

He grips your hips gently, thrusting in a languid rhythm as you remember your promise to do all of the work. Your hands stay planted on Luigi’s chest as you slowly begin to move up and down. 

You love riding Luigi, you love pressing into the hard muscles of his abdomen and running your hand through the slight divets in his skin. You love the way he always moans at the bounce of your ass against his thighs. 

“Oh fuck—” Luigi groans, sliding his hands along your body to find somewhere to hold, skin slippery with sweat. 

You continue, finding a rhythm and raising yourself up and down, back and forth. You clench subconsciously just feeling his pretty, tan skin. 

“Feels so good,” you slur, leaning totally forward and making him groan at the movement. “Lu— Luigi,” you start, looking down at him with impossibly big eyes, in the way you know he likes. 

“Fuck, it does, baby,” He agrees, hand coming back to feel against your ass, at your pussy, where his cock pistons in and out of you. A hand comes to rub at your clit and you groan loudly. Luigi likes it like that, messy, likes the obscene sounds you both make, sounds that always make you blush and hide in the crook of his neck. 

You lean to press your forehead against his own, kissing him again, fucking yourself up and down on his cock. Luigi kisses you like he’s struggling with all of it and it makes you feel proud. 

“I wanna come, please,” you whispers, desperate for release and fully aware he likes it when you’re begging, when you’re fucked out and turning to him for help, for permission. 

“Not before me,” Luigi says with a small smile because he just likes it, likes you, teasing you, so much. “Make me come first, baby. I’m close anyway.” 

That spurs you on and you just move faster and whine, looking down pleadingly. “Lu, please,” You whine as his hand runs down your bare back, rubbing soothingly.

It’s so hot and stuffy in your room and your body feels like it’s on fire. It’s hard work, it’s tiring to ride him, but you’re determined; bouncing and lifting yourself, now not totally aware of the sounds you’re making. 

“Please,” You start, “please come inside me, I— I really need it.” You look at Luigi, finger trailing down his chest following a drop of sweat, “I want it, so bad.”

You look at him, in a way that used to be impossible. Too intimidated by the way he would always look back at you so easily intense, almost like he could see totally through you.

“Baby,” You mutter, leaning forward and mouths at Luigi’s neck, at the salty, sweaty skin. You lick across his jaw making him chuckle breathlessly. You mouth at the cool metal of his chain before he makes a sound like he needs your lips on his and you move back up, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips and purposefully clenching your pussy at the same time. 

You feel his fingers grip your skin as you feel his abs clench, hips tensing; with little warning you pull back to watch Luigi’s face as he comes with a low moan. He throws his head back in pleasure, mouth slightly open, chest rising up and down. You can feel his cum, hot and sudden inside of you and it feels familiar and full. 

“‘M fucking crazy about you,” Luigi mumbles into your skin, sitting up suddenly and pulling you closer. “God,” he breathes out like he’s seeing you for the first time. 

“Your turn,” He says as his big hand immediately comes to grope one of your tits, “you’ve been so good.” 

You smile gratefully, wanting that same release as Luigi, wanting to hold and feel him close. Your hand finds his free one to intertwine your fingers. He leans up further to press a kiss to your chest, then thumbs over one of your nipples a bit roughly, kissing and licking before he sucks as you gasp with whimper. 

You feel suddenly vulnerable and overwhelmingly in love and you don’t know what to do with all that you feel. Luigi looks up at you, making eye contact and swirling his tongue around your nipple. You can only stare back dazedly because it’s Luigi. You like, love, so much that it really doesn’t take long for you to come, barely with a warning as you're pushed over the edge. 

You whine, suddenly flooded with an overwhelming pleasure, quickly overstimulated as he pulls away from your tits. “Always so pretty for me,” Luigi mutters and you smile as he holds you, letting you ride out your high. 

Only a few moments pass before you can only fall against his chest, not caring about how hot it is, or how warm and sticky his skin is, or the mess of cum that threatens to eventually leak onto your sheets.  

Luigi doesn’t complain either and you wiggle until you’re comfortable, nestled in tight and safe. He’s quiet, cock still inside of you and hand resting on the small of your back. 

“You’re a dream, baby,” he whispers, lips so close to your own ear and you hum happily at the praise, resting your head on the hot skin of his chest, right over his heart. 

It’s too hot but you secretly kind of— really, like it, like how familiar it is, that intense, consuming heat; it feels like Luigi.

[paperclip-skz]

Just You and Me

fem*Reader x Bang Chan

*WARNING

contains: Teasing, trapped ( Chan and reader are kinda kidnapped), kidnapped!, slight force spaced, squirting, fingering, humping, over-clothes stimulation, nicknames, overstimulation, unprotected sex (don't), I'm sure I missed something, let me know in the comments.

prompt: Fuck or die you have 48 hrs to complete the challenge- “Okay, fine, lets do of this then” “Whoa, I might be a fan, but I don’t know you” - “Can we start over…. And maybe we can save each other lives?”

WC: 4.1k

part 2 part 3

***

You felt the suffocating weight of a bag over your head, darkness, and cold wrapping around you like a shroud. Goosebumps erupted on your skin as the icy air seeped into your bones. Then, with a sudden yank, the bag was ripped away, blinding light assaulting your eyes. 

As your vision cleared, dread washed over you. Just a few feet away, there was another figure chained to the floor — The one, the only, Bang Chan, fear etched across his beautiful face. Panic surged through you. Why is he here? And more importantly, where the hell are we?

“What the hell is going on?” Chan roared, his voice echoing with desperation as he struggled against the unforgiving metal cuffs. The sound bounced off the sterile, white walls, amplifying the terror in the air.

Then, a chilling click resonated from above. Your heart raced as your gaze darted to the speakers embedded in the ceiling. A sinister voice slithered through the darkness, dripping with malice. “It’s simple. Play my game, and you both might just live to see another day—along with a bucket full of money.”

“What’s the game?” You dared to ask, your voice trembling, uncertainty creeping in like a slow poison.

“Sleep with each other. Pleasure each other. If you both survive the night, you’ll walk out of here with more than just your lives. You’ll walk out with $5 million.” The voice loomed from the speakers above, blunt and final.  

5 million dollars was on the line, and the thought of it sent a rush of temptation through your veins. 5 million dollars could help you pay off debts, fulfill dreams, and secure a future that felt increasingly uncertain, but there was no way you’d stoop that low; your pride wouldn’t let you. 

“Piss off, go get your porno somewhere else,” you screamed.

“Fine, wanna play, fuck him or die. Your choice,” and the click you heard told you he wasn’t playing anymore. 

Suddenly, the chains unclasp, and you scramble to your feet. You rub your wrists; the lingering sting from the metal reminds you of how vulnerable you are. A sense of panic bubbles within you, clawing at your insides.

“I’m Chris,” he says. His voice is so soft, it’s like velvet, caressing your ears, yet it sends a shiver down your spine at the same time. The thick accent wraps around you, igniting something deep within—was it fear or something more? You feel an overwhelming urge to flee, but where could you go?

“I know,” is all you can muster, your throat tightening as you speak. Your heart races, and in that moment, you realize the implications of your words. What did it mean to know him? You avert your gaze, refusing to let him see the conflict swirling inside you.

“Seen me on the news, I take it?” He rubs his own raw wrists, and your eyes dart to the marks, an echo of your own pain. But you can’t afford to feel sorry for him, not when your own fears loom so large. 

“No, I'm—” Hesitation grips you. “I’m a Stay,” you finally blurt out, your voice steadier than you feel. His eyes widen, surprise etched on his face, and for a fleeting moment, every instinct screams at you to run. “Well, don’t act too surprised,” the tone of your voice shifting subtly.

