#lia's works

[miupow]

. . . GUIDELINES

when sending in asks or requests, please first read my guidelines! i'd prefer if all of my interactions followed these rules as to keep my inbox a safe place for me as a writer.

PLEASE BE MINDFUL OF THE STATUS OF MY INBOX ON MY NAV!

this blog is 18+ only! i will not interact with any minors or ageless blogs-- any interaction i get from these blogs will result in an immediate block.

descrimination and hate is never tolerated on my blog. any hateful, terroristic, or discriminatory behavior will result in an immediate hard block.

GENERAL GUIDELINES ౨ৎ

-> i am only one person, please be patient as i answer asks. i write full fics along with my hard/soft hours and drabbles, so please be considerate when i am behind on my inbox. do not harrass me about not responding to your ask in a timely manner; i will block you.

-> feel free to call me whatever you would like. my name is lia and my pronouns are she/they, but i really don't care how you address me. any pet names are fine. just please be thoughtful and kind; i do not appreciate hatemail, and i do not appreciate being called rude names.

-> i will only write for fem!reader or gn!reader. i will not write for male!reader, race specific reader or trans!reader-- there are plenty of blogs that do, however, so please go and show them love and support! this is just a personal boundary of mine, since i do not want to inaccurately represent any minority groups in my writing.

-> please do not DM me unless we are mutuals, thank you.

-> due to recent events, i no longer accept links of any kind. mutuals may send me links through my DMs.

-> i am free to delete/ignore any requests if they make me uncomfortable or do not inspire me, and i do not owe you an explaination.

REQ GUIDELINES ౨ৎ

FAVORITES : fantasy/paranormal/royalty aus, dom!idol, chubby!reader, innocent/good girl!reader and corruption kink, breeding kink, mommy/daddy kink, creampies, power play, toxic/possessive behavior, anal (f. rec)

ABSOLUTELY : hurt/comfort, hybrid, angst themes, idol!reader, parent!idol or parent!reader, est. relationships, get-together fics, dom or sub!reader or idol, threesomes/group sex, semi-public sex/public sex, voyuerism/exhibitionism

MAYBE : yandere, dark content, dub-con, age gaps, omegaverse, pregnancy/lactation, dp/dvp, wax play, infidelity, stepcest, pet play, somnophilia, pegging

NOPE : non-con/r@pe, p3dophilia, incest, scat/piss, memberxmember or idolxidol, abuse, mental illness or disability, weapons (knife/gun play), bloodplay (vampires are the exception), gore, death, extreme violence, furry, mask kink, food play, foot fetish, high school aus

NOTE : for any kinks that are not mentioned here, please send me an ask! i will respond with how I feel about the request or the kink. for requests containing my MAYBEs, please send me an ask asking how i feel about the request before sending it in for real.

[too-deviant]

strategic manoeuvre.

— WITH…ART DONALDSON!

contains...babysitter!reader, age gap, 18+ MDNI, art cheats w reader but it is lowkey implied that tashi planned the whole thing, car sex, semi-public sex, head (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, inspired by this post from @traumatrios

You had never been interested in tennis before Art. 

You weren’t interested in sports at all, really — you just wanted to buckle down and focus on your college work, earn some money with an easy part-time job. You didn’t have time to follow sports, or anything else. 

But then you got a call. You had been in the middle of a lecture when your phone buzzed against your notebook, a California number shining up at you and enticing you to pick up. Normally you would’ve let it go to voicemail, but you had recently gone around some of the fancier hotels in your city with flyers, asking for babysitting jobs and posting your number, so you excused yourself with a wave and took the call in the hallway. 

You didn’t know who Tashi Donaldson was when she introduced herself, but the hotel she’d asked you to come to later that night was fancy enough that you didn’t question it. You had done an extensive google search afterwards, of course, but simply raised an impressed brow at her repertoire. 

Then you met Art, her tennis player husband and the father of the lovely little girl you would be taking care of, and suddenly you were pretty interested in tennis. 

