#i didn't mean to smut but i smutted

[dysco-lymonade]

"…to distract" for ankle monitor au ✨

This got dirtier than I intended.

Lexa wandered into the corner store later than usual, and it happened to be just a few minutes before Clarke was getting off work. After Clarke had declined Lexa’s invitation to the Polis U Law Department fundraiser, the blonde had been making an effort to try to get closer to Lexa. 

“I want to take you out.” Clarke had said to Lexa as she walked into Sky Mart.

“I would love that, Clarke. But you and I both know that can’t happen.” Lexa replied dejectedly. 

“You lack imagination, Lex.” Clarke raised an eyebrow. Lexa knew she was in trouble. “Just trust me. What are you doing tonight?”

“It’s midnight, I’m going home.” Lexa laughed, “There’s nowhere else to go.”

“Oh, but there is, counselor.” And there’s that wink again. “I’m about to clock out. Come with me?”

Who is Lexa to deny this girl? Even if it ends up in a run-in with the law, due to the tracker securely attached to Clarke’s ankle. 

-

And so Lexa finds herself inside of Clarke’s apartment. It’s not the first time she’s been here. But it looks vastly different. The living room is spotless, as is the kitchen. 

“I was thinking maybe I could draw you. Show you that I’m more than just a vandal.” Clarke jokes, “If that's something you’d be into?”

Lexa pauses in the living room. 

“Draw me?”

“Yes. I’ve been trying, at work, in my down-time. But I can’t seem to get your jaw right.” Clarke takes a gentle grasp of Lexa’s chin. Turning it just slightly to the left, “Your bone structure is immaculate, and when you smile, your eyes crinkle just a bit. It drives me crazy.”

Lexa feels the flush coming up her neck.

“And you’re just so beautiful when you blush.” The artist smirks, seeing the effect she has on Lexa.

“Oh- okay. Yes.” Lexa looks around the room. “Here?”

“Maybe. Let’s have a drink first. I promised to take you out.”

Lexa eye’s the blonde, confused. She watches Clarke wander over to the kitchen, hears her pouring something into glasses. She reappears with two rocks glasses half-filled with amber liquid on ice. “You strike me as a whiskey kind of girl.” 

She’s right.

Clarke wanders over to the living room stereo. She plugs her phone into the aux cord. Lexa hears a familiar riff. “Dance with me first? We are out, afterall.”

Clarke offers her hand and Lexa takes it willingly.

They sway together to the music, drinks in one hand, and their other hands holding the other’s hips. 

Clarke moves closer to Lexa, pressing their thighs together. “We’re on a dance floor, at Grounders.” Clarke says, eyes closing, Lexa closes hers too. “There are a few others out here with us, but I can only see you.” Their eyes remain closed. “I’ve been watching you all night. You were with some classmates, maybe close friends, but you haven’t looked up from your textbook. I knew I had to drag you away. I had to help you loosen up.” Lexa feels Clarke squeezing her hip, pulling her just a little bit closer.

Clarke rests her chin on Lexa’s shoulder as the song changes to something a little more upbeat. “What are you doing out here, when I know you would rather be at home?”

Lexa plays along, opening her eyes and seeing that the lights in Clarke’s living room seem to have dimmed. “I was supposed to meet someone here, but she couldn’t make it.”

“Too bad for her.” Clarke hums into Lexa’s ear. Lexa feels herself loosening up, possibly from the whiskey, more likely from Clarke’s presence.

“Good thing for you.” Lexa angles her head just a bit towards Clarke’s. The blonde takes this as her go-ahead, and takes Lexa’s lips between hers, just barely.

It can hardly be called a kiss. Lexa feels the barely there touch of Clarke’s tongue as the blonde begins to speak, “Absolutely. But I still really want to draw you.” She pulls back slightly, looking into Lexa’s eyes. “Can I? Please? You drive me crazy. I need to get you down on paper.”

Lexa feels herself melting from the inside out. She’s not used to this kind of attention. But she likes it. Oh, she likes it.

“Where do you want me?”

Clarke smirks, “Everywhere,” She murmurs against Lexa’s pulse point. “But first, in the kitchen.” The burn rages within Lexa’s stomach. “Can you just sit on a bar stool for me?” Clarke trails her hand up Lexa’s side, slowly, all the way to her neck. “I want to draw you like I imagined, reading amongst a crowd of people, in your own element. I feel like that's how we could have met, if things weren’t the way they are.” She looks down at her foot, nudging it against Lexa’s.

-

Lexa finds herself sprawled on Clarke’s couch, she’s unsure exactly how she got to this state of undress, but it’s a rush.

She lost her top somewhere in the kitchen.

Her jeans are unbuttoned, and slightly pushed down, just enough to expose the top of her underwear. She really wished she knew she’d be in this position when she left her apartment this morning. But the plain gray cotton briefs would just have to do.

She also wishes she had taken Clarke up on her offer of a second drink. Her shoulders are tense, she knows this. Clarke knows it too, if her soft smile of encouragement is any inclination.

“You don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable. Seriously.” Clarke sets her pencil down onto the sketch pad resting in her lap.

“No, no. I’m fine. I just- I guess I don’t know what to do with my hands.” She laughs awkwardly, holding her hands up in defeat.

With a light chuckle, Clarke stands up and walks- nope, definitely saunters over to Lexa on the couch.

She kneels down beside her, pulls Lexa’s hair around one shoulder, and takes both of her hands into her own.

“Just do whatever is comfortable. This can take as long, or be as quick, as you want.” The words are loaded. Clarke pulls Lexa’s hands down and rests them gently onto her own waist.

“This is comfortable.” It’s so quiet, Lexa is certain Clarke could barely hear her.

“Good girl.” It’s meant to be a subtle joke. There’s no authority behind the words. But Lexa sees Clarke’s pupils dilate as her grip tightens on the blonde’s waist. “I’ve got you.” 

Clarke leans down and takes Lexa’s top lip between her own. It’s meant to be a gentle assurance. A way to distract Lexa from feeling so vulnerable laying splayed out under Clarke’s gaze. But as Lexa takes Clarke’s bottom lip between her teeth and tugs, well, their new plans for the evening definitely don’t include a sketchbook. 

-

They kiss lazily. There’s no rush. They have all night. And they make use of it.

“Seems like you know exactly what to do with your hands.” Clarke murmurs against Lexa’s neck, where there’s sure to be a nice reminder of their night together in the morning. Lexa’s grip on Clarke’s ass softens, an apology on her lips. “S’good.” Clarke reaches back and presses Lexa’s hands back down, and proceeds to grind down harder into Lexa as she trails kisses down her collar bone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful. I can’t get enough of you.” Her kisses trail down to the swell of Lexa’s breast, just above the cup of her bra. Clarke’s hands glide up Lexa’s sides with ease, “This okay?” She glances at Lexa and if her slack jawed panting isn’t answer enough, she nods a few enthusiastic jerks of her head. Her hands continue their journey, Fingers wrapping around the sides of Lexa’s chest, and thumbs just barely slipping beneath her bra, grazing her nipples slightly. The hitch of Lexa’s breath and the quiet whimper as she pushes up into Clarke’s hands is the greenlight.

Arching her back higher off the couch, Clarke’s hands make their way around Lexa’s back. Holding eye contact, Clarke sees no sign of hesitancy, and undoes the clasp. Before she removes Lexa’s bra completely, she evens the playing field, sitting up quickly and pulling her own shirt over her head in a way that has no business being as attractive as Lexa finds it. Clarke’s bra follows as Lexa slides hers down her shoulders. 

As Clarke presses their chests together Lexa can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. “Shit, Clarke.”

“You feel incredible, Lex.” Clarke kisses her. It tastes like a promise.

“I want you.” Lexa all but begs as she lifts her hips up to press into Clarke’s, leaving no room for debate. “Please.”

“You have me.” Clarke assures, and makes her way down Lexa’s stomach, leaving a trail of wet kisses in her wake. Lexa threads her fingers through Clarke’s hair, pushing it out of her face. Clarke’s eyes are electric. It spurs Lexa on even more. “What do you like?”

“God. Anything. Everything.”

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” Clarke slides Lexa’s jeans off, dragging her panties down with them. Lexa helps her kick them off. They land in a heap on the floor as Clarke drags her lips from Lexa’s knee to her mid thigh, where her hands join in. 

Stop? Yeah, right. Lexa’s in way too deep and she feels like putty beneath Clarke.

Clarke drags one finger along Lexa’s folds, feeling and seeing the effect she’s already had on her. “All of this for me?” She shoots Lexa a cocky smirk, paired with her signature raised eyebrow as she leans down for a taste. 

Lexa both loves and hates what that does to her. She doesn’t know the last time she’s felt so wanted. She knows Clarke can feel how much it turns her on.

Clarke doesn’t ease in. She takes Lexa into her mouth with a filthy, opened mouthed kiss. Lexa can’t hear Clarke’s moan over the sound of her own, but she feels it reverberating through her whole body.

It’s all-consuming, feeling Clarke’s mouth devouring her with a skill Lexa didn’t know existed. She feels the blonde pressing her tongue just barely inside, before she feels the pressure of her fingers instead. She didn’t realize her head had been thrown back so far, until she had to readjust to look down at Clarke when she didn't feel her pressing further inside. “Yes. Fuck. Please.” She whines out, not able to take a single second more of not being filled by Clarke.

Starting with just one finger, Clarke quickly realizes Lexa needs another. She adds a second, and with one final suck to Lexa’s clit, makes her way back up to be face to face with Lexa. “You taste so good. So fucking good.” Clarke exhales heavily before allowing Lexa to taste herself on her lips. It’s dirty, and everything Lexa needs as Clarke slowly pumps her fingers. 

Lexa finds herself thanking every God she can think of that Clarke’s roommate isn’t home. She has no control over the filthy sounds coming from deep within her lungs. 

Feeling Lexa clenching around her fingers, asking for more, Clarke prepares to add another finger, pulling back from the kiss for assurance. 

“Need you. Need more.” Is about as coherent of a sentence Lexa can provide.

Clarke is not one to deny. She slowly pulls her fingers back, curling them as she goes. Before she completely removes them, Clarke adds a third finger as she pushes back in. She can feel that it’ll be Lexa’s limit. “God you’re so tight, feel so good wrapped around my fingers.” She feels Lexa’s walls pulsing at her words.

“You’re taking me so well. That’s it.” Lexa is close. She doesn’t want it to end yet. Clarke isn’t letting up though.

“Clarke. Shit. I’m close.” Her leg all but wraps around Clarke’s back. She feels like she’s going to crawl out of her own skin in the best way.

“I know. I’ve got you.” Clarke presses her thumb to Lexa’s clit, making quick work of bringing her closer to the edge. “Come, Lexa. I can feel you, you’re so close. That’s it.” Her leg tightens fully around Clarke. “Good girl.”

And with that, Lexa is a goner.

[kamaluhkhan]

IN THE CROOKS OF HER BODY, I FIND MY RELIGION.

pairing: vi x firelight!reader word count: 2.8k summary: part two of this fic ,, basically soft sex + body worship with vi and a tiny bit of angst in between ,, vi being kinda vulnerable and needy and also really hot bc of course / 18+

inspired by a sappho quote + "holy" and "pussy is god" by king princess

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this, stargirl.” 

the two of you haven’t quite made it to bed yet. as soon as you shut the door, you couldn’t resist pressing vi up against it, having already missed the feeling of her body against yours from the short walk to your room.