“No- I just- well I mean- what are the odds?” he stumbles. If it wasn’t for the situation your both in, or the rawness of your skin, or even the coldness of the room, you might have found his flustered state cute. Your lying to yourself. You still found it cute. 

A silent moment passed by. “I think it’s just best if we get this over with.” 

You take two steps back, holding your hand up, acting as a defense. “Whoa, whoa, I might be a fan, but I don’t know you.” 

“Sorry sorry” Chan takes a few steps back. You hold your arms, panic still coursing through your veins. 

“Can we start over? And maybe save our lives in the process?” 

——-

Moments passed. You couldn’t tell if it was an hour or two. The voice didn’t come back, and the lights never dwindled. You couldn’t tell if it was light or dark outside. 

The boredom caught up with you two. It led you to play games to pass the unforgiving time. 20 questions. 

“What’s your favorite color?” Chan asked, a pout on his lips. 

“Maroon” you answered bluntly, from across the room. You knees meeting your chest. “Favorite place to eat?” you shot back. 

“A small tteokbokki mom-and-pop shop in the subway, Sinchon” he shoots back. 

You both go back and forth for a little while until you ask. “What do you want with the money? Don’t you get paid enough?” It wasn’t meant to be an insult or a passive-aggressive comment. But a genuine question.

“Contrary to popular belief, celebrities don’t get paid as much as you might think.” He shifts his gaze to his hands, and his shoulders slump. “You're a Stay, so I assume you know our story—my story,” he corrects himself. “We fight so hard, tooth and nail, every single day, and yet they still want more. It’s a miracle we get all our work done sober, let alone on time.” He chuckles softly to himself. Despite the somberness of his words, a small smile tugs at his lips, and a sparkle shines in his eyes. Even though the life he chose is challenging, he wouldn’t change it for the world.

“Why don’t you want to sleep with me?” his next question. 

A deep pit hits your stomach. It's not that you don't want to sleep with him. You’d be rich if you 

got a nickel for every time you thought about Chan in a…certain way. But, it was more than just wanting to jump his bones. Yes, he was attractive, yes,  anyone in their right mind would want to see this beautiful man naked, but he was still a person that you didn’t know - he was still a man who was very capable of taking advantage of you. 

You couldn't meet his intense gaze, heat flooding your cheeks under the weight of his stare. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” you admit your voice barely above a whisper, a hint of vulnerability lacing your words. 

A playful smirk dances on his lips, and you can feel the tension crackling in the air, but he remains rooted in his spot, a teasing distance between you. 

“I just don’t know you. For all I know, you could be a total asshole behind the camera,” you challenge.

“Do you still think that?” he asks, a teasing lightness in his voice. He’s right—while you’ve traded innocent questions, each answer from him has been honest. He could’ve revealed his darker side, but all he showed was the kind, funny guy you admired. 

“No” you didn’t recognize your own voice. It came out raspy. Hushed. The situation you were both in dwindled a bit. The fear almost drained from your veins and was replaced by something else. 

“Your turn” he says, a new darkness in his eyes. “Can I ask you something a little more personal?” you venture, locking your gaze with his. He shrugs, a playful glint in his eyes, encouraging you to continue. “Have you ever… slept with anyone?”

He lets out a hearty laugh, his confidence radiating through the small room. “Of course, I’ve slept with someone. I’m not a virgin.”

“What?! I just had to know,” you reply, your laughter mixing with his, a warm smile spreading across your face. “I’m surprised they don’t keep you idols under tighter wraps.” You tease, feeling the tension in the air shift, your muscles relaxing.

The laughter flows freely between you, bubbling the small room. Then, he leans in, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Can I ask you a personal question?” he murmurs, his tone low and inviting.

“Sure,” you reply, your heart racing a little as you shrug nonchalantly, intrigued by where this might lead.

“When was the last time you had sex” he finally said the word. Neither one of you dared to say it until now. 

Your entire body ignited with warmth. “It’s been a while,” you confess, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. His brows lift playfully, and you roll your eyes, trying to play it cool. “Okay, okay. It’s been at least…” you hesitate, choosing your words with care, “at least a year and a half.” You hide your face in your hands, your heart racing.

You hear a low chuckle escape him. “Wow.”

“Don’t be mean,” you retort, slowly removing your hands to reveal your flushed face. He lifts his hands in mock surrender.

“I’m not! Honestly, I’m no better—it’s been a whole two years since I kissed a girl, let alone slept with one. I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’re really beautiful; I expected you to have a boyfriend or something.” His eyes widen with curiosity. “Do you… have a boyfriend?”

You laugh, the sound light and airy, as the unexpected question tumbles from his lips. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend… or anyone, really.” your smile lingers a moment. 

“Can- can I move closer?” His voice sounds soft and gentle. You nod your head slightly, tightening your grip on your knees. Chris gets up and walks over to your side of the room. He sits down next to you, leaving a good two feet of space between your bodies. You will your heart to slow as his cologne fills your senses. He smells like a breath of fresh air; your whole body craves another whiff, wanting to be enveloped in his scent. 

You feel your core clench around nothing, the thought of Chris against you, skin against skin, your two breathing mingling with each other. “Thinking of something?” he asks, a cocky smirk tugging his lips. 

You feel warmth radiating from your neck to your chest, and surely all across your face. "N-no, nothing," you say….convincingly enough. 

A teasing laugh bubbles out of him. “Your turn” he turns his head to you, and you keep your head straight trying to ignore his piercing stare. But you feel him watching your every breath, tracing every rise and fall of your chest as you breathe heavily, the way your lip teases its way back and forth from between your teeth, igniting a warmth that spreads like wildfire through your body.

 “Um,” you stammer, your eyes darting around, momentarily lost in the moment. “Why isn’t this freaking you out?” The rasp in your voice reveals the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. “Aren’t you scared they’re recording us?” 

A sly smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I could choose to be scared,” he says, his voice low and sultry as he leans in closer. His hand finds your jaw, gently guiding your face to meet his gaze. “Or I could forget the details and lose myself in the pretty woman in front of me.” With that, the space between you evaporates, charged and electric, the tension practically begging to be released.

Your lips part, and your eyes dart between his eyes and his lips, the space inching closer and closer. His hand on your jaw slowly glides down to your neck, not demanding, not dominating, not tightly, but enough to send bolts of pleasure coursing through you, enough to have you begging him to touch you more. 

His gentle fingers, warm and delicate, glide around your neck, softly brushing against your skin. You know he feels your heart racing, pulsing rapidly just beneath his fingertips. Your mouth dries, and the dampness between your legs makes you rub them together. “Y/N. Can I kiss you?” he asks, his breath ghosting your lips. 

You don’t answer him, not verbally at least, instead, you lean in that extra inch and connect your lips with his. His touch, yet gentle, is nothing compared to the way he kisses. It's charged, confident. He kisses like its the last kiss he’ll ever have. Savoring every gasp, every moan, every movment of your lips against his. 

His other hand snakes around your waist, silently asking for you to climb on top of him. And you oblige wordlessly, swinging one leg around him so your legs are wrapped around his waist, your arms taking purchase wrapped around his neck. “Fuck you taste so sweet,” he says between breaths of air, but he refuses to leave your lips longer than a second. One of your fists grips his shirt, grounding yourself before you let yourself fall completely victim to his touch, the other tangles into his hair, gently pulling at his roots. He grunts in approval urging you on. 