It started when Lily had a bad nightmare and you couldn’t get her down — well, it started when you met the guy, palm sweaty in his own as he introduced himself, but it didn’t really start until you had to put one of his old games on the TV for the girl to watch until she fell asleep at your side, tear tracks from her bad dream dry on her cheeks. 

You had been planning on carrying her back to her bed when she was down for the count, but you had been so fixated on Art’s movements; his determined look, his arms, his legs, that you ended up dropping out too. You woke up a few hours later with a blanket over your body and Art standing quietly at the kitchen island behind the sofa. 

“You looked peaceful. Didn't wanna wake you.” He’d said, sipping at his tea, and you knew you were done for. 

Now all of a sudden you had time to watch a tennis match in the morning, play one as background noise while you studied. You had started following his tennis journey right from the Junior Open in 2006 — you didn’t think you'd ever actually see him again, but you could fantasise about it whenever you remembered the smell of his cologne as he thanked you for taking care of Lily, promising a big tip would go straight into your account in the morning. 

(The money went in fifteen minutes after you’d left).

It came as a pleasant surprise when Tashi’s number popped up on your screen once more, a few months later. You had been in your kitchen, and took the call the moment you recognised the digits. 

“We’re a little ways out of town.” She’d said, “But Lily raved about you for days after last time, and we know you better than a stranger. If you can’t make it out here, don’t worry, but we still wanted to try our luck.”

We she’d said. As in her and Art. 

You cursed yourself for lusting after a married man in the uber to the hotel. 

From then on out, you became their primary babysitter. Since they travelled a lot, and Tashi’s mom was with them most of the time, you only really sat for them once every couple of months. The town you lived in was sunny and had a huge private sports centre for professional athletes — a fact you weren’t aware of until Art told you over a cup of tea — so they always came back. You were glad you could count on them coming back — it was like magic, the way your phone lit up with Tashi’s now saved contact whenever the late night bingeing of matches and interviews stopped fueling your infatuation. 

The guilt was almost enough to make you ignore it, say you were busy or just get a new number all together. But you never did. As much as you knew it was wrong, you always dropped what you were doing and drove to that cushy hotel where the receptionist knew your face and let you in with a smile. You travelled that same memorised route to the master suite, knocked on the door and made sure you were standing far enough away from the peep hole that you didn’t look weird and distorted when Art would look through before letting you in. 

It was always Art now. Tashi had greeted you a few times but lately it had always been him — a sick part of you thought she might’ve known about your crush on him, played with it for fun because she couldn’t play tennis anymore. But that was crazy, and you really needed to sort yourself out. 

You would greet him with a smile, push through the small talk, lean up against the kitchen island and watch his shirt stretch around the planes of his back as he made you coffee (On those unlucky days he would be wearing a shirt. Sometimes he would be just done with warm ups and physio and would answer the door half naked and covered in sweat. Those were the good days). Then Lily would come running at you from her room, hug you around your waist and pull you in to play; Art would laugh and grin at you, sliding the coffee cup in your direction and holding your eyes before heading to his room to get ready. 

You would be knee deep in headless barbies and chewed up polly pocket clothes when he and would return, dressed up and ready to go. He would lean down, kiss Lily on the forehead, and press his hand to your back in a silent goodbye. Then he would leave, and you would spend the whole day trying to pull yourself together. 

He was married. He was ten years older than you. He had a child, and was paying you to look after her. 

But he always made you coffee when you arrived — just how you liked it because he remembered. He always checked in on you, asked you how your life was while you nursed the mug that was warm from the beverage and his hands. He would tell Lily to behave for you because We like her, and we don’t want to scare her off. He would let his land linger on your back half a second longer every single time he left. 

But.

But Tashi was the one who would call you. She was the one who made you coffee the first time, told you it was the least they could do for you. She would walk out of her room with Art, smile at you and tell you how beautiful you look in that shirt. She would grin at you before leaving, waiting patiently by the door for her husband to take his hand off your back. 

You were evil. Truly. The guy was married. 

But as evil as you were, you always made sure there was an old game of his playing on the TV when they would return — because then Art would prompt you to stay and listen to him talk about it. And you would have an excuse to lean up against that island and watch him make tea while Tashi excused herself to bed. Hours would pass before he was checking his watch and hissing out an apology for keeping you so late, and then letting you leave. 