“if it’s as long as i’ve wanted it,” you breathe between kisses, “then i’d say we’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”

vi shudders as your lips travel down her neck, your tongue tracing her tattoo. you feel her pull at the hem of your shirt, but you’re too busy pushing the jacket off her shoulders. 

fuck, her arms made your mouth water — all toned and tattooed. something ignites in your stomach, anxious to discover what else she’s hiding underneath layers of fabric. your frenzied hands struggle to undo her belt, vi smiling sheepishly as she steps in to help. once she’s got her pants off, you pause.

you just have to admire the sight of her: hair an absolute mess, chest heaving, and standing in your room with nothing but a dirty white tank top and light gray boyshorts and — wait, what’s that tattoo? 

vi clears her throat, and you realize that you’ve probably been staring too long. 

“okay, before you say anything —”

before she can finish her sentence, you step back and take off your own shirt. vi drinks up your exposed, tattooed skin and she swallows.

“are those —”

“violets, yeah.” 

it doesn’t matter that you’d never confessed your love for each other, that you’d both spent years not knowing if the other was alive or dead, that the chances of a happily ever after together is painfully small — she’s got stars sparkling across her hips and you’ve got violets blooming between your ribs. 

you’re not a religious person, but there has to be some sacred promise in the way you each dedicated parts of your body to the other, despite it all.

vi pulls you in by the neck, crashes her lips against yours urgently. her hands squeeze into the skin underneath your breasts, so hard that it might bruise. one of your hands travels between her legs, rubbing ever so slightly over her underwear; she moans and when you apply just a bit more pressure, vi gasps against your mouth. you’re determined to keep those pretty lips of her parted and whining for you and you regret all the time wasted not being down on your knees for her, so you drop to the ground to atone for your mistake.

“i want to taste you,” you state, pressing a kiss to her thigh, then looking up at her through your lashes. “is that okay?”

as you wait for her to respond, she watches you from above, biting her lip so hard you’re worried she’ll draw blood.

“you don’t have to,” vi finally says, blinking slowly. 

“i want to. i want to take care of you.”

“it’s really fine. that’s not what i’m here for anyways.” she reaches her hand down; ignoring the flutter of disappointment, you let her intertwine her fingers with yours and pull you up, flush against her hips. “it’s my job to take care of you, yeah? it’ll be worth your while. i used to have girls begging to try my magic tongue or fingers. sometimes both, depending on their preference.”

her unbelievably cocky smile sends a jolt of electricity between your legs, and it’s very difficult not to get distracted by her hands squeezing your ass, but you try your best.

“look, uh, vi —” your breath hitches as she starts to nip at your collarbone. “as tempting as that is, i really do want to take care of you, too.”

“you don’t have to.”

“if you’re worried about me, you don’t have to be. i promise i really want to take care of—”

“i said it’s fine,” she snaps. you’re caught off guard by her reaction, and you can tell she is, too, instantly all wide eyed and regretful. vi untangles herself from you to go sit on the bed. “i-i’m sorry,” vi sighs, running a hand through her hair. 

gingerly, you take a seat next to her, careful to give her space if she needs it.

“are you okay? did i say something or —”

“it’s just – i don’t know, stargirl,” she whispers before taking a shaky breath. “when you put it like that….i don’t know. i don’t deserve to be taken care of, especially not by you. all i do is fuck up and hurt the people i care about.”

oh. 

oh. 

you get it now.

the vi you knew years ago was always willing to carry the weight of everything on her shoulders for those she cared about and refused to let anyone else help. you remember how stubborn she’d be to accept anything, even something as small as half an orange you’d offer her when you spied her eyeing your snack. when you spent your earnings one week to buy an extra orange just for her, she flipped out.

it was, honest to gods, one of your worst fights. neither of you spoke to each other for days, until you broke your arm running from an enforcer. vi was the one who found you and lugged you over to vander’s so he could set the bone. you’d later learn that vi had twisted her ankle earlier running from that same enforcer, but she risked further injury just to get you home.

you think about how, though the world has never been kind to her, these past few years at stillwater….well, vi always seems unshakeable, but you notice her new scars and bloodied knuckles and bruises that are probably more than skin deep, and you know that it couldn’t have been easy having to survive there on her own.

“you deserve to feel good, violet.”

you brush your thumb over the lip she keeps gnawing at, wiping away the blood. the way vi looks at you then, powder blue eyes a shade or two darker and slightly glazed over, prompts you to cup her face gently. she grabs your wrist and squeezes it.

“i mean it, okay?” you murmur, pulling your hand away after vi presses a soft kiss to your palm. “let me take care of you, pretty girl. it’ll be worth your while,” you tease, remembering her words from before.

vi hums, something intense flicking behind her eyes.

“okay, stargirl. you’ve convinced me.” she gently grabs your chin, brings your face as close  to hers as possible, so close that you can practically feel the heat of her smile on your lips. “only if you let me take care of you after. deal?”

you swallow thickly, and don’t even need to think for a second when you say —

“deal.” 

and she kisses you to seal it. 

soon enough, you’ve got vi pressed down on the mattress, her shirt off, your hips in between her legs. you’re taking your time — biting at her collarbones, sucking down her sternum. she’s got more tattoos, of course, and her nipples. you wrap your lips around one of them, letting the cool metal of her piercing burn through your tongue. when you pull away with a pop, she whines, and you just have to do the same to the other side. your teeth sink into her abs, your tongue traces over the stars on her hips, until you reach her navel. you trace a finger down the happy trail that disappears underneath the waistband of her panties, which, you can’t help but notice, now have a darker patch in the middle. you finally pull her underwear down her legs, exposing her to you in all her glory.

“hurry up,” vi whimpers when you busy yourself kissing the inside of her thighs, rather than where you know she wants you most.

“you always were impatient,” you chide. “i’ve barely touched you, and it seems like you’re already about to cum.”

you spit on her already glistening pussy before looking back up at her expectantly, eager to make her beg even more. vi’s blushing, a rare but beautiful sight.

she clears her throat, cheeks dusted red. 

“please, we don’t have all the time in the worl—”

vi’s cut off by you running your tongue through her folds. you just love how her thighs instinctively squeeze around your head — your lungs, not quite attuned to your desires, unfortunately require more than what’s between vi’s legs to keep going, so you have to pull them apart. you make up for it, though, and you gather some of her slick to sink two fingers into her heat.

“fuck. fuck,” vi moans. she tangles her hands in your hair, fingers tightening at the roots when you suck her clit harshly. “fuck, you’re so good to me. fuck.”

you hum against her cunt, and work in a third finger, reaching that spot deep inside her that has her crying out in pleasure. you add in your tongue, and vi locks her ankles behind your head to bring you impossibly closer. this time, you stay there until she reaches you feel her tighten around you. you don’t stop, and fuck her through another orgasm that has her body writhing and your lungs burning.

you just don’t want to leave, the velvet softness and saltiness of her more intoxicating than any drink you’ve ever had. but, vi’s tugging impatiently at your hair and whining —

“oh, god, please come up here.”

— so you kiss her cunt goodbye, just for now, and you journey back up her body. your lips, coated in vi’s own release, stick to her skin as you go. when you’re eye to eye with her once more, you kiss her, allow her to taste herself on your tongue. you pull away to quip: 

“that’s not my name, sweetheart, but i’m flattered.”

vi smiles, her lips shining with your saliva and her cum. it makes you want to dive back in for more, but she beats you to it.

“my goddess,” she mumbles against your lips, moving to bite underneath your jaw, down your neck. her nails scrape against your stomach and she teases the waistband of your pants. “get rid of these — it’s time for me to take care of you.”

and how could you say no to that? 

as you get up to remove the rest of your clothes, vi sits up, watching you with her bottom lip caught between her teeth. 

yeah, she’s impatient, reaching for you as soon as you're done and positioning your thighs on either side of her hips. you hiss when your bare cunt rubs up against her abdomen, and vi’s eyes are now the darkest you’ve ever seen them, pupils blown wide. 

“huh. you like that, gorgeous?” she taunts, kissing between your breasts.

and now she’s got you all whiny and desperate. you love how rough her bandaged hands feel as they grip your hips, guiding your movements, and how hot her mouth is against your skin as her teeth, tongue, and lips explore every inch of your body. she lingers on your tattoo, sucking harsh bruises among delicate flowers. her hands roam from your hips to your inner thighs, spreading you open while pressing you down. you’re completely blissed out as your pussy squelches against her strong, defined muscles. you love how her body reacts to your pleasure as if it’s her own — her abs clench between your legs and her heart beating fast against your chest. 

“that’s it,” vi groans, encouraging you. “how’d i get so lucky, huh? to have such a pretty girl make a mess all over me?”

it’s very hard to formulate a thought, and all you can do is breathe out vi’s name like a prayer. 

she thrusts up one more time and presses her mouth onto yours, swallowing your moans and guiding you harder, faster. 

after your orgasm crashes over you, vi rolls over so that she’s on top of you. she rests her forehead against yours, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. 

“you think you can handle one more?” 

you nod desperately, smiling up at her. vi’s body is firmly against yours, her stomach wet and sticky with you. 

“i thought so,” vi chuckles. she kisses down your cheek, along your jaw, to behind your ear where your star-shaped birthmark greets her. “what’ll it be, stargirl? tongue, fingers, both?”

you shiver. if you had more time, more energy, you’d beg for her it all, but for now you answer:

“just your fingers, please.” you brush your thumb over the tattoo on her cheek, looking into those eyes of hers that you’d like to imagine only soften this way for you. “i want – need – to see your beautiful face while you fuck me.”

and again, vi blushes. she kisses you, hard, before shoving her fingers into your cunt.

her fingers really do feel like magic, like bliss, long and thick, and curving into you perfectly. her thumb rubs tight circles into your clit, her bandaged palm scratching deliciously against your folds. vi’s strong and fast and she’s pretty much fucking her tongue down your throat. 

you feel so wonderfully full and you’re already so sensitive that the elastic in your stomach tightens and tightens and just snaps. you throw your head back, jaw falling slack as overwhelming pleasure rushes through you. you dig your nails into her shoulders to ground yourself, and she hisses into your mouth when you scrape them down her back. 

“fuck, you’re so hot.” vi practically growls, biting your bottom lip. “can’t get over you — like a goddamn vice. be a good girl for me and give me one more, yeah? please.” 

and how can you say no to that — vi on top and deep inside of you, eyes dark and sinful and waiting for your command, eager to have her way with your body because she just can’t get enough? 

you whimper when vi finally removes her fingers from your cunt and sucks them into her mouth.

“better than i imagined,” she grins and actually winks at you. then, she shoves her fingers down your throat as if she knew how empty you felt, and you greedily lap up whatever mess was left.

then, vi takes away her fingers and places the sweetest, softest kiss on your lips before adjusting to lay down on her side. 