“W-wait” you push him back. The sight before you leaves you momentarily breathless. His hair is tousled, tangled strands falling alluringly over his forehead, it makes your insides clench and a shiver run down your spine. His lips, visibly red and slightly swollen, His eyes, wide and shimmering with adrenaline. 

His hands, restless and eager, seem to ache for your skin to bridge the distance that feels electric between you. Yet he holds back, a silent plea in his gaze, waiting for a signal—a tentative nod, a whispered word—to close the gap and unleash the storm brewing between you.

You force yourself to look away, your eyes darting around the room where you're both trapped. Still clean, white, and locked. No mirrors. No cameras. No windows. They must have something; they must be watching—panic surges through you. “Hey, hey," Chris cups your jaw again, bringing you back to him. The room fades away; the only sight you focus on is his coffee-stained eyes. "It's just you and me." He connects his forehead with yours, and your breaths intertwine, “just you. And me." You breathe him in deeply, his warmth calming your anxiety like a wave gently crashing on the shore.

You angle your head slightly to capture his lips once more. But this kiss isn’t like the one you both shared only moments ago. This one is gentle, slow, and deliberate. He matches that same intensity, his arms hugging your body close to him. You feel his heartbeat against your chest; it’s rapid. 

You wiggle your hips against him, getting into a more comfortable position against his lap, but a deep guttural moan rips out of his chest. And thats when you feel it. The large, prominent bulge pressing against you. You gasp against his lips, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. His eyes plead with a blend of embarrassment and desire. 

You bite your lip, and a sultry smirk spreads wide across your face. You rock against his middle, the tent in his pants only growing and hardening. He shuts his eyes tightly, and his face twists as he tries hard to focus and avoid losing control. A wicked idea forms in your mind; you push your body down against him, the leggings you're wearing thin and tight enough that he can feel your wetness between your legs. You rub yourself against him, pushing and rocking slightly, teasingly. 

A deep, heavy sigh escapes him as he instinctively tilts his head, baring his neck to you. You seize the moment, leaning in closer as your lips gently meet his skin. With each kiss, you leave delicate, lingering marks.

His hands seize your waist, begging you. You're not sure if they're begging you to slow down or speed up, but nonetheless, you don’t stop.  “Fuck” he moans. 

You lean back, not stopping your hips, as he meets your stare once again. His eyes, their usual coffee-stained manner, were now replaced by something darker, something exciting. His hand comes back to grip the side of your neck, bringing your lips against his once again before he fully takes control. With swift, easy movement, he lifts you up slightly only to set you down against the tile floor. His middle connects with yours, your legs still wrapped tightly around his waist. His kisses turn rugged as he leaves your lips to trail his lips lower down your body. 

“All this needs to go” he gestures to your still-clothed body. 

You smir,k and a small laugh bubbles out of you. You lean up slightly and tug your shirt over your head. You slide out of his reach, only for a moment, to also pull your leggings down your body. Leaving you in just a sports bra and soaked panties. “Your turn, hot shot.” 

He pokes his tongue to the side of his cheek while he maneuvers his shirt over his head and stands to rip his pants off his legs. You stare at his muscled, toned body, each ridge and muscle defined, looking at you like it's a meal. You swallow lightly as your eyes trail southward to the tent in his boxers, taunting you. He sees your stare and pulls down his boxers. 

You gulp at the sher size of him. Is he even gonna fit, you think? He practically sees the worry written on your face when he laughs and moves to lean down on top of you again. “Scared you can’t take me, babygirl?” his hands dance along your skin, and your legs spread wider. 

His fingers leave goosebumps along your skin. He trails them lower…lower…until they tease around the apex of your legs. “You can take me, princess. I know you can,” he whispers against your ear. He hooks his pointer finger around the middle of your panties, pulling them down with a force that makes you shiver against him. His fingers immediately go back to playing with your folds teasingly, refusing to give you exactly what you need, not yet. 

The whine that leaves you is completely foreign to you; you’ve never been much of a beggar in bed, but something about Chan makes you want to get on your knees for him. “Tell me, baby. Want do you want?” his voice breathes against the shell of your ear, as his fingers play with your thrumming bud, only to go back to circling your entrance. 

“Please, please, I need it. I need you,” you beg. 

“Ah, ah, ah. I need details. You have me, princess. What do you want me to do?” the bastard teases. 

A mix of a moan and a groan leaves you. “Chris, please.” you hesitate for a moment. “Please make me cum” 

He kisses the shell of your ear, and you feel two fingers plunge into your walls, curling upward. You gasp into the air, and he swallows that gasp with a kiss. He keeps a steady, relentless pace with his fingers, not too fast, but not slow either. He pushes his fingers deep inside you, moving his body in tandem with them, keeping them curled. He swallows every moan that ripples out of you, and your hand grips him so tight you think you might draw blood. 

He removes his hands, spreading the gathered wetness around your folds. A whine rips out of you from the loss, but he kisses you gently, leaning his forehead against yours. “Please, please,” you beg. You don’t even know what you begging for, whether it be to cum, or for him to finally take you as he pleases. 

“I know baby,” a kiss to your forehead, “it's coming, I promise.” he enters his fingers back in you, quickening his pace this time. Your back arched,s and your head tilts back. Your whole body starts to move with his thrusts, and you feel that all too familiar feeling form in the pit of your stomach. The tightness in you is familiar but slightly stranger. You actually think you might pee, “w-wait I think I’m gonna-” 

“Shhh,” he kisses your forehead again. This is wrong, it doesn't feel like a normal orgasm, it- it feels-

But pleasure sends you reeling, a silent scream shakes your bod,y and your arms cling to him. His fingers don’t stop, letting your whole body ride out your orgasm until you whine from overstimulation. Your body glistens with sweat. Every breath leaves you breathless. 

Chan's cocky laugh makes you open your eyes. He leans up, balancing on the heels of his feet while you prop yourself up on your elbows.  “Holy shit,” you gasp. Wetness… your wetness shines on his body. Evidence of your pleasure dripped on every sculpted muscle on his chest. “I’ve never…squirted…before” 

“I could tell,” he says, his voice dark and a smile wide. 

You gulp, the sight making that first wave of pleasure seem like a warm-up. Embarrassment covers your cheek, “hey,” he leans back down, “It was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” You sigh when the tip of him slips against your sensitive bud. His face twists, and a small grunt leaves. 

Pants and quick breaths fill the empty air of the room. Chan looks down where the two of you dare to connect, his hips rock against your heated core, only skimming your folds but never entering, your wetness coating him. 

“Chris,” you breathed, his name a plea on your tongue. Your core clenched once again, nothing to grip onto. 

Your hand slid to the side of his hip as he angled himself at your entrance. Your other hand went up to his jaw, guiding him to see you. His breathing went uneven as he carefully slid deeper into you. At the first nudge of him, your body went taunt and surged to claim his mouth with your own. Your tongue ran over his bottom lip, and he dominated your mouth with urgency. You swallowed the low groan of pleasure as his hips rolled in gentle, slow thrusts. 

The feeling of your tight walls engulfing him left him gasping for air. But once Chan paused at the hilt, once he let you feel the fullness of him, you actually thought you might explode. You thought you could combust from the sheer desire that swept through you. 

Beyond words, beyond little gasps of breath and small whimper of pleasure, your hips moved against him, urging him deeper, harder. “Needy little thing, aren’t you?” he chuckled. 

You answered with a small whine. You clenched around him. His body became rigid like lightning coursing through it. “Do that again and see what happens princess,” he threatened. The darkness in his voice sent a sudden heat shooting through you…. You clenched harder than ever before. Chan groans loudly, almost like he’s in pain, but the smile on his lips says otherwise. 