The first couple of times he’d simply make sure you got in your uber safely. Then he started calling cars himself, the same ones that would drive him and his family to and from matches, press events. The same sort of service celebrites used, not their babysitters. You didn’t mind — it was a thrill, listening to him ask the person behind the wheel to make sure you got back safely.

(The bar was under the court at this point, but at least you were aware of that).

But tonight was different. In more ways than one. 

In the beginning, all was the same. You were left sitting on the plush carpet of Lily’s room surrounded by lego pieces, a burning in your gut and guilt in your heart. You played doctor, you made dinner, ordered room service after her relentless begging, put on a movie, carried her sleeping form to bed, came back and watched Art play tennis until he returned. 

You had started to run out of games to watch, ones you hadn’t already seen, so settled for an old game from 2006. He was playing against his old partner, Patrick something, and you wondered where the lesser known second half of Fire and Ice had disappeared to after that night. 

Then Art came back, Tashi right behind him, and you smiled at them both over the back of the sofa. Tashi watched the game, something unfamiliar glinting in her irises, before blinking back at Art, “I’m going to bed.”

He responded a little slower, kissing her goodnight and looking back at you, “Tea? This game was one of my most memorable.”

“Even though you lost?” You teased, leaning against the marble. 

He paused, looking back at you. He blinked, “Yeah.”

You drank your tea. You pretended like you weren’t full of shame for standing that inch closer to him. You let him talk until he had nothing left to talk about, and watched him check his watch. You waited for him to pick up the phone and call the car — only he paused by the phone, hand floating just before it, and retracted his steps to the kitchen, “I’m gonna drive you back, if it’s not too much trouble. Saves waking up my driver.”

“Oh.” Your fingers twitched, and you told them to stop. “Sure, of course.” 

Art’s car wasn’t what you had expected. Thinking back on it, he didn’t seem like the sports car type, but his status and riches led you to assume you were about to get into one of the two seats in his Bugatti — you didn’t. The black jeep was expensive enough for someone like him, but close enough to home that you didn’t feel like an outsider climbing into the passenger seat.  

The drive wasn’t all that far — twenty minutes both ways, so Art would’ve been back before Tashi fell asleep if he hadn't pulled into a parking lot five minutes out. 

Your lips parted, eyes following his hands as they slid slowly off the wheel and into his thighs. His chest rose with a deep breath and his jaw constricted when he swallowed. Then he was looking at you, eyes piercing. 

“Lily likes you.”

You were unsure, feet shifting beneath you, the sound encasing the silence of the space and forcing you to stop and blink, “I’m glad. I like her.” 

“Tashi likes you.” 

You weren’t too positive that she would like you if she could feel how you were feeling now — that all too familiar heartbeat pulsing between your legs with every one of Art’s breaths. 

“I like you.” He finished, tilting his head until his temple rested softly on the headrest of his seat. His smile was almost taunting when he undid his seatbelt, “Which is your favourite?”

“What?”

“The games.” He clarified, knowing his question was too broad and that you would have to ask, “The ones you watch every time you’re over. The ones I assume you watch even when you aren’t sitting for us. My games. Which is your favourite?” 

“Oh. Um —“ Slightly distracted by the way he shed his jacket, dumping it in the backseat. He’d lent all the way forward to take it off and his eyes didn’t leave yours once. “I don’t know.” 

“The one you were watching tonight.” He asked then, “What’d you think of it? Honestly.” 

“Honestly?” You swallowed, mortified that you were even entertaining this, “You looked a little distracted.” 

He huffed a laugh, finally looking away and letting you breathe. It didn’t last long, because he was then getting out of the car and rounding the front of it. 

The breeze was cool when it hit you, Art blocking most of it from where he stood in the gap. His hand was still on the handle, but you were busy unbuckling your own seatbelt — the message had been received, you had crossed a line and he was kicking you out of his car. 