“i…i wasn’t too rough, was i?” she whispers, idly tracing fingers on your damp skin. 

you shake your head, smiling. her body is something divine — littered with familiar and unknown scars, muscles strong from carrying the weight of the world. but there’s also proof of the soft curve of your mouth against her skin, the harsh indents of your nails. there’s a desire deep within you hoping those never fades, like that dull, delicious ache between your legs that she left behind. 

the remnants of everything you’ve tasted of hers tonight linger on your tongue as you promise:

“no. you were��.are amazing.”

vi nestles into the curve between your neck and shoulder. her teeth graze your pulsepoint as you run your hand through her hair.

you’re both exhausted and sweaty and sticky, but, by god, if you didn’t just find heaven. 

and though you’re deeply satisfied, you’re hungry, too, so you get up to find what you had taken from the kitchen earlier. vi sits up and watches eagerly as you peel the fruit, the smell of citrus dancing between you. you break it in half, watch her hesitate before accepting and devouring it. you’re in comfortable silence while eating. some juice drips down her chin, and you reach over to brush it away with your thumb. vi lets you push your thumb into her mouth to lick it up and you’re biting your lip before she crashes her mouth against yours once more. your hands are sticky as you cup her cheeks, and her lips are sticky against yours, but you don’t care. you think this is the sweetest orange you’ve ever tasted. 

you look out the window. the sky has gone from black to a deep purple, the stars now starting to fade.

in a few hours, vi is heading topside and you’re staying down here to keep the fort down while ekko’s gone with her to the council. best case scenario, you see each other again, continue whatever has simmered between you over the years and boiled over tonight.

worst case scenario….

it doesn’t matter. 

for now:

vi rests her hand on your ribcage while you notch a leg over her hip. 

“g’night, stargirl.” 

you nudge your nose against hers.

“sweet dreams, vi.”

vi kisses your forehead.

“i’ve got you to thank for those.”

you melt against each other and drift off into the best sleep you’ve both had in a while.

[moonlight-prose]

I just wanna sit in Logan’s lap and admire his claws and watch him blush 😩

okay but picture this with worst!logan: the concept of body worship is not lost on a one logan howlett. he is the man who will lick and bite and tease each patch of skin to prove his love can emanate beyond mere words. he is the man who will caress the small of your back in public but sink his teeth into the stretch marks across your hips in private. body worship to him is an every time you are together deal. it's a way of life for him.

until that fateful night. you find yourself perched in his lap on the couch, wade is gone, althea has bingo, and the apartment is yours. alone as a movie aimlessly drones on in the background. your kissing him and it's messy and logan can feel his body scream to pin you down against cushions he slept on mere hours ago.

the taste of you is heady on his tongue. a direct shot of adrenaline that kept made him long to pound into you until the legs on the shitty piece of furniture broke. until your screams were heard by the annoying neighbors next door. he's aching and desperate and you're not making his internal war any easier.

his claws are out long before you start grinding against his lap - your fingers tugging at his hair, mouth moving along his throat. he fights to reign them in. the terror of harming you clawing at his chest. but then you pull back. you reach for his hand with a sparkle in your eye, and press a kiss to the cold metal.

your tongue slides along the dull edge, hips shifting to sit directly on his already pulsing cock, and logan feels his sanity snap. the moment you suck on the tip with a soft mewl he cums loud. he's harsh when his hips jolt up into yours - his hand ripping free from your grip to plunge silver into leather. a way for him to steady his movements as he practically humps you.

it's a type of body worship he's never experienced before. admiration for what's made him so cruel - love for the one part of him he loathes. he goes to scold you. explain how fucking wrong that could have gone. but stops dead at the sight of your smile, eyes glazed and chest heaving.

he knows his face is red; crimson bleeding down onto the skin of his chest. he knows he's never blushed this hard before. and yet when you press a kiss to his cheek, softly murmuring how much you wanted to do that again, how he looked beautiful cumming in his jeans, he feels the weight on his chest begin to lift.

[changbunnies]

Revelation (18+)

♡ Pairing: Vampire Priest!Jeongin x Fem!Reader

♡ Genre: very loosely inspired by midnight mass (tv), horror themes, vampire / human relationship, smut, possibly dead dove? read the warnings carefully and come to ur own conclusion on what you're willing to read before engaging pls :')

♡ Word Count: 4k

♡ Summary: The suspiciously young and extremely handsome priest of your small-town church has a very big secret– and it's not until he's sinking his fangs into your neck that you discover what exactly that secret is.

♡ General Warnings: usage of typical vampire abilities (increased senses, strength, etc), descriptions of blood, religious themes (specifically catholicism focused), references to religious guilt + shame, reader does not trust jeongin at all (for good reason lol), very blatant manipulation, cult vibes? jeongin basically has the whole town under his thumb so. do with that what you will lol

♡ Smut Warnings: dubcon, vampire venom that acts as an aphrodisiac, sexual acts inside a church (specifically in a confessional booth), some gendered language (dirty + good girl), dom/sub dynamics, dom!jeongin, biting + blood drinking, thigh riding, fingering (f rec), a lil bit of praise kink, corruption kink?

♡ Notes: this is possibly niche but well. the vampire priest concept lives rent free in my head thanks to midnight mass, and innie said he wanted to be a priest + he'd definitely be a sexy vampire so here we are lmao. and sorry i'm suddenly posting out of age order for my late kinktober fics but i ended up finishing this before the other members i still have left :')

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

There's something that isn't right about your local church's head priest. Firstly, his age doesn't make sense; who on God's green earth becomes a priest in their 20s?

At least, you assume that's around how old Father Yang, who notably prefers to be called Jeongin, is– you've never been told, and you've never asked, but he certainly doesn't look any older than that.

Secondly, why are his sermons always at night? In all the towns you've ever lived in, in all the churches you've ever frequented, this is the first time you've ever experienced your standard, weekly Sunday service routinely happening at 9 p.m.

And thirdly, why is it that everyone who meets with him for confession comes back looking delirious and.. euphoric, almost? You don't get it– sure, confessing your sins is freeing; asking for and receiving God's forgiveness is among the best feelings that can be experienced if you're a devout believer, but still.

Something about all of it just doesn't sit right with you– and to make matters worse, you seem to be the only person in town suspicious of him. You're new to town, have only been here a handful of months, so you get it– you're the outsider, you don't know him like they do, et cetera, et cetera.

But how can not a single other person in town be bothered by how strange it all is? There has to be an explanation– you don't know what it is, and you don't know why you're the only one who seems to care, but there must be a reason.

It's Sunday again, and you spend the entire sermon watching Jeongin like a hawk, trying to catch any sign as to what it is about him that has all these people so enraptured. And while it's not necessarily wrong for him to be, another thing that strikes you is that he's easily the most casually dressed yet stylish priest you've ever met.

He wears the standard clergy vest and rabat, as he should, but over it is a leather jacket, and he wears denim blue jeans instead of dress pants. His shoes are sleek and polished, he has pretty, ornate rings decorating his fingers, has expertly styled slicked hair and silver earrings dangling from his pierced ears.

Again, it's not necessarily wrong, but it's definitely something you wouldn't think a priest's Sunday best would entail. And maybe that's only because the priests in your life have only ever been old, and didn't put much thought into style, but maybe that's what people like about him?

Maybe it makes him seem more down to earth and approachable; maybe it's easier to confess your sins when, outstanding devotion to God aside, he seems like as ordinary a person as any other. Of course, that's logically always the case, but some priests have an intimidating "holier-than-thou" attitude about them, and it certainly helps Jeongin's case that he seemingly makes an effort to not give off that vibe.

And admittedly, he's charming– there's something so uniquely handsome about the way he smiles while preaching God's word, how his eyes twinkle while he recites a scripture and relates it back to a point he made several minutes prior; you can't deny that it's enthralling.

But when he looks over the attendees lined in the pews, it always feels like he's looking straight through you, seeing to the depths of your soul and laying it bare. It gives you chills, honestly; makes you feel exposed in a way that's indescribable; like with a glance alone, he knows all your secrets, your every sin, down to their most minute details.

It's near midnight when his sermon ends; you stay seated in the backmost pew to the left, brows furrowed as everyone shakes his hand or hugs him, thanking him for another "terrific service." It's so bizarre– and it's not until the last of the congregation exits the small, wooden church that you begin to rise from your seat.

Though you're sure the church carries electricity and that the lights can be flicked on, the priest never does so– he always uses candles, casting a warm yellow glow on the dingy, white wood of the walls. It casts more shadows, gives the place an almost unsettling air– and when he turns to you, just as he's closing the Bible in his hand and setting it down, it sends a shiver through you.

"You're still here," Jeongin smiles at you from where he stands before the altar, centralized at the head of the church. It's a kind enough one, but you don't trust it; you can't shake the feeling that something lies beneath it– something abberant and dark that you can't place, but are certain is there.

"Do you wish to confess?" he asks, motions to the confessional booth with his hand as he tilts his head. "No," you answer, perhaps too quickly– and his smile grows ever so slightly, as if he's amused. At least, that's how you perceive his expression; and it makes you narrow your eyes at him, the distrust that radiates off you certainly palpable.

Your opinion of him is no secret, really; and he can tell you're scrutinizing him, trying to catch him in whatever act you think he's playing– it won't work, but it does humor him that you're trying. He doesn't know what sort of wild conclusions you've come to about him, but if you see anything, it'll be because he himself wanted you to see it– until then, you won't learn a single thing about who he truly is.

"Is there a reason you're still here then?" Jeongin questions next, and you swallow, hesitant to answer. Admittedly, you only stuck around in case someone did decide to go confess to him– you intended to eavesdrop, to try to listen in and find out what's really going on behind closed curtains.

It would've been massively immoral, but you would've confessed and asked for forgiveness later– privately, that is. You have no intention of seeking the Father's help in such matters, given how little trust you have towards him.

But still, despite the fact that you were willing to sneak around and listen to private conversations, you aren't entirely willing to lie in the house of God– so after some internal grappling with yourself on what you should and shouldn't do in this position, on what is right and wrong, you end up admitting the truth.

"I don't trust you," you tell Jeongin plainly, and you can swear you see him trying to suppress a smirk.

"I'm aware," he says, so matter of fact that it almost sends you reeling. And it's not that you were so disillusioned into thinking you weren't being obvious; you know very well that you weren't being the most covert in your suspicion of him– it's how unbothered and amused by it he seems to be that really gets you.

Shouldn't he be offended? Question your reasoning? Try immediately to dispel your doubts and clear up any misconceptions you may have? Instead, he seems more than ready to just accept it for what it is– even seems entertained by it.

"Does it not bother you that I don't trust you?" you ask, and he almost laughs as he shakes his head. "No. There's no reason for it to," he answers simply; and before you can ask why, or what he means, he's already answering– you suspect he could already tell you were going to press him on the matter.

"God teaches us to love one another. So even if you do not love me, or trust me, I love you, just as God instructs me to," Jeongin smiles as he speaks, and again, your brows furrow. It's a perfect answer, really– but it feels.. inorganic, almost rehearsed.

And the glimmer in his eye throws you off; it doesn't feel like the pure, honest delight you'd see on a priest putting God's word into practice. It feels mischievous, deceitful– like he doesn't believe an ounce of what he's saying, but he wants you to believe that he does.

"I know what you're thinking," he says, and you swallow, stiffening where you stand as he continues, "And if you really want to know what goes on during confession, want to see for yourself what it is I do to help the people who look to me, I can show you."

If you're being entirely honest, the offer is tempting; and strangely, it also makes you feel.. bad, almost– makes you second guess yourself. Because if he's freely offering like this, surely it can't be whatever you've been making it out to be in your head.

There's no way he'd out himself, and whatever it is he does, just to gain the trust of one person out of hundreds who doesn't believe his pure intentions. And maybe the other townsfolk really do trust him for good reason; maybe you've just been examining the situation and looking at Jeongin and the church in the wrong light.