You weren’t entirely prepared when Chan’s thrusts became crushing. Each thrust made your eyes roll to the back of your head and your whole body move inched further on the tile floor. His pace was timed, but his thrusts were deep, making each one count. The noises that left your throat were pure animalist, pure lust. 

Sweat shines on his forehead, and his pace quickly becomes rushed, those same deep thrusts turning matched with a relentless pace. The tip of his dick kissing your cervix, it made you see stars. “Are you gonna cum babygirl? Are you gonna cum for me” Each statement paired with a deep thrust makes you cling to him for dear life? Words are lost in the back of your throat. “Fuck” Chan grunts, “cum for me princess.”

As if it were a command, your whole body freezes, and you moan out his name loudly, your mind a puddle of pleasure. 

His hips rock into you two more times before he freezes; you can feel him twitch and throb inside your walls. He collapses beside you, pulling out in the process. Beats of silence follow, and after another breath, you both look at each other. And you laugh. The bubble of laughter fills the air along with your heavy breaths. 

A hollow click slices through the silence, echoing off the walls and setting your nerves on edge. Unlike the familiar sound of the speakers crackling to life, this noise is far more substantial, a heavy, industrial thud that reverberates in your chest. Suddenly, the door at the front of the room disengages with a groan, its old metal latch giving way as it inches open, revealing shadows beyond. 

A chill sweeps through the space as anticipation thickens the air. You turn to your companions, your hearts racing in unison. Chan catches your eye, his smile glowing with warmth that cuts through the tension like sunlight piercing through clouds. “Together?”

**************

@multi-fandommaniac

AN: I'm not sure how happy I am with how this turned out in the end....let me know. Also, let me know in the comments who you want to see more of or if you all want to see more fluff? more smut? longer stories? Shorter ones, etc? Love yall!

part 2?

[bokutoko]

waaaaah abs for the flower pop-up can I get a large bouquet with roses and tulips with sweet pea for Bokuto <333 this is so freakin cute omg

winter wonderland

k. bokuto x f!reader

wc: 962

cw: uni!au, frat president!bokuto, night confessions, studying for exams, brother’s best friend (kuroo is reader’s brother), minimal cursing, suggestive 18+ - making out, groping (consensual, f!receiving), grinding

“break time!”

with a smile, bokuto walked to the box of ornaments laid by the half-decorated christmas tree and grabbed one. you only sighed, rubbing your eyes and asked, “ten minute timer starting now.”

the frat house was decked out with christmas paraphernalia: wreaths on every window and door, lights outlining the front porch, a 10-ft inflatable frosty the snowman swaying in the front yard. as snow slowly began to fall, it was a cozy environment. too bad you were too stressed about finals to really care.

luckily, bokuto came to the rescue and offered to body double with you and reinforce some breaks from studying. “don’t want you getting burned out!” he reassured you and kuroo with a big smile. you didn’t miss his subtle rosy cheeks as you two sat at the main room’s table, using the system of working for half an hour with ten-minute breaks.

it was perfect for productivity.

the only caveat? you were hopelessly crushing on your brother’s best friend and dreaded these breaks. you could feel your face heat up just from being close to him; when his hand brushed yours, it felt like butterflies erupting in your stomach as goosebumps trailed down your arm.

you grabbed an ornament of the frat’s greek symbols, poking fun at him with, “can i hang this one, or is there some weird tradition with it?”

he only smiled, looking down to grab his own. “there is a tradition, but you can hang it. usually goes here.” pointing to a spot on the tree, you happily hung it on a branch.

only, you didn’t realize the tradition was that the president was the one to hang it. it was a silly one, but it’d been done for the last twenty years, at the very least.

he chose to not tell you that, though, not when you looked so excited to do it.

“this look okay?”

“looks perfect.” his voice was soft—quieter than you usually heard from him. frankly, he wasn’t even looking at the tree, his eyes much too focused on you, with your hands on your hips as you looked at you two’s handiwork so far.

eventually, all that was left was the star, and thankfully, bokuto was tall enough to place it. watching him stand on a chair and straighten it, you observed how his biceps tensed and relaxed, watched the slight straining as he forced the star to sit straight on the tree… and you felt yourself grow a little lightheaded.

shouldn’t he be wearing a hoodie or something? wasn’t it snowing outside?? he needed to cover up.

pulling yourself out of those thoughts, you did one last once-over on the tree, making sure nothing looked too crowded or out of place. “looks nice.” bokuto stood next to you, nodding along, though he didn’t care quite as much about how the tree looked.

he really only cared if you liked it.

a sudden stuffiness fell over the room, and bokuto cleared his throat, commenting, “let me turn the fan on,” but immediately froze.

looking up, you then noticed why.

there, right above you both, was the dusty ceiling fan, and hanging on one of the chains was a little piece of mistletoe. obviously, one of the brothers tied it on, since neither of you noticed it until now.

bokuto let out an awkward laugh, mumbling something along the lines of, “i hate them.”

the tension grew between you two in a matter of seconds, looking into his eyes and seeing the little sparkle in his golden irises.

“are you okay with this?” bokuto softly asked as he approached you. a hand gently brushed some hair out of your face, searching your eyes for an answer—any answer. “tell me no, and i’ll stop.”

you didn’t tell him to stop. instead, you said, “it is an unspoken rule, honestly. we kinda, uh, have to.”

he nodded, his cheeks looking even pinker in the warm lighting of the lamps and christmas tree. “yeah—yeah, we have to…”

it was supposed to be a little peck. unfortunately, nobody told either of you that.

with you in his lap on the couch, his big hands gently grazed up your back, bringing some of your shirt up with them. with the slight feel of your skin against his, he deepened the kiss, letting it grow hungrier and hungrier.

his mind was slower than his body, only then suddenly thinking that he was kissing you.

YOU, his best friend’s sister!

but god, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. not when your lips tasted of the hot chocolate he made for you earlier. not when your hands were in his hair and tugging at the roots. not when you subtly began to grind on him, right on his growing bulge—

his body began to heat up, despite the flakes falling outside. he had no idea what his hands were doing until they gently cupped your breasts, listening to the moans you sang in his mouth.

“kou—”

fuck, he was in deep. he could listen to your sounds all day.

“oh, baby—” he moaned in your mouth, his hands moving to your hips to gently guide your movements in his lap. oh god, the pressure feels amazing. “yeah, just like—”

DING, DING, DING!

the ten minute timer was going off, buzzing and ringing on the table with all your unfinished studying.

“kou, turn that shit off—“ you gasped out of frustration, dropping your head into his shoulder. he carefully scrambled to grab your phone and silence it, hoping to resume what you’d both started. to which you were more than happy to do so.

he’d really always known this, but bokuto very quickly learned just how weak of a man he was for you.

a/n: hi narn it’s hot as balls outside for me rn (88°) but merry christmas

want to see more by me in this event? here's my masterlist! 🌷

main masterlist

please do not copy, alter, or repost my work. ©bokutoko 2025.

[ohnopicturesofanothercat]

Bridget once again on the forbidden table showing her whiskers for Whiskers Wednesday! The pull chains on the ceiling fan sometimes fascinate her.

[asphaltsugar]

mechanic!daryl dixon x reader

extras: just some staring from the reader; set pre-apocalypse/alternate universe; no use of y/n

Sweat ran from the curve of his shoulders to the dips in his arms, the shine a lure to the oil blotted at his knuckles and under his bitten nails. The silver of your engine glinted back into irises of blue; they narrowed as he leaned his front half underneath the hood, a slow stream of smoke curling from between his lips.