But when you turned, legs swinging carefully into the cold, his hand on your knee stopped you from really getting out. Your eyes snapped up to his, and you realised you had been caged — with one hand on the door and one hand on you, Art Donaldson had you right where you had been dreaming of him having you. It felt surreal. 

“My opponent. In the game from tonight.” He breathed, glancing around casually like you were having one of your simple conversations over tea. “He slept with my wife.”

Out of all the things… 

“What?” Your eyes darted between his, but the rest of your body otherwise remained still. Even when his hand on your knee travelled upwards. 

“He’d slept with her before. In college. We weren’t together then.” He was now watching his hand move, like he wasn’t the one moving it, “But then he slept with her again, in Atlanta. After I’d already married her.”

“Wow.” You breathed, mainly because it was the easiest word you could slide out of your mouth whilst holding your breath. His fingers reached your thigh, begged to dip between them. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He was quick to respond. Your legs parted on instinct, and at this point you had surrendered to being an awful person — although maybe you’d fallen asleep on the couch and this was all a dream. You didn’t think you’d be able to face Art if it was. You couldn’t even face him now. 

He took the newfound space for granted, stepping between your legs and holding them open with his body. His hand on the door followed him, taking its new place on your other leg. He rubbed up and down your thighs, but you couldn’t look away from his face. 

“I don’t want you watching him play.” He spoke lowly, tracing his fingertips around your waistband, “I’ve seen enough of his games.”

“Okay.” You didn’t hesitate to let out, swallowing the hungered saliva that had built up in your mouth. 

He unbuttoned your jeans, pulled the zipper down — painstakingly slow, but it allowed you time to brace your hands on the seat and the dashboard so you could raise your hips and let him slide them off you. 

You were stuck in your head, but Art didn’t seem to notice since he was too busy folding your jeans and hanging them over the open car door. You dared question it through a heavy breath but he just moved on to your panties, throwing them precariously on the dashboard and exposing your glittering cunt to his bright eyes. 

“We shouldn’t —“ It was a half-assed attempt at reconciling with your guilt, but the fact that you were half naked and spread eagle made it lose its meaning. 

Art shushed you, kneeling down so he was looking at your pussy, “We can, and we will.” Then he glanced back at you, brow arched, “Unless you don’t want to.”

Any sense of rationale had fucked off when he put his hand on your leg, so you swallowed and said, “I want to.”

He wasted no time, licking a thick stripe from your asshole to your clit. You knocked your head back with a gasped moan, bucking into him and hissing when the gear stick poked you in the back when you led back too far. 

You let out a shaky breath as he lapped you up, tongue dipping inside of you before travelling up to that sweet spot and sucking at it gently. You gasped and moaned, hands scrambling between holding yourself up and holding him down. His own were resting on your thighs — his calm and collected demeanour was a drastic contradiction from your own. 

His head nodded calmly between your legs, relaxed in its position — yours, shaky and tense all at once, neck bracing whenever you fell back. His hands tapped soft melodies on your skin whereas yours tightened around whatever was in their old, whether that be the leather of the seats or the blonde of Art’s hair. 

When he finally came up for air, his chin was coated in your slick, and he licked his lips clean before straightening up above you. You watched, paralysed, while he unbuckled his belt, threw it over the door with your jeans, and sent you a look under his lashes that you’d only seen him wear during his tennis matches. 

You had been keeping quiet earlier, but when he bottomed out inside you and started to piston, your mind went wild. Choruses of Oh my God and Fuck!, shouts of Art’s name and whimpers under your breath — it all came tumbling out and you couldn’t even try and stop it. 

Not that you wanted to; your vocality seemed to make him go faster, harder. It made him vocal, no longer calm and relaxed as he had been when eating you out, but loud and gruff. Grunts and moans you had dreamt about hearing outside of a television screen, now being huffed into the air you shared. 

You came with a whine and Art followed not long after, and you settled there for a moment — legs spread in his passenger seat with him standing between them — until you could muster up the strength to push yourself up. 

Five minutes later and you were both dressed, Art’s black jeep parked outside of your apartment building. You hadn’t exchanged any more words, but when you turned to slam the door once you had jumped out, you found his eyes on yours. 