Maybe you've been blowing everything out of proportion with obscene assumptions, and maybe he really is just a good priest. Maybe he makes you feel so seen, heard, and whole, that all your worldly problems melt away, feel trivial and light in comparison to God's plan for you.

Because after all, you are the outlier here. You're the only one in the whole town that doesn't trust him; and surely that means you're the one in the wrong. Jeongin does things differently than you're used to, but that doesn't mean he's inherently bad. And maybe you should confess– ask God to forgive you for not being receptive to the word of one of His servants.

Jeongin smiles when you concede and start to slowly step your way to the confessional. You pull back the curtain, step inside and prepare to sit in the small, wooden booth seat, but you quickly realize he's followed you inside. You gasp as you turn around, back pressing against the intricately carved hardwood window of the booth as he closes you in.

"Sh-Shouldn't you be on the other side?" you ask, much too meek for your liking. It's a cramped fit given that the booth is only meant to fit a single person on either side at a time; it makes you unconsciously hold your breath as you're effectively caged inside the booth with him– nowhere to go, and nothing you can do but stare at him, bewildered.

"No," he answers as quick and simple as before, his smile once again growing ever so slightly. And maybe you could push him, try to dart past him if you manage to successfully make him topple back, but you feel frozen– because even in the dark, barely lit confessional you're in, you're certain that you see his dull canines become long, pearly white fangs.

"Don't worry, it will only hurt for a second," he assures you as he brings his hands to your arms, gripping them just below your shoulder as he leans towards you. You shudder, his breath fanning your ear as he inches towards your neck, "but after that– it's bliss."

You feel the sharp points of his teeth poke at your skin, and it makes you gasp as your head tilts to the side, making room for him to sink his fangs into your flesh. Instinctively, your hands search for something to grab; you end up reaching for his shoulders, twisting your hands in his leather jacket to ground yourself as his sharp teeth pierce into your neck.

Your legs wobble, and he forces one of his own between your thighs, uses it to keep you upright as he drinks from you. And there is pain, but it really is only for a second, just like he said it’d be– within seconds it melts away, and oh, you instantly understand.

It’s much, much more than bliss– it’s ecstasy, it’s rhapsody, it’s the greatest pleasure you’ve ever felt. Spreading from your neck to every last nerve ending in your body, every atom of your body becomes alight with euphoria as his bite sends tingles throughout you, raising goosebumps along your skin.

You cry out, an embarrassingly loud sound that you barely recognize as your own voice as one of your hands finds its way to his head. Your fingers thread into his hair, hold him to your neck as if you don't want him to ever separate from you– and to be fair, maybe you don't.

It feels so good, so exhilarating, intoxicating, that you almost don't want the sensation to ever end. Jeongin meanwhile lets out delighted hums, eventually slowly retracting his fangs to latch his lips around the sensitive, bruising skin, his tongue lapping away at the blood that pours from the two little marks left behind.

The beating of your heart quickens, breaths quickly growing labored as the inexplicable want continues to seep into your veins. Your thighs tremble as tension builds deep in your gut, and they try to press together to seek relief, but Jeongin's leg stays firmly nestled between yours, preventing it.

And were you not so utterly blissed out, maybe the incessant, desperate throbbing of your pussy would make you feel ashamed– but all you can think about is the deep seated desire overtaking every receptor, every tiny cell, every molecule within you, as if the very chemistry that makes up your being has been altered for Jeongin alone.

Unable to resist, you rut against his thigh, entirely shameless and feverish– because it's all you have access to, all you can do to relieve the growing ache between your legs. It’s sinful, your growing lust is– and the last place you should ever be doing this is inside of a church; but you’re too far gone to care, too gripped by the need for stimulation.

Jeongin lets go of your arms, reaches between your bodies to hike up your church gown, giving you easier access to his lean, muscular thigh. He’s gracious, tugs your soaked panties to the side so your clit can catch on the denim of his jeans– and the delicious friction makes you moan for him, loud and sweet. 

He pulls away from your neck to watch your desperate humping, eyes gleaming with mischievous satisfaction as he watches you pleasure yourself on his thigh. His eyes are perfectly adapted to seeing in the low light, and so he can easily see every little detail of you– from the mess your pussy leaves behind on his jeans, to the sweat beginning to drip down your temple, to the trembling of your bottom lip before you tuck it between your teeth. 

And when he smiles at you now, it’s like the fox that got the rabbit; even in the extremely dim candle light you can see the way your blood coats his lips, messily dripping from the corners of his mouth and down his chin. His dark eyes are gleaming– because he has you ensnared, and you both know there’s no going back. 

You untangle your fingers from his hair, and you watch as he reaches for your falling hand, grabbing your wrist and bringing it to his mouth. He holds your gaze as he kisses over the pulsing vein, and it makes your breath hitch, the blood on his mouth smearing over the surface of your skin, staining it crimson. 

“Should I bite you here too?” he asks, placing another kiss over your vein before he shoots you a grin full of fang, “you’re so delicious– I want to taste you even more.” You gasp and squirm as Jeongin presses the tips of his bared fangs against your skin– not quite biting just yet, but it’s enough to spread another wave of tingles over your body. 

“Yes, bite me, please!” you cry, voice almost frantic in its urgency– and you can see the corners of Jeongin’s lips twisting into a devious smile before he’s obliging, burying his fangs deep into your wrist within an instant. You wince, your fingers clenching as he squeezes your wrist in his hand, keeping it tightly pressed to his mouth. 

And just as before, within seconds the sharp sting dulls and ebbs into incomparable pleasure, goosebumps spreading over every inch of your heated skin. Faintly, you can see your blood dribble past his lips, slowly flowing down the length of your forearm before it drips to the floor of the booth. 

You can just barely see his tongue licking over his bite, doing his best to collect all the blood that spills from you, and it's mesmerizing– especially when he brings his fingers to your arm to swipe up what his tongue misses. Your stomach flutters as you watch him separate from your wrist and bring his bloodied fingers to his mouth; they're so long, so pretty and enticing– you want them.

Jeongin can see it in your eyes– how brazenly you stare at his fingers, how your eyes follow every move he makes with them. You're still panting, sweating, chest heaving from the exertion, but the rutting of your hips has faltered; and he grins as he gazes at you. You're once again left with the feeling that he sees through you– that all it takes is a glance for him to know everything you're thinking.

"You want them? Want me to stuff your cunt full with my fingers? Make you cum all over them?" he asks, entirely rhetorical; he already knows the answer. And he likes the way you writhe over the question, how you gasp over the sinful words he so freely spills in such a sacred place, your ears positively burning.

Even if your face didn't obviously show your desires, you don't think you'd be able to deny them; you've never wanted anything as badly as you want this, want him. It should make your gut twist with shame, because deep down you know this is wrong, know that you shouldn't want him to touch you as badly as you do– but the craving for Jeongin to bring you pleasure is almost primal, so deep and innate that your rational mind can't even hope to fight against it.

Slowly, almost playfully, he trails his fingertips over your thigh, and the anticipation is enough to make you unconsciously hold your breath. "You're so fucking messy," Jeongin says as he brushes his fingers over your soaking, sensitive clit, "so wet– you're a dirty girl, huh?"

You want to whine, want to shake your head and vehemently deny that you're dirty, attest to being a good, honest, and God fearing– but you're so overcome with your desire for him to touch you, that you don't. Instead you agree, concede that you are dirty, and messy, and that you want him more explicitly than you feel your own words could ever attest.

How easily you agree to being dirty seems to please him– and with a light chuckle, he slips his hand further down while carefully removing his leg from between your thighs. You wobble a bit when the support of his leg is gone, but he's quick to wrap an arm around you to hold you, effortlessly keeping you upright with the strength innate to who, or rather what, he is.

The cool, silver band that he wears on his pinky makes you jolt when it touches your feverishly hot thigh, and he chuckles again as he spreads your folds with his fingers. You're dripping for him, so slick with arousal that it hardly takes any effort at all for Jeongin's fingers to become coated with your juices.

You rock your hips against his hand, wordlessly begging him to give you what it is you crave most. "Oh look at you, so impatient, so desperate," he laughs as he presses the pads of his fingers to your hole, delighting in the way you look at him with glassy eyes and pinched brows.

It's obscene how badly you want him; you've never felt this needy, never been rendered so desperate for stimulation– and you're in a confessional of all places. This is the very last place on earth you should feel this way, or be doing something like this, and yet the shame you should feel is far from your mind– because all you can think about is your need for his beautiful fingers to fill you up and dull the throbbing ache between your legs.

Jeongin coos when you start to beg for his fingers, a rambling string of "please," and "want it, want you," and "need it so bad." You can tell how much satisfaction it gives him, and if your mind weren't so hazy from desire you'd certainly feel embarrassment build and twist from deep in your gut– but any such feelings are silenced by your body's need for his touch, by your craving for the sensations that only he can grant you.

It takes your breath away when he easily sinks two fingers inside you, thrusting them in and out slowly until he curls and bends them to find the spot that makes you see stars. "That's it, there you go," he grins when he finds it. He watches your eyes roll back, your hands clutching at his jacket as he continues to press the tips of his fingers into your most sensitive spot.

He returns to your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin and nipping it with sharp teeth before he kisses and licks over the bruises he leaves behind. He applies pressure to your swollen clit with his thumb while relentlessly targeting your spot, an easy task for him thanks to the length of his fingers, and his hold on you tightens when the shaking in your legs grows more intense.

You're so, so close, and Jeongin can tell too– not just from how your pussy pulses and squeezes around his fingers, but because he can hear the loud, erratic thumping of your heart, as well as the rush of blood pulsing in your veins. "C'mon, let go– cum, you can do it, cum for me," he urges, speaking softly against the shell of your ear while swirling his thumb over your clit.

"There you go, good girl, just like that," he praises as you string out a loud succession of whimpers, your thighs closing tight around his hand as your high finally takes you. Your world feels like it’s spinning, your heartbeat ringing in your ears as you ride out your high, your release gushing messily around his fingers.

His hand stays in place until your thighs untense, and he’s careful as he slips his fingers out of you, though you can’t help but shiver and whine from the sensitivity regardless. You're unsteady on your feet following your orgasm, but Jeongin makes sure you don't fall over; he keeps his grip on your firm, carefully helps you turn away from where you were pressed against the carved window to sit in the booth's only seat.

He wipes the sweat from your forehead after you sit, leans down to fix and smooth over the skirt of your church gown as you try your best to collect your breath and calm your racing heart. He's reverted back to his kindly priest persona it seems– you can tell by the warm smile he offers when you look at him, his sharp fangs fully retracted.

Still, bits of your blood remain smeared over his lips– clear evidence that he isn't the saintly man he portrays himself to be. You watch breathlessly as Jeongin licks the last of it from his lips before he pulls back the curtain of the confessional booth.

He offers you his hand after it seems like you've recovered enough to stand again; your own hand trembles as you accept it, and with his assistance, you rise carefully from your seat.

You're a bit dizzy when you stand, equal parts consequence of blood loss and the euphoria still lingering and tingling in your veins, but you're otherwise steady; and he smiles as he squeezes your hand in his, the other coming to rest on the small of your back as you take your first step out of the booth.

"Come back to confession again sometime," Jeongin says with his characteristically deceitful, charming smile, knowing full well that you will. Humans always find the sensation of his venom irresistible, always become addicted to it once they've felt it– and you'll be no different. "I'll be waiting for you."