“Shouldn’t take t’long.” He didn’t meet your eyes, words a statement to the work in front of him and yourself, seated against the wall. “You can wait if y’want.”

He kept the doors to the shop open, summer heat peering into the interior and sticking to your clothing, his hair, the leather of your seat. Guitar scratched from an old radio set on a table; near it, tools stained and some rusted, dents cupping the coloring as if to prove their worth. You nodded, crossing your legs and briefly focusing on the rhythmic ticking of the clock overhead.

The shop smelled of smooth smoke rising, subservient to the ceiling fan, bronze chains knocking into each other in tandem with the blades, and bitter oil. It wasn’t anything obtrusive, the smoke being blown away from where you sat—the rest was familiar. A local work, the walls had seen you grow up, stared with irony now that he was fixing your car and not yourself; truth be told, you simply did not feel like digging into the tight turns, the heat having irritated your skin since the morning.

Besides, meeting the new employee wouldn’t hurt. He was only there for a few weeks, a regular told you, acting as a substitute for one of the older men—he thought the push of your brows at the name you’d never heard was amusing enough.

It was quiet as he worked. A few others chatted and laughed in the break room a few doors down. Whatever song was playing on the radio buzzed on, sharp guitar and quick percussion. He only hummed every so often with the cigarette in his lips, a rhetorical to the work at his hands.

Any attempt to make friendly talk died at the tip of your tongue after you had simply introduced yourself and he, too, upon walking in—he had asked with a low timbre what the issue was, and nodded at your explanation. He didn’t seem to be much of a conversationalist anyhow; best not to pry as a first impression.

So there you sat, tip of your shoe parroting the rhythm to the song now fading into a voice announcing the next.

Apparently he was good at what he did. He looked good doing it, too.

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (part 6)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds Part 11 - Caught Part 12 - Eddie Part 13 - The Release Part 14 - Someone like her smutty💦

Part 6 Learning

Another night in bed with Alastor, but one that doesn’t feel quite right. You’re both learning about each other still. Unfortunately, it seems you’re not alone in finding out new information.

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, smut, blowjob, riding, swallowing CUM, mostly sex honestly, greenhouse , discussions of murder and dead bodies, nervous smoking, a nervous Alastor, tenderness, plants」

The tag list is broken, it wont let me copy and paste them as actual tags so I am manually adding them 😭

Minors DNI 🦌 🚘

You reached for the chain of the ceiling fan light, Alastor removing his clothes except his boxers as it was still too warm for pajamas. He pulled your clean slip from the drawer before making sure the window was locked but the curtains open. The bed softly illuminated with moonlight. 

Oh no. It felt strange. You would think this was a scene you’d seen before, perhaps in a photo beside the definition of home.

“Dear?” Alastor pulled back the blanket and sheet, “Everything alright?” You arm was still extended and holding the chain.

No. I’m too comfortable here already. I don’t feel like a guest.

“Come to bed.” He patted your side of the bed. You got changed, feeling him watching you.

“It’s nice to get undressed with an audience in a…boring way.” You huffed, the ache in your feet still with you. 

As you lifted your dress to unhook your garter, Alastor asked you sheepishly, “Would your stockings and garter be uncomfortable to sleep in?” You opened your mouth to answer before you realized what he was actually asking you. Fingers stopping, you let them be. 

“Not terribly, no.” 

When you slid into the bed in your slip and garters you caught how he grinned at you and suddenly you felt so shy. He always made you feel like it was your first time alone with a man when he looked at you with that smile, with those sharp eyes. You felt naked, deeper than just clothes.

Alastor scooted closer to you, arms wrapping around your waist and dragging you to meet him in the middle. Kisses to the side of your face until you turned, lips captured. As his hand came to your neck, large palm resting on your upper chest, you willed your heart to calm down. 

His mouth was hungry, tongue reaching for yours. You tried to breathe through your nose but couldn’t find the timing. When he pulled away, your mouth still open, he let his nose rub at yours. “I want to spoil you.” His hand slid down your front, fingers making a line through the center of your torso before coming to rest below your belly button. It was more intimate than you thought he realized. His hand sat heavy. “We can do as little or as much as you’d like.”

“Are you sure? I’m happy to cuddle in your fancy—,” you stretched your arms, “two person bed. Don’t worry about me.”

He kissed where your jaw ended, breathing into your ear a husky,  “I don’t want to cuddle. I want to make a new memory in my home.” In truth, he was desperate to feel you still wanted him. Despite what had happened.

That was all you needed. Throwing your leg over him you straddled his lap. You reached down to make sure his soft member had room to grow. His hands came to your hips but you brought them to your face and leaned down to continue greedy kisses. Hips rolling forward against him, your little moans into his mouth earned you sighs in return. 

You knew exactly what you wanted to do. You felt him growing under you as you rubbed against him. Catching his bottom lip in your teeth you gently tugged.

Leaning back, you took his hand and sucked one finger into your mouth. Pulling it out you added another, your teeth coming to rest well past his knuckles. A raspy groan coming from deep in his chest. Your hips kept rocking, tongue twirling as you slowly pulled him out of your mouth again. He fought the urge to say thank you. 

“Fellatio, Alastor.” You maintained eye contact, hips grinding as his golden brown eyes became wide, “Can I?”

His cock was twitching against you, but you needed a verbal yes before giving it your full attention.

“I’m not a huge fan of feeling my release on my skin.” He was frowning.  An honest to god frown like a bummed out child. You couldn’t help but find it cute. He was usually smirking so the frown felt like seeing the Easter bunny smoking. Just, so out of place.

“Well hun I wasn’t planning on giving it back to you.”

A gasp, he opened his mouth to say something about your unsurpassed ability to surprise him for the nth time, but his mouth had gone dry. He was sure you could feel him growing harder against the silk of your slip. He squeaked out an “Okay, yeah. Let’s try.”

You kissed his cheeks, feeling his blush heating your lips. Finally, you could be the one making a mess of the other. Moving down, you settled your own warm cheek in the crook where his thigh met his hip and let your hand lazily stroke him. 

Dicks were remarkably ugly things, possibly done so animals would bury them every chance possible to avoid having to look at them. But Alastor’s cock was pretty. Tan and pink, long and slender with a slight curve up that seemed biologically strategic. It was a shame he didn’t show it off more, but that was none of your business. 

“I missed you.” You cooed.

Alastor lifted his head from his pillow, he had been trying to not look at you because he already knew it would be too much. Sure enough, your barely lit face was looking at up from his lap. Eyes aglow with the dying summer moonlight and hand so tenderly touching him. What was he doing again?

Oh that’s right. You’d said something.

“Hmm?”

You kissed his tip, “I wasn’t talking to you.”

His head fell back down, making a noise that almost sounded like a word. Another peck of a kiss. Then a longer one. Your lips parted and his hands lightly gripped the sheets. Hot and wet, but a different version of wet heat you’d already allowed him to lose himself in. A firm palate and soft tongue running past his head and down his length.

For the life of him he couldn’t understand why you wanted to do this. The truth was you were already soaking through your panties, his little hip ruts and sharp inhales going straight to your core. You’d never wanted to please another person so much in your fucking life. Pornography made sense now, you’d pay to see photos of him spread out with a lusty face. But luckily your cost was minor, an express ticket to hell. 

You took him down to the base before lifting your head again.

“I want you to make the pace.” You brought his hand to the back of your head. His normally sharp features now soft and squiggly. “Fast or slow, little bit or all of it, you can stop me entirely whenever you want.”