“I have a game this weekend. Two hours out. Tashi wanted you to come. A gift, for all you’ve done for us.” 

(You went to the game. Art won. Tashi grinned like she’d made it happen and then offered to buy you a drink).

divider by @cafekitsune !!

[satoruarchive]

tw: google translate (my sincerest apologies)

“sae.”

“cariño.”

“saeeee.” you’ve been calling your boyfriend’s name for the past 5 minutes, five! a grumble escaping your lips. he’s been so engrossed in watching ‘blue lock TV’ — whatever that is. and the spanish endearment you googled 2 minutes ago didn’t work either.

actually, you were pretty excited to know that he was watching something else other than chibi maruko-chan or soccer shows. . only to find out he’s watching a soccer show.

“baby.” that should work, right? no. his eyes are still locked on some dark-green haired guy. you don’t remember having competition for his attention.

“baby, i love you.” the words roll off of your tongue smoothly, the honeyed tone that you know always etches a pinkish color onto his cheeks — wait, he’s still ignoring you. . .

“itoshi sae!”

“what?”

oh, so now he turns around.

“i said i love you.” a pout makes its way onto your face. “but i guess thats not as important as watching men play with balls, huh?” a petty huff slips out of your mouth.

“why the hell would you word it like that?” he sends an incredulous look your way.

“okay, keep ignoring my love confession then.”

you hear an annoyed exhale leaves his lips as he turns off the TV. “desde que llegaste a mi vida, no has sido más que un dolor de cabeza.”

you can’t help a blush creep up onto your face. “awww, what does that mean baby?”

sae’s lips faintly curl up into a smirk. “it means, you’re the light of my life.”

[itji]

i'll call myself a flower 🌸💗🌺💝🌷💖

[catsharky]

I got impatient and started on Rolan before finishing Astarion's colours, woops

[britney-rosberg06]

wild wild WILD to me that at the current moment only FOUR women on the current grid qualify to be in F1 Academy next year

Everyone else either fits the age limit, two year limit, or will get automatic promotion to FRECA

Like?? That’s insane! Next year eleven new female drivers will try their hand in an F4-level series. Hopefully at least one of them will be straight from their karting program!

I have a lot of qualms about F1 Academy and how it’s run but you cannot deny the impact of bringing eleven new young female drivers into this sport would bring!

And even the fourteen women leaving F1A are not leaving motorsport! Even if they don’t get the spot in the next level they are STILL going to continue doing professional motorsport whether that be stock or rally or other open wheel or wec for what is hopefully the rest of their lives!

I have a lot of problems with F1A and it is NOT a perfect series. But you cannot deny that it has succeeded in bringing more women and made it easier for women and girls to get into motorsport

[opalprincess]

~🥹~

[soelvfiskart]

[moamidzyism]

dynamics (itzy)

☆。.:*·ﾟwc 286 smut ౨ৎ men + minors DNI ˚⁺。˚ // repost ୨୧ itzy unnie line x fem!reader, oral, fingering, nipple play, sex toys [masterlist • reblogs + feedback appreciated]

yeji → service top

maybe it’s because she’s the leader but i think yeji lives to serve other people. anything you ask she is more than willing to please you. but secretly, her favorite thing is when you ask her to let you ride her face. she wants to live in your pussy and die by it too, holding your hips down so you’re not hovering over her face, but placing all your weight onto her. she gets off on making you feel good and hearing your pretty moans, her nails digging deeper into your waist as she sucks your clit.

lia → sub

i don’t care what anyone says, lia is a pillow princess. the complete opposite of yeji, anything she wants, she gets. she comes home and just wants to feel good — wants you to make her feel good. your hands found their way to her boobs, alternating between massaging them and pinching her nipples. when she cries out for more, you attach your lips to her nipple, licking and biting. your hand slowly gravitates towards her heat.

ryujin → mean dom

personally, i would pay a lot of money for ryujin to be mean to me. i don’t think she’s into degradation as much as she is just a major tease. and she knows that you’re so desperate for her touch and that you’ll take whatever she gives you. she’s made you cum twice already but she presses the vibrator on your clit. you’re begging, crying out her name, telling her how much you need her to touch you. she laughs in your face telling you that if you give her one more orgasm, she’ll eat you out until you see the stars.

taglist: @wiisoob

fill out this form to join my taglist!