[lovelucilfer]

"Would you look at that..." Soshiro snickers from above, his tongue darting from between his lips to wet them as he gazes down at you, his pupils blown wide, "You're a natural, aren't ya?"

You whimper at his praise, humiliating as it is, and he feels the muffled sound of it send a vibration up the length of his cock that's deep in your throat. His hand cups the side of your neck, thumb stroking along the column of sensitive skin as you sputter and drool with your lips wrapped around him. While the other gently cradles the back of your head as Soshiro stuffs himself further into your mouth — the very thing that had landed you here on your knees in the first place.

"Imagine what your fellow officers would think if they could see you right now, huh?" he rasps, his breathing slightly ragged, "Taking me like such a good girl after all that talkin' back..."

A low hum of approval follows the teasing emphasis of his words, causing your cheeks to blaze with embarrassment at how much you like it. There's mirth in Soshiro's eyes. But the way that he grins at you, so unabashedly, as he watches you flush only makes even more heat pervade throughout your body. Though this time it comes in the form of arousal pooling hotly between your thighs as he continues to thrust forward lazily. You try to squeeze them together discreetly, a feeble attempt to suppress the growing need with even a little bit of friction, but he's too perceptive. He catches the movement immediately.

"You love this, don't ya? Letting your vice-captain use your pretty mouth like this?" Soshiro provokes, smiling wickedly as he pants, his fingers curling into your hair with a soft tug to tilt your head to force your gaze on him, "Say it."

You nearly choke in response to his compliment, spit bubbling out and dripping down his shaft and your chin as his question leaves your aching pussy clenching around nothing. Soshiro chuckles breathily at the sight, amusement sparking in his eyes. Needing air, your inhale causes you to slurp lewdly before he's pulling his hips back with a hiss and a hand gripped firmly at the base of his length. He taps the sticky tip of his cock against your tongue, smearing the mess of your saliva and his precum along your bottom lip, his chest heaving with shallow breaths as he waits expectantly.

"S-Sir... Soshiro—" you gasp softly, quick to correct yourself as you blink up at him, hoping for some respite as you nod imperceptibly, "You know I do..." comes your flustered admission after a pause, shame mixing with the desire that simmers white-hot in your gut.

Soshiro grins, satisfied by your compliance and the way that your cheeks redden under his attention. He gives his cock a few languid pumps with his fist, his grip tightening slightly in your hair before guiding it back into your mouth. Your eyes well up as he works it in again, a needy whine escaping your throat as he pushes until the head nudges against the back of it, making him groan in pleasure as the wet heat envelopes him once more. But Soshiro only takes delight in it.

"Oh, don't cry, sweetheart," he taunts with a click of his tongue, smirking as he uses his thumb to brush a stray tear from rolling down your cheek, "This is nothin'. Much better than a couple hundred push-ups, don't ya think?"

[sumnthingabouther]

⋆·˚ ༘ * boss! Abby x subordinate! fem! reader

nsfw towards the end

cw: slightly obsessive abby, implied inappropriate activity in a workplace. men and minors dni

Now you didn’t know this but Abby always had eyes for you, ever since you first joined the company a year and some months ago. initially you weren’t under her division, having been under someone else in the finance department. Meaning she had to watch you from afar. But god did she love it when she caught you in the morning. Your slightly tired face while you held your leather binder tightly in your arms. The way you shuffled to the elevator in your almost barely work appropriate skirts. One time you had made the mistake of bending over in front of her. Accidently bumping into her in the early morn as you were making your way to your cubicle, causing all your papers to scatter across the ground. Apologies fell from your mouth profusely while work to get your fallen papers off the ground.

“Its all good, here let me help you with that.” The offer came from a genuine place, however when she saw you bent over in that extremely short skirt, a flip in her switched. After helping you she watched you scurry away, a smirk plastered across her face. God how she wished she could get a view like that again.

She spent months remembering your schedule, what time you got to work. what time you got lunch. what time you clocked out. Everything…. in a non creepy way of course she just wanted to see more of you. As time went on she began to grow antsy , simply knowing your schedule wasn’t enough for her anymore she wanted to keep a close eye on you. Eventually, she had some strings pulled getting you to transfer under her. It was better this way, she needed to keep an eye on you.

You never knew why you got transferred over to her so suddenly, but the position you were offered was much higher than your previous one and the pay was so much better. You took it with no second thought. Plus you were already well acquainted with Anderson, working under her would be a breeze. Or so you thought.

You began to notice how she would hover over you, initially you thought it was her making sure you were adjusting properly. “Just making sure you’re doing okay, don’t be afraid to step by my office if you need anything.” Then came the passive aggressive attitude towards your coworkers that got a little to got to close to you. Noticing how she scowled and folded her arms that flexed under her dress shirt when they walked away. “She can handle that just fine, if she needed your help she would’ve asked.”

Then came the day you dreaded, getting called into her office out of nowhere. your anxiety skyrocketed as you made your way down the hallway, heels clacking against the cold ceramic floor. Your hand hovered over the door knob of her office door, taking a breath before opening it. Abby welcomed you in, the tone of her voice was surprisingly soft which made you relax a bit, and to your surprise she spoke highly of you.

“As much as i love praising you, lets cut to the chase.” her tone immediately dark. fuck here it comes, you were so getting fired. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” Wait huh? Abby shot up from her desk, she was circling you now with a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“E..excuse me? Ms. Anderson-” “Abby is fine,” she interrupted. “—and you heard me clearly, you’re a smart girl aren’t you? You can put two and two together.” She was taunting you now, and as much as you tried to hide it, it turned you on so bad.

“Now do me a favor doll, and lock my door for me.”

[nenoname]

stan twins the canon cptsd brothers i will always think about all your unaddressed issues that would make perfect plot fuel for your spinoff

and also the whole 'stan getting that poem by bill via a website which contrasts with bill getting one from the axolotl via a website' foreshadowing thing

like idk i would love something like su future but like more optimistic, aka not an accumulated breakdown that has to be mostly resolved off screen at the end :/// but something thats being kinda addressed throughout? (although would love to see one of them turn into a monster thats always fun lol)

stan having severe issues from his dad and those years of being homeless that we keep on getting more info on but never really getting confronted on (the drifter catalogue and tijuana incident...), him being completely alone for like twenty years when running the shack before soos comes along to the point that 1998 is noted as his low point, and him not really learning about bill+what he did to ford until ages after he killed him if he ever did get the full context

while i think amnesia and everyone seeing him as a hero actually helped with stan's 'i'm a worse version of my brother' thing its still a lingering issue too and we now got him being insecure over his own hands

ford being immediately thrown from 'being tortured by bill' to 'being stuck in the multiverse and being chased by bounty hunters constantly', him fully expecting himself to die when destroying bill, and him only now being safe for the first time in 30 years ....relatively safe, he's still in constant danger because of course he is

idk in the end the series wants them to be happy and they deserve it, its why i wasn't too worried about the book being like 'ooh bill is back!! and the book is haunting ford' thing cos i knew they'll be ok

[dinsbeskar]

To Have and To Hold; To Corrupt and Defile (Sauron/F!Reader)

After you discover his identity, Sauron's master throws a wrench into your happily ever after; or:

You're living in Gondolin before it falls; Sauron currently has you fooled, but his plans are falling apart, and the end of the First Age draws closer.

Sequel to The Number of the Beast // AO3 Link

Soundtrack: Never Let Me Go by Florence + the Machine, Don't Let Me Go by RAIGN, Say You’ll Haunt Me by Stone Sour

Warnings: Angst! Plot heavy, no smut this time!! I know, who am I??

A/N: so we've messed around with the timelines a little, I've alluded to some of the major events of the War of the Jewels, especially Lúthien's victory over Morgoth, and Eärendil's subsequent taking of the recovered Silmaril to the Valar. There is so much to cover, frankly too much, so I'm keeping the references to my favourite stories; a lot of it frankly isn't relevant to our Reader. If Amazon can mess with the timeline, so can I 😂

Word Count: 3.4k!

When you'd returned to your tiny village, eons ago, hand in hand with your new husband, the resulting impromptu celebrations had gone on all day and night. No-one thought to question the sudden appearance of this beautiful stranger, as your kin were so overjoyed for your new love, and still as yet so innocent to the evils of the world.

The subsequent years of being without him so often were only eased by their rallying around you, keeping you occupied to stave off your loneliness. It didn't ease the yearning late at night when all were abed and you were left alone to crave him, but you were used to it by now; which only made his visits all the sweeter.

You woke up today to find your husband stretched out next to you, a pleasant surprise that he must have instantly regretted as you threw yourself on him with a squeak.

"I didn't know you were coming! I'd have prepared for you," you say, your tone faltering as you survey the mess in your cosy rooms with a crease in your brow.

He shakes his head fondly; sometimes the lack of order would set his teeth on edge, but today he was just content to be by your side once more.

He murmurs sweet nothings into your hair as he nestles you closer, wrapping you up and refusing to allow to leave your bed this morning.

The city was growing prosperous, becoming the heart of Elvendom in Middle Earth, and your small abode was so different to the humble beginnings of your kin. Your people were finding strength in numbers, building great cities to fortify against the Enemy.

He cannot visit as often as either of you would like, busy with the war in the north, and now you understand why. His confessions about Morgoth threw you, made you doubt everything you knew, but your soul sang for him regardless, so you pressed it to the back of your mind, your heart and your mind fighting a losing battle. He promised you it was simply too late for him to change sides, that his master's wrath was better fought within his service than without. How could you refuse him?

You had asked him long ago if you could visit him instead, perhaps even pack up your life and move to be with him. His face grew dark, and he refused to even consider it. Now that you knew in whose service he toiled, you understood, and didn't press the issue again.

So you had become increasingly interested in the martial affairs of Gondolin, always hoping to hear nothing of Sauron, for no news was good news.

Your kin ask after him often; you tell them the truth where you can. That he is fighting the war in the north, that his brief respites are spent with you in private. Sometimes, you wish you could show him off to the world; it gets lonely surrounded by your family and friends, happily coupled and deeply in love, whilst you await your beloved for what feels like a lifetime.

When he visits, he crosses the borders of your kingdom with relative ease. Even entering the Hidden City, after centuries of being married to you, they greet him as one of their own, something which now plagues you with guilt; though not enough to keep you apart.

You are unfortunately not the only one, as many of your friends wait for their husbands too, who are also away fighting. The siege of Angband has taken much out of you all, and the number of half-souls wandering Gondolin grows day by day as more Elves are called away to bolster the beleaguered armies.

It is the knowing he is out there, yearning for you as much as you for him, that makes it a little easier. When the war is over, he says, you will be together, nothing will keep you apart. So you pray for his master's downfall any chance you get.

Unfortunately for you, it's not as if Sauron has to worry about any other's affections stealing you away; perhaps if he did, you might see him more often. Binding yourself to another soul changes the way you are perceived, a glimmer of the unseen world breaking into the everyday, in a way that to any other creature is imperceptible. But Sauron takes great pleasure in the knowledge that you are his, and no-one else's, that no-one would even think of touching you, not that you would let them. That possessive streak is something that you'd have thought would repulse you; instead it is deeply and mutually returned, the pair of you wrapped up in each other, blind to any others who might have tried their luck.

~

He's deep in thought, sketching long black lines on his paper, but every so often his eyes flicker to you watching his every move.