His hand was riding your head as you bobbed on his cock. Tongue running along the underside, pressing up as you moved. A muscle twitched in his thigh which you found impossibly arousing. Every time you took him all the way into your mouth you couldn’t breathe and it only made you think of how deep he’d reached inside you before. 

Doting on his swollen head you licked his leaking precum from the slit. The look in your eyes promised to devour him as you sucked in your cheeks and made shallow moves, letting your hands slide down his shaft and balls. The weight of them in your hands had you twitching around nothing. 

Alastor’s breath was rough and strained, but his moans soft. You released him with a pop.

“Alastor.”

His eyes were focused on the ceiling, fingers stroking mindlessly at your hair. “Yes?”

“Are you not comfortable with moving my head? You’re just petting me. We can stop or—?”

Alastor let his hand come down to your chin, thumb running over your bottom lip, “No, no I don’t want to stop,” the look in eyes made you believe that. “I don’t know how to set the pace. You just want me to move your head? I’m not used to this and my brain is completely empty. Tell me plainly what you want and I’ll do it.” It sounded like a plea, almost begging for you to give him instruction. Because he was. He was pleading for you to tell him how to make you happy in new ways. “I want to do it.”

Plainly? Okay. This was one area of life you could manage to be completely straight. “I want you,” you kissed the tip of his cock again, “to guide my head on and off your cock,” a kiss down his shaft followed by another, “until you come in my throat.” You kissed the dark hair around his base, taking a moment to enjoy the scent of his manhood. “I wanna do it at your speed.”

A whimper, his dick bouncing up with a twitch and hitting your cheek, “Fuck.” He nodded, “I won’t last long when your mouth is so skilled verbally and physically, my dear.”

You hummed as his hands guided you back down, was this still letting him take the lead? The lines were blurred of who was leading who. But that was fine, maybe two people could move forward in tandem.

It made your pussy clench with a need to be filled when he finally pressed your head all the way down. With some difficulty you kept your teeth from scratching him while hollowing your cheeks again.

Hands busy cupping and caressing his balls, you let him quicken his pace.

A pleasant surprise as his hips began to buck up with his increasingly strident groans. You moaned around his cock, taking quick breaths through your nose whenever you were pulled off before his thrusts and pushes choked you again. Your eyes were watering, glossy as you tried to focus on his face. Looking down and across his tightened stomach his eyes met yours. The way his mouth was open was one thing but the moan of your name as his eyes lolled back made you feel feral. 

You shifted your hand to pumping his unsheathed length faster as he focused on his head hitting and sliding up the back of your tongue. You were confident he was almost at his peak. Seeing his eyes roll made you hungry to bring him to orgasm. The characteristic lost rhythm of his hips was a dead giveaway as much as the slowing of his hand bobbing your head that you were on the right track.

When you rolled your tongue Alastor loudly moaned in earnest, he seemed caught off guard by the sensation and his own response. The sound made you whimper around him. You wanted to make him make more sounds. More glimpses of him enjoying himself without restraint.

“My love… please,” he sounded like he was holding his breath, “Can I?” He felt insecure, he’d only entertained fellatio twice in his life and both times he found the sensations bordering disgusting and the aftermath humiliating. One partner dribbling his cum back onto his stomach, the other spitting it into his handkerchief. No one seemed happy with any part of it. But your mouth didn’t feel wrong. No part of you made him feel like a chore. Nothing about you ever made him feel put up with, instead in that moment he felt like you enjoyed him. He felt delicious in your mouth.

One hand on the back of your head pushing your head down onto him quicker as he was just at the cusp, the other where your jaw and ear met lifting you off him slightly slower to languish in the drag of your tongue over his cock.

You hummed an affirmative and braced yourself, a thick and salty shot of his release hitting the back of your throat with force. You took him down to the base again, swallowing around his head as much as his size allowed. He hissed, hips rising off the bed. You didn’t stop swallowing despite his whines and spasms, shoulders jerking up and off the pillows as he folded in over your head. The silence of the night interrupted by his overstimulated gasps spilling out around you.

Only when he stilled, body no longer twitching as he lied back down, did you let up.

He was almost scared to look at you. Flashes of a long forgotten face of disgust behind his eyes. 

“Alastor?” Your voice was so sweet, more so than usual. He dared to look.

A smile that reached your eyes. No mask, no grimace, no disappointment.

“You okay, doll?” You took his left hand and kissed his palm before setting your cheek against it. “Was it too much? Uncomfortable?”

What a silly question. He was the one who pulled you into murder, who left you vulnerable to dangerous men, who hadn’t ever considered how loving someone like him could put you at risk of terrible heartbreak. You had never been too much, he was the one spilling out of his canvas and staining you.

“We don’t have to do that ever again, okay?” You kissed his hand again, misreading his face entirely. Odd, you were usually so keen to the finer details of his mood. But when it came to sex, to his preferences, you knew you were better left always giving him room to ask for more, not less. Never make him need to ask you to stop. Never push past an absolute certainty of comfort, or put him in a position where he felt obligated to continue.

You’d decided some time ago you’d close your legs for good if it meant sharing a blanket with him. Your list of needs were rearranged the moment he pushed you into that bathroom, not that had known at the time or that you’d admit it was so early in your meeting.

Alastor smiled, finally, “No, it wasn’t.” While it wasn’t his favorite way to spend his time, he didn’t hate it. He wanted to ask if he was okay, if he was obviously inexperienced or embarrassingly quick. His eyes did that thing again, flitting around your face like he was reading a difficult but intriguing book.

You moved your body up to rest flush against his chest with your own. Silk slip cool on his heated skin. “I am very grateful you let me indulge myself, but,” a kiss to his chest before smiling back at him, your feet kicking up and knocking the blanket off, “Don’t push yourself, baby.” Your finger traced little circles on his chest.

He sat up. Slightly caught off guard, you did too. From the shadows of his bed you couldn’t see it before, but as he kissed you in an almost frantic succession of lips crashing into yours you pulled away to look him in the eyes. Blown out pupils shining back at you again. He stole another kiss, you not noticing his hand coming to his lap.

“I want to go at your pace now.” When he attempted another kiss, a pleasure soaked sigh stopped him. Your eyes traveled to the busy hand between you both.

“You can ride me, I’ve been selfish these last few times.” his hand was stroking himself, trying to get as hard as he could without getting too close to cumming a second time.

Even in the dim light he could see your face clearly, partly why he didn’t remove his glasses yet. You looked genuinely concerned. His free hand’s index finger and thumb came out almost like an upside down finger gun, a promise, “I want to feel you come undone around me.” You hooked your index with his, thumbs touching. It almost made a heart. “You can use me as you need, I just want to make you feel as good as you make me feel.”

You’d accepted him but he wanted more. He wanted you to need him. He’d be happy with just a night of neediness, really. Just confirmation he could keep you happy.

A blush spread up from your chest. There wasn’t anything to say. He left no room for doubt with his purposeful request. Leaning back again he slid a hand between your thighs and into your underwear. “Oh, you really did enjoy yourself didn’t you?” He brought his shining fingertip to his mouth and let those love affected eyes take you in as he licked his digits clean.

Unkindly beautiful. He was upsettingly ethereal beneath you, skin a glow in a way that rivaled the sun’s own bloom. His soft hair uncharacteristically messy, glasses fallen just a bit down his nose. The usually confident and sure Alastor was demure and needy between your legs. You’d never seen him look like that, even the first time was a different sight.

How lucky you were to get to devour him twice in one evening. You lifted yourself up and kept your eyes glued to his face as you pulled aside your panties and filled yourself with him. 