[the-white-snake]

⸺ into the dawn

[digitalgirls]

ITZY x W Korea September, 2023.

[raziiyah]

they're both blind

[too-deviant]

ray bans.

with…ART DONALDSON!

contains…fem!reader, 18+ CONTENT!, handjob, p in v, public sex, this was written b4 the movie came out so excuse any discrepancies!

You blame the tequila.

Strong and sharp in your glass at the tennis luncheon your boss had invited you to, swishing around with every movement you made as you told an overexaggerated story to Art Donaldson. He didn’t pay a lot of attention, you could tell, but his eyes were so firm on yours that you needed to talk to get the nerves out. 

It was the tequila, not his eyes, that got you cornered in a bathroom too fancy to be anywhere but this cushy hotel, legs pushed back so far you felt a burn in the crease of your groin. Those dusty blonde curls buried between your thighs, perfectly calloused hands holding them apart so he could lap at you with perfect fervour. 

Your eyes were watering, and he gazed at you as you came down, rubbing up and down your legs until you were ready to push yourself down and onto your feet. You wiped the runoff mascara as best you could, but huffed at the stains around your eyes.

Art had grinned, slid his sunglasses from his collar and placed them perfectly over your eyes. You’d asked him when he wanted them back, and he’d just smirked. 

Which was how you found yourself scooting past old people in linen suits and straw hats, expensive bags and designer shades on their noses. Yours weren’t designer, but they were Art Donaldson’s, so you won. 

In this life you took your seat in the rows at the USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Centre — a doozy of a sentence to tell your Uber driver. In this life you slid Art Donaldson’s sunglasses over your eyes and waited patiently for him to sidle onto the court, slam himself a win, and meet you in the bar to take them back. 

His hits were precise, hard, fast. The muscles in his arms and neck pulled beautifully. You pulled the plush of your lip between your teeth, letting it go when he hit another, his grunt louder to you know. Clearer. 

But as your eyes pivoted back and forth across the court, his opponents moves much more confident and fluid than his, the life changed. Now this life was a tense strain in your neck, your fingers tight around the dress you wore just for today. In this life, Art Donaldson lost, and when everyone else was cheering for the winner, you were watching him storm away. 

It was quicker to manoeuvre through the crowds now that everyone else was leaving. You didn’t have to worry about bumping into people, because they were all bumping into you and there was a collective agreement that any and all shoulder shoving slash toe-stepping was okay for now. So you slid your way through, sidestepping through the rows of seats and going down a row every time you got to some stairs — ensuring that it wasn’t completely obvious where you were going. 

You made awkward eye contact with the ball boy but your confident smile put him at ease and he dismissed you completely, allowing you to slip around the back of the stands and into the locker room. 

It was much quieter in there, the noise of the crowd fading into nothing when the door closed behind you. Now you could focus on your surroundings, the sound of water dripping and heavy breaths. 

You parted your lips gently, “Art?”

Footsteps, and then the blonde man was rounding a row of lockers and meeting your sly gaze. His own was shrouded in barely covered anger and light confusion, the latter crowing over a bit more when you took steps to invade his personal space. 

“You came.” 

“Well…” You shrugged, lifting the glasses off your head and tucking them into the collar of his polo. Letting your hand linger on the planes of his collarbones, feeling the heat radiating from the skin beneath the cotton. “That was quite some game.” 

Art huffed, “I was in walkabout. Shit luck.” 

You leaned ever so slightly closer, running your hand down his chest to just above the waistband of his shorts. You admired the way he looked under the lights — the beads of sweat on his jugular, the happy trail you could feel peek out from under the hem of the shirt. Your other hand stayed propped against the locker, and he was quick to run his own down your wrist, cupping your elbow. 

“Well…I say we pick up where we left off, no? That make you feel better?”