You love to see him hard at work, it lets you see what makes him tick, what gives him his boundless energy. You worry that you annoy him with your incessant questions, but any time you falter, he encourages you to ask, so you figure he must like the attention.

Today he is sat working on something very important, something that cannot be rushed. And you're sat at his side, head in your hand, thinking idly of everything and nothing, as his hand races across the paper.

"You haven't said a word," he looks over at you with a small smile, "something the matter, my love?"

"No, darling," you sigh, stretching your arms above your head and pulling yourself closer into his side. "Don't want to disturb you."

"You could never, I've told you so many times." He reaches out with his left hand and squeezes your knee, strokes the side of your face, then presses on with his task, one-handed as he commits to holding your hand.

You hum in assent, leaning your head on his shoulder. You feel him relax into your touch and you fear that perhaps you've ruined his industrious streak.

He puts down his pencil and pulls you close, chin resting on the crown of your head. You feel his heart flutter in his chest, and yours can't help but mirror it.

You enjoy his embrace a moment before disrupting the peace. "So what are you working on?"

He snorts, a noise you don't hear very often from him, usually so composed, and it makes you giggle, pulling away and looking up at his affectionate gaze.

"Not a moment's peace," he chuckles, rubbing the small of your back whilst reaching for his discarded sketches.

He rolls them out and watches for your reaction; yours is the only opinion he would deign to heed.

The long black strokes, the angular shape of it, it looks nothing like you expect. Twisted and wicked, it doesn't match the man sitting at your side.

"Is that... is it some kind headpiece?" You stutter a little under his intense stare; he wants the truth even if he dislikes what you have to say.

He raises his eyebrows a little and nods at you to continue your line of thought.

"Not a helmet. No, too many holes, frankly it would be useless as a helm, there's a great hole in the centre of it-" he can't help but laugh at your rambling, joking at his expense. If only you knew what happens to anyone else who would dare to.

"-Oh! A crown? Who needs a crown?" You finally get there, and you take the scroll from him, holding it up and scrutinising every detail.

"Who, indeed?" His tone is suddenly solemn; you've reminded him of what awaits him when he leaves you.

Morgoth in his crazed stupor, lusting constantly for the star-bright jewels that he already possesses, jealously guarded with a ferocity he hasn't seen in an age.

Your face drops and you pull him to you.

"I'm sorry, love, I didn't think." You know very well his trials and tribulations at his master's hands, but were somehow foolish enough to allude to him. You thought He already had a crown, and you remark as much in your naivety.

He traces your neck and kisses your palm. "It's quite alright, love, I know how... faraway my troubles must seem."

A cold sweat breaks down your spine.

"No, my darling, your troubles are mine, I would carry your burdens if only you were to share them with me." You plead softly; how could you be so naive, spoiling a sweet moment that is not so easily stolen now that he is so busy with the war.

He doesn't speak for a long time, and tears prick your eyes, almost painful in your efforts to hold them back. It is his pain you should focus on, not your own selfish regret.

You lean your head on his shoulder, hoping perhaps that he will open up to you for once, tell you of his torment in the north at the hands of the enemy, the part he plays as an unwilling accomplice to Morgoth's destruction.

As if he can hear your thoughts, he interrupts them softly.

"It is a crown. A conduit, for a power over flesh." He licks his lips nervously, avoiding your gaze.

"What could He need of such power?" You ask, before realising that of course, such power would ensure His victory.

He doesn't answer that question, preferring not to lie to you; you don't need to know exactly who it is for.

"I'd prefer something smaller, more elegant-" he begins to explain before you interrupt.

"Like a ring." You muse, meeting his eye. He raises his brow and looks past you, seemingly intrigued, and you can't help the pride that wells within you, happy to have pleased him so.

He looks back to you, smile fading quickly as he is reminded of what he came to tell you today.

"Speaking of my master, I-" he swallows thickly, the words refusing to cooperate with his tongue. "I have news. Concerning you and I."

His eyes are suddenly dark, and his expression sombre, and all at once you feel an all-encompassing dread that makes you press your hands to his mouth.

"No. Don't tell me. Not now. Please, love, I cannot bear any tale of Him while I worry for you." That much is true, you are too concerned about your lover to hear anything of the Enemy right now; but a tiny part of you simply never wants to hear about Morgoth, never wants to think about the evil your husband has been forced to wreak upon Middle Earth, so hard you have worked to forgive and forget, and you have had your fill now for one day.

"It is important, sweetness," he cups your chin and turns your face to look at him, the dread in your soul seemingly shared if his expression is anything to go by.

"Tell me." You nod reluctantly, anxiously awaiting whatever horror you will have to face together.

~

The fortress is always so hot, fiercely dry like a blazing desert heat, scorching his skin. It is nothing like his golden days with you, dappled sunshine on your skin, a cool breeze on his face.

He has been summoned by his master, which can only be an ill omen. Ever since the fiasco involving the lost Silmaril, and his defeat at the hands of Lúthien and her hound, Sauron had suffered nothing but wrath every time he returned to Morgoth; blaming him for the loss of a jewel from His crown, since he had not been there to defend his master from Lúthien's sweet song. The jewel was now set in the sky by the Valar, a constant reminder of his failure.

For you, as much as it pained you to see him suffer, it was a blessing; more precious time spent with your beloved as he avoids the fortress entirely.

Had it been a shock, when your husband appeared to you as a wolf, gravely injured and desperate for you? Of course. Was his betrayal forgiven and forgotten? Absolutely not. But he was so sincere, so sweet, that every time he told you his servitude to Morgoth was in service of a greater purpose, you believed him. Of course, he wanted only to heal Middle Earth; of course, he was working to lead all free peoples to a greater future; of course.

He was not forgiven, but you were so desperately, blindly in love with him, the dark half of your soul, that you might take him any which way he comes. And he had promised you that the greater good was all he worked for, that he was the salvation of Middle Earth, and how could you not believe him?

So when he told you he'd be gone a while, gone to see his master in the North, you were hardly beside yourself with joy.

"How long?" You entwine your fingers with his, studying every contour of his face, in case it is a lifetime, not a day.

"He did not say." There is trepidation in his tone, and you squeeze his hand in reassurance.

"You are his most valuable servant. All will be well." You cannot say that for certain, but you try to sound convincing.