A moment of pause when you bottomed out, letting you both adjust. A confession of his own, “I’ve never let anyone on top before.”

You tightened around him, “You skipped straight to eating women out in bathrooms?”

A quick correction by him, “Not women. A Woman.” 

You tightened again, knees riding up over his stomach. “Well, I hope you’ll trust me with every first.”

Fighting the urge to bruise your ass on his hips, you took a gentle pace at first, knowing he’d just orgasmed minutes before. He was still sensitive, evident from his hisses and jerky movements with every bounce. His mouth was hanging open again with already heavy and loud breaths, eyes glued to watching himself disappear into your cunt.

Leaning down, you switched to rolling your hips front and back and kissing at his clavicle. You worked up his neck, pausing to whisper an ask, “Does it hurt?” into the bruised skin of this throat.  He said it was fine so you continued kisses up and then along his jaw. When his mouth reached for yours you dodged and kissed his nose. Another whiny whimper, hands rubbing down your hips and running over the place your skin met your stockings. His fingers ran up the straps of garters and back down again.

You kissed his cheeks, then the corner of his mouth. He looked at you like you were hurting him, like it pained him to not have your mouth on his. A moan pulled his expression from torture to ecstasy.

Alastor felt good, his ego unfurling in his chest with the sight of your pleasure. It was as if he were being worshiped and in worship of you at the same time. Your kisses were an offering, his moans a prayer.

No one had ever doted so sweetly on him during sex, perhaps he never let them. The very notion briefly floated by of past lovers kissing at his neck and it just as briefly made his skin crawl. Though he deeply enjoyed kisses when everyone was dressed. 

Much like small beds, affection was made comfortable by your presence. He wanted to be possessed by you. He felt he would be stronger somehow if he was wholly yours. 

Resting your forehead on his in the most loving act you’d ever offered a man during sex, you used his shoulders as a sturdy support to resume riding him in earnest. A workout you actually enjoyed, lifting your weight off of him and making a controlled descent to impale yourself again and again on his heated member. His swollen tip was sliding past your g-spot but it wasn’t hitting it as hard as you needed. But before you could move, you felt Alastor bring his arms up.

He used his hands like you’d taught him and grabbed the back of your head to bring you into a kiss. Lips on lips, his tongue teasing its way into your mouth.

You broke the kiss to sit back up, giving your thighs a burn as you tried to create enough friction to build up your orgasm. 

Often times you closed your eyes during sex, not because it just felt so good, but because you didn’t know where to look that wasn’t terribly uncomfortable. But not now, your eyes were locked on Alastor’s, every time he bit his bottom lip and every furrowed brow sent tingles that rolled down your shoulders , slipped along your ribs and settled in your stomach. 

You didn’t want to blink and risk missing a single reaction. The soft slap of your ass on his lap became more obscene as you got wetter. Slippery was the best word for it, Alastor trying to compare your mouth to the feeling of your twitching cunt. As you moaned his name and clenched around him, he knew he liked this more. Your mouth was free to make pretty noises for him. Sounds that made him twitch in you. 

How you could be so soft and yet gripping him so tightly he couldn’t understand. He began to realize how little he understood about any of it. Normally not actually paying attention this much during sex, but he let deeper thoughts go and just focused on the way you looked riding him.

A moment shared between you both as your eyes caught again; static shock without the contact.

“Could you cross your legs? At the ankle.” You reached around and made sure his still heavy balls were safely above his legs. Alastor did it without asking questions.

You needed a new angle, but there was no way in hell you’d turn around. Leaning back with both hands on his thighs, you could angle his cock head to graze that bundle of nerves his hands worked so well in the past. Heavy breaths morphed into deep moans as you worked him into that spot repeatedly. 

When you let a hand come forward and flick at your clit you had to sink down onto him, unable to keep your body up the same way. Shorter movements but a quicker pace to match your finger. Alastor tore his eyes from yours to watch your hand work, studying the way you moved so he could master pulling orgasms from you with his own.

Quiet, so softly you gasped and mewled as you quickly raised the tension in your lower belly. No more lifting, no energy or focus to offer, just grinding against him until you felt that snap of pressure and your muscles rolled around his cock. Alastor was quick to watch your face as he recognized the spasms making his thighs twitch again.

As your orgasm waned, the pleasure dying, you felt a clarity you couldn’t before. You looked down over Alastor, and found yourself worried. A small sense of dissatisfaction. You couldn’t put your finger on it so you let it go. Learning about Alastor carnally would take time, and you needed to allow that to happen naturally.

He was the one who suggested it, but it didn’t feel as satisfying as before.  Even with his orgasm, you felt like you’d gotten more from the interaction. And you weren’t sure what that something was or what that meant. The feeling in the air the first time wasn’t there now, and you weren’t sure why. You planted a kiss on his lips, trying to feel if anything was missing. His lips moved against yours and his hands rubbed at your thighs. He felt just like Alastor.

“Feel good, my dear?” He didn’t open his eyes, instead kissing you before you could reply. You hummed into his mouth.

“I feel good anytime I’m near you.” 

The right answer.

His smile widened, “That’s all I want.”

With a deep sigh, you unseated yourself and lied back in your spot. Your slip was sticking to your skin in various places from sweat, it was uncomfortable but you were too tired to even ask him about showering. He took off his glasses and rolled to face you so you rolled too.

Lying there and looking at each other, Alastor’s eyes adjusted to the shadows to see your face. “I feel like…women often over-act during sex. You don’t though. Or you’re a great actress.”

You nodded, “Yeah I can see that. I definitely have. Also I’m a performer, professionally.”

A nervous smile spread on his face.

“I actually really hate touching you.” You laughed. Alastor placed his hand on your shoulder and you faked a gag, “Disgusting. So strong and yet soft. The worst.” 

“Unfunny.” Alastor quoted you.

“No, I don’t do that with you.” Your hand touched at his, “Lots of other people though. I guess we feel like we have to make the guy feel like he’s doing well.” You hadn’t thought before speaking and suddenly worried you’d said something unattractive. There was a relaxation to the way you were talking with him that reminded you of being backstage at the theater.

“I have definitely been on the receiving end of that.” Alastor grimaced, “Feels like making someone a meal you don’t even like, just for them to pretend to eat it and hum loudly with every fake bite. Why push for sex and then just pretend.” Alastor mimed bringing a utensil to your mouth, “Here’s that fried catfish you love darling.”

“Lostsa reasons. And I hate catfish.”

He dropped the fake fork, “Thank God for that, catfish is disgusting.” 

Chewing on your bottom lip you just jumped into the fear, “Did it bother you, when I said ‘lots of people’ just now?”

“Why would it?”

You reached out and touched his cheek, “Just checking. Tell me about your day. If I fall asleep it’s a compliment to your voice and not an insult.”

It had been a boring day, save for his worry about you seeing his home. He rambled about work as boringly as he could until he heard the soft and deep breathing of a sleeper. And then he told you about how he cleaned, and changed the bedding, about how he swept the porch and stared into his fridge.

When he ran out of details, he rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. The sound of your breathing was a new noise for his room. It was nice. His hand slid under the sheet until it found one of yours. It didn’t take long for his mind to settle and for him to fall asleep.

And then his eyes opened and it was bright in the room. He was on his side now, facing away from you. Alastor wondered if he was asleep still, but your breath behind him was evidence enough this wasn’t a nightmare. He was awake. He’d slept through the night without a terror or stressor plaguing him for the first time in, well, he couldn’t remember.

But the torment waited for him to awaken, a tinge of embarrassment washing over him from head to toe like a chill. Had he asked you to ride him? To use him? What the fuck was wrong with him? He was mortified, pulling the pillow over his face. He hadn’t even been drunk. He sounded like some horny teenager desperate to be touched. Not at all what he had been hoping to convey.

He managed to hide it well enough, through breakfast and to the patio where he could finally put his attention fully on something else.

“This is where I bring the bodies.” Alastor walked you to greenhouse doors. “There’s no one in there now. But,” he cleared his throat, “You don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to. I’ll never have you help with this part.”

You looked at each other, his eyes taking in the places where you’d been bruised before. Bruises he could still see in his head. Your eyes staring at the blooming purples of his neck. You hadn’t seen them before, his normal collar hiding them well enough. But he wasn’t headed to work yet, so you got see him in a clean white t-shirt tucked into his usual pants. Only he could make that look like a state of undress.

You jiggled the handles, looking past the hardwater stained glass to barely visible green beyond, “If you don’t unlock this door right now I will break in.”

Alastor laughed, pulling the key he’d grabbed earlier from his pocket.

You considered making a joke about your skills with rocks but thought better of it.

When the doors opened, you were surprised to see plants.

Not because they were in there, but that it was all you saw. Alastor walked past you and to the left, “Most people naturally turn right when they enter a room. Buys me a little time just in case someone comes in.” You followed him past long and tall shelves of various potted plants and flowers.

“And most people would consider a shed more suspicious than an all glass greenhouse. Nothing nefarious about glass. The plants help obscure the sights and the hard water takes care of the view from ground level.” He pointed up and over to the house, “You can see it perfectly well from the second floor.”

“Aren’t you worried about neighbors?” He turned right to step through some plants then stopped in front of a large metal table.

“Nearest neighbors are at least several acres away on all sides, we don’t interact.” His finger slid across the clean and shining surface, “Dismember, drain, back in the car to then disappear them far away from here.”

Your short heel sank down into the dirt, a memory of Tommy at better times taking your attention away from where you placed your weight. 

“The ground soaks up the water and blood. Bugs take what I miss. And it stays pretty warm even in winter, so the ground stays soft.”

Morbid. You couldn’t pretend it wasn’t morbid as your eyes sank to the soil beneath your feet. Turning around you looked for anything out of place. You saw gardening supplies like shears, axes, hand saws, tarps. Plants everywhere, pretty flowers and small trees. It was a very full but very normal greenhouse. Approaching the table you lowered yourself  to look underneath. Empty clay pots, bags of dirt, seeds. Clean and dry. 

“It looks like a functional greenhouse.”

“Exactly.”

“No I mean— it, not a single trace of,” you searched for a good word, “impropriety.” You’d heard that shouted at you before. “Even the plants are cared for. How much time do you spend keeping this room perfect? When do you sleep?”

His head tilted, “I don’t sleep much. So, I have time. The long nights are just the ones when I have someone in here.”

“I promise my praise is coming but first — Alastor.” You stood, “Ya know you could have just slept last night. Like, a full night's sleep. We didn’t have to stay up. That’s two nights already you barely slept. On top of��years? Of this?”

A suddenly nervous energy, Alastor’s hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he looked away. Oh no, that was a first you hadn’t considered. 

Had you been too harsh? Sounded too much like nagging wife? You felt like one. 

“Sorry. It’s not my place to speak on.” You sighed and set your hands on the waist height table. His back must hurt, he was so much taller than the table, he must be bent over quite a bit when he worked. You couldn’t stop imagining him, tired and hunched.

Alastor came to stand beside you, hands mirroring yours, “No, that’s exactly it. It’s become your place, hasn’t it? But I’m still acting like I’m alone.” You bit your tongue. “Yes we should have slept. I was tired. But, you did a lot recently. For me. Selflessly.”

Ah. His fingers on his left hand intertwined with your right, eyes searching for something in the scratched grey blue of the workspace.

“I want to provide for all your needs.”

A tinge of fear again ran through him. He needed you to need him. So you wouldn’t leave. He wanted you to see how he could give you everything.

You could have screamed in the best way, somehow feeling a spark in your lap, provide for you? Why did it sound like an act of service when he said it and not a threat to your autonomy? 

“You’re already giving me so many things I need. Phone calls in the morning and kisses after work. Respect for my job and myself as a human, not just a woman. Your voice when I’m falling asleep,” you cleared your throat now, too saccharine of a speech already, “Someone to lick the blood off my face. An alibi. That kinda stuff. Ya know?”

“I’m not joking.”

The muscles in your back locked. You gripped his hand, you could feel him staring at the side of your face but didn’t want to see what expression he had. Unfortunately he knew you too well already.

“Look at me.”

Your natural reaction to being given an order was to do the opposite. But you couldn’t muster the petulance. You finally turned to look back at him.

He’d never looked so serious. Eyes brighter in the sun than you’d remembered them being bore into yours. Locked, you were frozen in his stare.

A deer in the headlights.

He wasn’t studying your face this time, he was staring into. Not through you, no, you could feel his gaze being soaked into the back of your skull.

“I’m learning. Be patient with me? And you can tell me when I’m fucking up. I want it be our places in each other’s lives.”

“Al-,” it came out a squeak, you tried again, “I’m not either. Joking, that is.” His intense look was blinked away. “I need all the little things most. I can’t get them from anyone else. I don’t want them from anyone else. The tender kisses, the hand holding, cuddling. I’m terribly happy.” A tentative kiss to his nose, “But I need you tiptop. Sleeping, eating, human things like that. Let me help you balance things. I want to provide, too.”

Arms snaked around your waist, forehead to forehead, his smile grew, small but still a welcomed sight as always, “Can I have that praise you mentioned earlier now?”

You nodded, listing all the brilliant ways he protected himself from detection. A long form good boy. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Across the parish and downtown, a nervous woman fidgeted in a worn wooden chair. She had been woken up by a loud knock at her door when she was still sleeping off her late night.

“I thought this was all done with. Did you really need to drag me down here? Not a big fan of flat foots. You understand.”

He sighed, placing his hat on the empty chair beside him. His partner would be there if his partner was aware he was even doing this. But they had already written him off as obsessed with nothing, “Of course. Just finishing up some paperwork is all, miss. So, not a single enemy? I hear he had debts.”

“Well I mean,” her high pitched voice somehow creeped up into even higher an octave with her nerves, “We all had guesses but, no, never seen him fight with anyone except a dancer here and there. Mean right hook, that guy. I’m glad he’s gone. I hope he’s dead.”

He perked up, “He hit on ya’ll?”

“Once in a blue moon. But he really let Autumn have it before he up and left. Never seen him that mad before. She was bruised up for like a week after.” She ashed her cigarette in the bowl on the table between them, “He wasn’t normally like that. Just when girls refused dates. And Autumn really wasn’t playing along, if ya know what I mean.”

Detective Brady leaned over the interrogation table, “What dates?”

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[sweetheart-haely]

For some reason there are people who seem to follow this blog because I repost things I consider useful. So now, as I lay in bed falling slowly into a mildly delusional sleep, I would like to share with you a piece of today's wisdom. Many of you will assuredly already know this. But some will not.

Some ceiling fans can be reversed. If yours can, the direction it goes should be changed depending on whether you want the room to be warmer or cooler. Its usually a little switch on the side of the casing. If your ceiling fan has not been dusted in a long time, however, reversing it may well rain dust upon your poor sweet head.

Also, if the pull chains are too short, nothing stops you from tying string to the end, or even using a pin, and tying the other end around a tiny dinosaur figure or other beloved womble.

Yank the triceratops to summon the light.