He exhales slowly, pressing his face into your neck, his flaming hair tumbling across your skin as you lie folded into one another, unwilling to be parted a moment earlier than necessary.

~~~

His blood runs cold as his master's words ring in his ears.

Bring her to me, and let's see how worthy of my favourite servant she is.

He paces his forge, cursing and railing, his plans to keep you secret now gone so horribly awry.

He had been so careful, slipping from the fortress seemingly unnoticed by all but the wolves, whom he easily placated with just his word, perhaps a bone thrown in their midst for good measure.

In fact it was not his absence at all that gave you away.

It was your light, seeping into his fëa and glimmering like the northern star in a pitch black night. Morgoth had noticed this straight away, of course; but rather than punish him inmediately, he chose to toy with him, leading him to believe his great deception was successful.

If she does not come to me, I will be forced to name her, Mairon.

He could not have that, could not let his master's power touch you in any way. You were his, and his alone, and the idea of Morgoth even setting eyes on you made him seethe.

And so he began to plot; too little, too late.

~

"What do you mean, my love? You're scaring me, what do you mean, named?" Your voice shakes as he grips your fingers so tightly, you fear he might pull them off.

"He gave you a title I cannot take back, it is beyond my power to do so." Now it is his turn to tremor before you; you have never seen your husband in such terror, the sight brings you to your knees and you lean your forehead against his.

"Whatever has happened, darling, we can fix it. You and I, we are one, are we not?" You try to smile reassuringly, but he shakes his head and puts a finger to your lips.

"You know the importance of names, love." Of course you do; your kind receive many names over the course of your long lives, names from your father and mother, names for your great deeds, or traits your loved ones find admirable. You already had two, you hardly need another, let alone from his master. Never mind the power of words woven into spells and songs, the unbreakable kind your husband seems now to fear.

"When a being such as Melkor uses his power to bestow a name-" his voice breaks and he swallows thickly, buying himself time before the dam breaks.

"He bestows a name, and so a fate with it."

You raise your eyebrows quizzically, but as his words sink in, you gasp and pull away. What fate could the Great Enemy possibly have in store for you? You were nothing and no-one; why would he elect to use even a tiny morsel of power on you?

"I don't want to know." Your words surprise you both.

He draws back, regarding you, brow furrowed.

"You must, my love, you know I cannot break his will-"

"I don't care." You draw yourself up, taking a deep breath. "I forgave you your sins when you came to me with the truth. I have kept your secret from everyone I know and love. You promised me Morgoth would never discover us. This is your doing, and I will have no part in it."

His heart sinks, wrenches in pain, as the gravity of your words hits him, as you refuse to allow him to brush away the tears streaming down your face. Do you not understand? He cannot unsing the will of his master, it might as well have been written in stone, if the fabric of the universe were not hardier.

You jump to your feet, anger bubbling in your stomach, and you pace and curse Morgoth and all he stands for, Sauron wincing every time your lips twist to make the ugly sound of the Enemy's name.

"Amarië-" At hearing your name, you round on him, your eyes blazing with a fire he has only ever seen in himself, and though your anger is directed at him, it thrills him, the hair on the nape of his neck standing on end, and he has to fight every instinct to take you and hold you and ravish the wrath from your being.

"Will it help? If I know my fate? I cannot change it even when you tell me, so perhaps I should live in blissful ignorance, as I did before you revealed yourself?" Your tone is so sharp, it cuts him like no sword could; he recoils from the heat of your words, the furnace blast that emanates from your anger, trepidation and admiration combining in a heady mix that makes his heart sing for you.

You feel a pang of guilt; you hate these new emotions, these feelings you'd never experienced before meeting him. Anger, sadness, betrayal; these had all been alien notions before Mairon, no, Sauron, had walked into your forest.

He has worked his expression into something more impassive, but you know he is hurt; sighing softly, you kneel and take his hand, still gripped with rage but mollified a little by your husband’s remorse. He has worked so hard to make it up to you, to show you how he is not the Enemy that your kin believe him to be.

"Will it make you feel better if I know?" You ask, searching his eyes for an answer. Please say no, please say you'll bear this burden alone... Your heart cannot take more sorrow, more betrayal; and to know would be to worry about something you cannot change.

"Eglandis." If your Elf ears were not so sensitive, you might not have heard him, how quietly he admits your doom.

Your blood runs cold, sweat breaks in uncomfortable waves down your back, as you realise the horrible truth, why your husband is so often absent, and why he was so terrified of your reaction.

"Forsaken one." You pause, thinking a moment, your heart beating out of your chest. "No, forsaken bride."

Doomed to live without your husband, this was the fate Morgoth had chosen for you. To punish Sauron for choosing a bride at all, for weakening himself in the pleasures of the flesh, he had also punished you. Had you not suffered enough? Forced to keep your love a secret from your kin, now you feared losing him forever.

"That is a cruel fate." You mutter, nose to nose with him as he seeks to comfort you.

"I am not going anywhere." He takes your hands in his once more, thumbs rubbing small circles in your palms.

"I swear to you, you will never be rid of me, no matter how hard fate pulls us apart, I will always be with you." He presses a kiss to your lips, trying to reassure you that he is here, that nothing will take you from him, but you can't move, can't breathe, as a crushing wave of grief overtakes you.

As you curl into his chest, he sweeps his sketches out of the way; it would be a shame to crumple that which is of the utmost importance to him, your crown to match his.

[yuwuta]

yuuta exhibits such previously abandoned, recently adopted dog behavior. incredibly anxious all the time, even though nobody’s out to get him or leave him behind. waits for you to return home or from school or from work excitedly, just to see you when you walk through the door. follows you around senselessly, hovering in your space just for the sake of companionship. initiates affection in prodding ways—starts off next to you, then a hand on your thigh, then deems it safe to lay all the way down, then slowly pushes his head into your lap. gets up whenever you need to get up, and resumes his position as soon as you’re ready. brings you gifts as a sign that he’s thinking of you, and maybe because he likes the affection it brings out in you, maybe because he likes the gentle affirming touches of a hand in his hair or a pinch to his cheek. rests his head on your stomach or his chin on your shoulder when he’s sleepy, stays there, immobile, and will not move unless absolutely necessary. sometimes he gets surprised when he hears you calling for him, there’s a moment of disbelief as he thinks “me? really? you need me?” but it’s very quickly overshadowed by this compulsive need to show up, to please, to do anything for you, which is why he always answers when you call. he doesn’t realize that he has puppygod eyes, especially when he’s excited or confused, but he does and it’s incredible endearing. very reluctant to share your space or attention after a while, considers that to be sacred and he won’t risk being let go or lost again, so as a safety precaution, he keeps himself right by you, waits for you always. 

[stanpinesdykewife]

Are you still working on that angsty fic where the reader tells Stan he doesn't have a say in who they talk to or fuck? That little sneak peek alone had so much delicious drama, I'm so curious to know if you intend on finishing it.

YES yes i do! wow i can't believe you remember that!! yes, i plan on finishing it but my writer's block has been pretty heavy... but it means a lot that you asked!! i know i've been pretty bad at keeping my promises lately HAHA but since you asked and since i still can't tell you when i'll finish it, i'm happy to share a little more of that scene under the cut!!! hopefully this will help hold you over until i start churning out content again:

lady plumber WIP stan/reader (fem) pre/during/post-canon/unspecified angst and smut, 997 words (picking up from this snippet!)

“I'm not yours. I don't belong to you.” You catch the rest of your words in your throat. You don't want me. You don't want me.

For a few moments, Stan is speechless. He stares at you, his eyes searching your expression, his mouth opening and closing and opening again. You stand there, staring at each other, and the rest of the bar laughs and drinks and shifts around you.

Stan’s brown eyes shine in the dim lights, and he purses his lips. Darts his tongue out to wet them before opening them again, taking a breath in like he wants to say something. But you—fuck, you fucking hate that you’re doing this—your eyes flicker down to watch his tongue, and they stay there to watch the thin sheen of spit glistening beneath a pink spotlight. Your gaze lingers for a beat too long. When you look back up at Stan’s eyes, his brows are raised. Then he relaxes. His lips curl back into a crooked grin. You already know you’re fucked.

“Doin’ what?” Stan asks lowly, still looking at you. You finally look away, lowering your head to look at the back of your own hand, willing it to move. Stan’s hand comes up between your bodies, and he presses it against yours, and his touch is so gentle. His hand covers yours entirely. He flattens your palm against his chest. The hair there tickles the sensitive skin of your wrist. “Look at me, will ya?”

“I know you don’t,” Stan says cooly, like he’s approaching a spooked horse. The simile is apt, because when he takes a small step forward with his hands raised, you have half the mind to kick him in the head with all your strength before running away. But you’re frozen in place, like you’ve sunken six inches in mud and silt and your nice shoes are all fucked up but you’d do more damage trying to take them off. You don’t move as Stan comes closer, and closer, and your head is forced to tilt up to see his face.

“Stop,” you say, your voice sounding much too soft in the bustle of the bar. Your hand comes up, meant to dissuade him from coming any closer, but it doesn’t work. All it does is press your hand against Stan’s bare skin when he stands right in front of you, and your knees go weak at the warmth from his chest, the heat melting against your fingertips, all the way up your arm, warming you up from the inside out. You say, softer this time, “Stop doing that.”

You look up. Stan smiles down at you.

“Let’s talk this out,” he suggests, “somewhere more private.”

You fucking hate yourself.

You nod.

Twenty minutes later, Stan is pressing you facedown on your bed as he pounds into you from behind. He’s fucking you so well you can almost forget the shame boiling beneath your surface.

“Fuck, I missed you,” you whine, gripping the edge of the pillow. You're drooling into it, spit and moans and unholy little gasps falling out of your mouth and soaking the soft cotton. You don't care. Stan’s dick is so big in you, so deep, and the stretch feels so good. It's like your body's been waiting for him to come back, to make room for himself again. You repeat yourself, moaning into the pillow, “Missed you so fucking much.”

“Fuckin’—shit,” Stan curses, breathing heavily from behind you. He has a bruising grip on your waist, drawing you back every time he drives into your cunt. You don't expect an actual response from him, not really. So it's not your fault your heart skips when he says, “Missed you, too, babe. Missed this perfect cunt.”

“Yeah?” you ask, your breath catching in anticipation. Then Stan squeezes your waist, adjusts his grip slightly so his calloused fingertips are in that crook between your thigh and hip, and a low moan draws out of you. “You missed me?”

“Fuck—Yeah,” Stan grunts, fucking into you with fervor, and the swell of feeling in your chest makes you shudder, makes your face flush. “Missed the way you feel around me. So fuckin’ tight. And the way you sound when I…”

He trails off to thrust hard into you, forcing your body forward a few inches. Then he grinds, making you cry out, and one of his hands slips down underneath your hips to find your clit. He's so rough about it that you instinctively startle forward, but Stan just grabs you with his other hands and pulls your hips back to be flush against his. His fingers let up a little and you melt, moaning loud into the pillow, your hips rocking back, and forth, into his hand, back onto his dick, in your own perfect rhythm.

“Yeah. There it is,” Stan huffs behind you, a smile playing at his voice. But he sounds just as hazy and sex-drunk as you do, high with the incredible rush of breaking a dry spell for some good fucking sex.

(Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if that's the best way to describe it. A tolerance break. A relapse. You wonder if you’re addicted to fucking this handsome man who's so much older than you, so much meaner to you than he has any right to be. You wonder if it's dangerous. If there’s any merit to that small part of you that insists on packing all your shit and changing your name and driving, alone, until your car breaks down in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, left with your inanimate belongings and a soreness in your chest and a cold, empty passenger seat.)

Then Stan says, “That's right. Moaning so pretty for me, sweetheart.” (And you decide you’re better off not thinking about it.)

[tiredmamaissy]

so how do you feel ab cockwarming 😗😗 and if it’s a yes from you, what would cockwarming be like with neteyam? 🤭

would you believe if i said that i had to look this up? loool but yes.

neteyam is the kind of guy that wants to feel as close to you as he possibly can, at all times. always touching you in someway, whether it's a simple stroke of your tail or a pat on your thigh, he craves nothing more than your constant company. at night he would press his warm, bare body against yours in bed, intertwining his legs with yours to get as close as he can with you. tsaheylu would play an important role in your bedtime routine, always being made right before you both fall asleep. it's the ultimate way to bond with one another, to feel as connected as possible. until one night, a thought would pop up in his head, innocently at first. a new way to feel more connected - to bond. what if he just slid it in? nothing more, nothing less. to be inside you is to be close to you, so why not? of course you'd hear his thoughts through the bond, seeing the image of him sinking his cock inside you until his tip kisses your cervix, and staying there whilst he snuggles his face into the crook of your neck. you wouldn't be able to deny the way it made you feel, to see such lewd thoughts so innocently displayed. he'd never outwardly ask for it though, it's just the gentleman in him. most of his lewd thoughts and ideas remain unsuggested in the case that you wouldn't be comfortable with him, and he's more than happy to just do whatever you wanted.

"go ahead, teyam." you'd whisper, backing yourself up onto him.

he'd be surprised, tsaheylu being such a regular part of your nightly routine that he'd forget that you could hear his every thought and feel his every desire.

"hm?" he'd hum, confused and groggy.

"you can put it inside me, i don't mind." you'd reassure him, reaching behind you to do it yourself.

just as he'd imagined, he'd bury his hot face into the dip of your neck, inhaling your scent as he slides himself inside you.

[pseudowho]

Nanami Kento is going to be SLOPPY in this Hanahaki fic, and I really want you to be with me on this. He is a MESS.

[johnwickb1tsch]

andar conmigo ~ part 10

A Walk in the Clouds/Don John crossover outline/fic- Paul Sutton x fem!Reader x Don John triangle ~ You grow up at Las Nubes vineyard, and have to go home to your dying father. You take your fake new husband, Sgt Paul Sutton, with you...Your old flame don John does not like this at all. Warnings: don John STILL being himself an asshole, nsfw chapter map

For once you wake before Paul, and you relish the chance to admire his sleeping form in the morning sunlight. He looks innocent as a child in rest, and you lightly caress the curve of his cheek. 

In the sober light of day–not much sense has returned to you. You still feel head over heels lost to this man, and with a sigh you quietly accept that he has changed you. To simply know this man is to love him, and for the umpteenth time you marvel at how his wife Betty could have let him go. 

Her loss, you think with some unbecoming smugness. 

He wakes, those long eyelashes fluttering, and you can’t help but compare him to a princess rising from her sleeping spell. Madre de Dios this man is so pretty, and your heart is so full it hurts. 

“Hi,” he says softly, and you lean in to press your lips to his. “Are you ok?”

You tilt your head, not sure what he means. Last night had been otherworldly, at least for you. “I’m wonderful. ¿Por qué?” 

“Just…everything, yesterday. And last night. The way that jackass talks about you...”

It moves you to your toes, that this is the first thing he asks you today. You can’t help but think about how that jackass talked about Paul too, and your mood falls. “I’m so sorry about last night. I never should have put you through that. If you want to leave…I understand.” 

You can’t leave your father now, but a part of you wishes Paul would leave Las Nubes. You have a terrible feeling about what might happen, if he remains in don Juan’s proximity. 

However, he snorts at that idea. “The only way I’m leaving here is with you, sweetheart. And I know we can’t go yet.”

You sigh. You could move out of the hacienda, at least, back to your father’s house. But you wouldn’t have the privacy you do here, at the end of the hall in the grand mansion. Perhaps you have been suckered by some of the Aragón’s opulence.  

“What did he say to you? Last night?”

Paul just shakes his head, blowing out a long breath. “Just more veiled threats and talking up how long his illustrious ancestors have been here, fighting for what’s theirs.” Then he laughs, a thing that is fast becoming your favorite sound. “I think I could take him down a peg.” 

You run an appreciative hand over the generous bulge of his biceps, lifting your eyebrows with approval, your thoughts turning warm and fuzzy as velvet as desire clouds your brain. “I’m sure you could.” You kiss him again, a lingering press of lips that fills you with butterflies. “But please don’t. He will make it go badly, somehow. That man is a snake.” 

“Hmm.” He rolls over on you, and a wave of desire overcomes you as his weight presses you into the bed, his lips on yours. He sits up on his elbows to ask, “And I’m…just helpless as a lamb?”

“I know you’re not helpless, Paul.” You reach up to brush his hair out of his eyes. It immediately falls back down again, and he smiles. “You’re just…precious to me.” 

“Precious, huh?” He moves his hips against you, the bulge of his morning arousal unyielding against your center. “That sounds…like you sorta like me,” he teases. 

“Yes. I sorta like you,” you agree with a smile, spreading your legs more. You know you’re playing with fire, but you just can’t stop with this man. He doesn’t ask you this time. He doesn’t need to–just slides inside, because you are already so wet for him, and this is the way you are meant to be. 

He closes his eyes, moaning as he loses himself in slow, deep thrusts inside you. You find yourself thinking this is your idea of heaven, entwined with Paul Sutton, with nothing between you. There is no purer state of being, than sharing your body with this beautiful man.

When he draws back to meet your eyes while he moves inside you, you are ruined. He takes you to the top of the mountain with no hands at all, just beautiful friction between you and his soft brown eyes staring into your soul. It is only by a miracle does he manage to withdraw from the warm perfection of your clenching pussy at just the last moment, spilling himself on your thigh with a shuddering groan.

When he finally regains mental function, his head on your breast, he pants, “Have I mentioned…I’m kicking myself?���

You offer a breathless laugh, also wishing you had some of those useful rubber contraptions. “I might kick you too.”

He laughs at that, then turns an adorably pouting lower lip upon you. It’s completely unfair, and you take it all back, giggling. “I’m joking. You’re so good to me,” you marvel, running your fingers through his hair. He looks at you, waiting a little longer, hopeful for those three sacred words, but not pushing you. “You’re the best man I know, Paul. I adore you.” You mean it, and you hope it’s enough for now. 

A part of you knows that once you say those other three words…it will be the last nail in your coffin. You’ll never want to leave his side.

You’re slowly beginning to accept that might not be such a bad thing.

***

You get to see the mare in question later that morning, on your way to your father’s house to relieve Josefa. Don Juan catches you on the path astride his black mare, and you have to admit it may be the most beautiful horse you’ve ever seen. You hate to say it…but he is magnificent too, a consummate horseman, as at home in the saddle as on his own two long legs. 

Perhaps it is not your fault, that you are impressed by such things. It’s in your blood. The horses your people brought from Spain shaped the destiny of this country, for better or for worse. 

“Buenos días, señorita.”

“Señora,” you insist, annoyed that he persists in his suspicion that Paul is not your real husband. 

“Pfft. If you say so.” He smirks down at you, his large hands in black leather gauntlets gripping the reins. “Sombra, where are your manners?” He gives a signal to his horse, and she takes a step back, dipping her front legs and bowing her head. A pretty trick that makes you smile, despite yourself. He tips his hat at you, and trots off before you can rake him over the coals for his atrocious behavior the night before.

Settling for rolling your eyes and grumbling under your breath, you continue on your way.

It is one of those beautiful days at Las Nubes that makes you almost wish you could stay here. The weather is fine. The sheep bleat in the distance, and the birds sing in the trees. You and your sisters moved your father out to a rope bed in the shade, and he is enjoying it too, your hand in his. 

You hate to say that these have been some of the nicest hours you’ve spent with him in your lifetime. He was always such a stern man, and distant, after your mother’s death. But sickness has softened some of his hard edges, and he talks to you like a person, and not a thing that needs ordering about. He tells you snatches about this and that, memories of your mother and life at Las Nubes long before you were born. Life here has not changed much, over the decades. 

At midday after you feed Papa and settle him inside for a nap, Anjelica takes over, and you are free to go find Paul. In the distance at the corrals you hear whistles and gritos, shouts of encouragement, and you know the men must be working the horses now that the harvest is done. It is a second source of income for Las Nubes, as well as a point of pride. Just as don Juan said, with patience and hard work, some of the finest horseflesh to be found in Alta California comes from his stables.

As you near closer you see Paul’s unmistakeable tall form leaning on the fence with the other men. One of them is clapping him on the back. Everyone has warmed to your husband, suspicion of the gringo turned to warmth as he proved a hard worker with an open heart. Everyone, except for Juan.

You see that He Himself is in the center of the corral, the ringleader working out a silver grulla stallion, making the horse run in circles by swinging a rope. You feel a little sorry for the horse, knowing his fate, though you also know Juan is not really hurting him. 

You lean against Paul when you reach him, not interrupting his halting conversation with Fernando, Josefa’s husband, who barely speaks English, but is still determined to explain to their newest recruit what don Juan is doing. Paul listens earnestly none the less, nodding like he understands every word. You hide your smile against his sleeve. This man is a saint walking among you.

Paul slips his arm around you wordlessly, and you are content standing moulded to his side at the fence rails. To say you are looking forward to siesta today is an understatement.

You do not know it, because in Paul’s arms you aren’t really paying attention to don Juan, but he sees everything all while he is working the unruly horse. The thing could use a few more laps to tire him out more, but he manages to get the saddle on the animal’s back without the stallion bucking it off. 

“He’s ready for you, señor Sutton!” 

All the men whistle and yell enthusiastically for Paul’s chance to prove himself among them. 

Your blood runs cold. 

“No,” you say quietly, your fingers turned to claws clutching his arm. 

Paul looks from you to everyone around saying exactly the opposite, looking to him expectantly.   

“Pa-ul!” sings out Juan. “Show us vaqueros how it’s done!” 

You watch as their eyes meet across the dusty corral, and a challenge is leveled between them. Testosterone wreaks its damage, and you know Paul isn’t going to listen to you, even as you continue to pull on his arm. 

“How hard can it be?” he asks you naively. “You just gotta hold on, right?” You sense the ‘If he can do it, I can do it’ subtext in his statement, and your heart is in your throat.  

“He’s been doing this since the day he could walk, Paul. It’s dangerous. Please don’t,” you beg him, shaking your head. You have a terrible feeling about this, and your bones are laden with pure dread. 

“I survived getting shot at by Nazis for four years. I can probably survive riding a horse.”  He is not short with you, but there is an edge to his words, and this is a stubborn side of Paul you have not seen yet. 

For the benefit of the Spanish speaking spectators, Juan says loudly, “She’s really got him by the cajones, doesn’t she boys?”

Paul doesn’t understand the exact words, but he definitely gets the gist of it when all the men start to laugh. 

“I’ll be fine,” says Paul, kissing your forehead. 

But you grab the front of his shirt, telling him as quickly as you can, “These animals move like lightning. Do not stand behind that horse. Only the side. But watch its feet.” You remember you have part of an apple left in your apron pocket, and you bite off a tiny piece of it, pressing it into his palm. “Give it this. Let it smell you, but hold your hand flat, don’t let it bite you. Move slow, speak softly, but be firm. Don’t scare it. If you die, I’ll kill you.”

The last part wins you that generous smile that fills your heart with sunshine. “Alright, sweetheart. I’ve got it.” You pull him down by his shirt to kiss him with a pathetic desperation, and now everyone catcalls and whistles for the two of you. Paul receives encouragement and hearty pats on the back as he goes to climb the fence of the corral, and you grip the fence rail with white knuckles as you watch, praying to a God you don’t necessarily like or much believe in. 

“He’ll be ok, chica,” Fernando tries to soothe you. “You must let a man be a man.” He beats his chest for emphasis, and you roll your eyes at this idiotic macho philosophy. 

“He’d better be, Fernando, or I am going to make everyone here sorry.” 

Out the corner of your eye you see your brother in law inch away from you on the fence. 

Paul does as you said, approaching slowly from the front, accepting the rope reins from don Juan. There is a long, tense moment of eye contact between them that has you grinding your teeth so hard it's a miracle they don’t crack. 

“Think you can handle him, amigo?”

Paul strokes the nervous horse’s neck slowly, watching its sweat-shiny coat quiver. “Guess we’ll find out.” 

Juan backs off with a bow, giving Paul the floor. Its so quiet in the arena you could hear a pin drop. Rather than try to hop on immediately, Paul does as you advised, taking time to speak to the horse quietly, giving it the tidbit and letting it smell his hand, stroking its neck gently. You can’t help but think you know exactly how that horse feels in that moment. Suspicious, annoyed, but maybe curious about this kind man, who approaches you so differently than anyone else you’ve ever met.

He moves slowly, finally ready to get a foot up on the stirrup. The moment he puts the slightest bit of weight on it the horse sidesteps, taking Paul in hopping circles.

His audience chuckles, all knowing the feeling very well. 

Paul regains his feet again, holding the horse still by the reins and seeming to ask its permission again, speaking too low for the rest of you to hear. The horse’s ears flick, internally rolling its eyes, you suspect. You hold your breath as he tries to get a foot up again, and this time the horse allows Paul to sit astride it.

For about two seconds anyway, before the crow hopping starts.

You don’t want to watch, but you can’t tear your eyes away as Paul holds on for dear life, using his long legs to grip the wild animal’s middle. Your nails eat grooves in the old wooden fence, as you watch seemingly in slow motion as the horse gives a sharp buck, its hind legs kicking high in the air, and Paul–with the saddle–goes flying.

____

*there's a word for couples who use the pull-out method...they're called PARENTS. Be safe be, careful!!

**I've spent time with horses but am by no means a pro trainer, take this fic at face value, PLEASE do not think you can hop on an unbroken horse after just offering it an apple...😆 Paaaaullll...

[kaciidubs]

what you said about how quick he was to get on his knees.. i can just imagine him doing that for his partner when theyve had a stressful day and need some pressure, or even like fwb with the members (saying this as someone who doesnt normally think of member x member.) He's definetly a switch.

[Prev ask]

Oh nonnie, I can see that thought vividly! Usually my first thought doesn't snap into member x member, but when it does it's a wonderfully welcome image. When it comes to stress relief, Felix is the number one man to go to; between his massages and his extreme urge to satisfy, anything you [or his members] need, he'll do it - even if it involves making those pretty knees of his pink from the carpet.

Lixie is 100% a switch in my eyes and heart - I mean, do you see that man? Pretty baby doesn't lean too hard to one side or the other, he swings like a pendulum in a grandfather clock.

MinLix? Lix is the sub, 100%. ChanLix? A healthy middle, though in my heart of hearts he's 60% sub. ChangLix? Controversial take; Lix is the dom - better yet, power bottom. HyunLix? Healthy middle, 50/50. JiLix? Honestly, those are two subs frantically trying to satisfy each other without either one taking the lead. SeungLix? I see two best friends experimenting together, no clear cut roles, it's like a seesaw. JeongLix? Lixie is 75% sub - actually, let's make it a clean 80% sub.

[cinnamonanddean]

One of the things I just love so much about the Smallville fandom is that we've all just agreed that regardless of who you're pairing him with, Lex Luthor is a fucking Sex God.

It's particularly interesting because the show barely gives us ANYTHING to support this. We have one (1) Lex sex scene, plus one deleted scene, and while they're both hot, they're not at all spectacular. Zero characters, including Lex himself, discuss his sexual prowess (or lack thereof). And yet somehow, every single fic I've read (and written!) paints him as absolute dynamite in the sack.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not disagreeing or complaining about this! I fully support Sex God Lex Luthor (as evidenced by my inclusion of my own writing). I just find it SO interesting that we've collectively decided it. I feel like it's a competency kink sort of thing: Lex is shown to be someone who is generally very successful at everything he puts his mind to, so it does track that he'd be good at sex too. I don't know what, if anything, the comics have to say about his skills, so I can't draw any conclusions from that side of things.

I just adore the fact that we all looked at Lex Luthor in Smallville canon and went "yup, that guy FUCKS."

[thegreatyin]

learning fascinating things about the fate franchise tonight.