You narrowed your brows at him in a silent question. His minute nod was enough. Then your hand was sliding beneath his waistband, dipping into his underwear — Tommy Hilfiger — and wrapping around the base of his cock. 

He sucked in a breath, fingers tightening around your other arm, jaw ticking and eyes firmly on yours. You didn’t break contact even when you squeezed him a bit and he let out a shaky groan. 

You dropped your other hand, hooked your fingers around this waistband. Pulled it back so you could lean forward, eyes glaring at where your other hand sat. Then, with a noise so sweet he might have exploded, you let a string of spit slide from between your lips. Art watched it fall, achingly slow, onto his shaft, and then held back a cry when you started to slide your hand up and down his dick. Wetting it just right. 

You looked back up at him, made him look back at you. You pumped your fist slowly, thumbing his tip and adding his precum to your saliva. The sounds were erotic on their own, and even you had to tense your thighs together. Art’s own legs shook from his standing position, but before he could drop his head onto your shoulder you were removing both hands from his body and smirking at his painful moan. 

With your right hand still wet from his cock, you printed a perfect print on the front of his polo and pushed him gently back. He walked, transfixed on your gaze, until his calves were hitting the wooden bench and he was being sat down. He stared up at you, pleadingly so, and you lifted the hem of your dress just enough so you could slide onto your knees on either side of his hips. 

With your crotches pressed together, Art couldn’t stop his hands from flying to your ass and squeezing. You grinned, and his smirk returned in full force. 

“Should lose more often.” He murmured, leaning forward and pressing his nose against your chest, the low cut of your dress feeding his carnal desire to completely devour you. 

You hushed him gently, pushing yourself up so you could slide his shorts and boxers down to his thighs. His dick sprung out beautifully, making another wet patch where it hit the bottom of his shirt. You used your hand, brought one of his around so he could pump himself while you reached under your dress and pushed your underwear to the side. Then you were shuffling forward and letting Art align the tip of his cock with the wet of your folds.

You didn’t waste a moment, bracing yourself on his shoulders and rolling your hips along his own. Your breathy moans accumulated to the steam you had now registered coming from the shower he had abandoned in favour of letting you take him like this. His huffs and puffs only increased as he began to control your movements, rutting into you from below. 

The creaky hinges of the bench cried with every hurried thrust, but the shower muffled most of your sounds. You gave into your urges and licked a stripe up the plane of his neck, bringing your hands around to grip hard at his back, creasing his already ruined shirt. His own mouth was suckling and nipping at your chest, hitting that sweet sweet spot just in time for your movements to get a little sloppy. 

Smacks of skin on skin fuelled the fire in your gut, and your fingers coiled around his blonde curls. His own movements stuttered, and you let out a guttural groan into the humidity of the room when you finally reached your peak, Art following not far behind you. 

You stood with effort, fixing your underwear and patting your dress down while Art panted beneath you. Then you patted him on the cheek, took his sunglasses back from his shirt and put them right back on your face.

“I’ll see you at the mixer next month.”

divider by @bunnysrph 🫶

[satoruarchive]

“oh please, me and satoru don’t use pet names.” you wave your hands at suguru. pfft, you and satoru calling each other those cheesy names? impossible.

. . . or maybe not.

you’d thought you and satoru would be nothing like those ‘cringey couples’ you see on the internet. i mean — you both were already pretty close before you started dating, whats new? extra hugs and a few kisses from time to time and oh. pet names!

“babyyyy.” satoru dragged out the letters, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “don’t gooo, ‘s not that important. pleaseee?”

satoru’s got you trapped in his embrace by the gate, whining into your skin like a child when his mother has to leave for work — except you’re powerless right now. what were you thinking, telling him that you had a long-term mission?

“‘toru.” you wrap your arms around him, hands sliding up and down his back. “it’s only a week, you’re a big boy, c’mon.” you pat his back, and you can only feel his pout deepen.

“but ‘m gonna miss you sooo much, sweets.”

“i know, i know. ill miss you too, baby.”

you press a quick yet loving peck to his lips, the gesture making his heart beat at an abnormal rate — wait, he’s falling for your tricks!

“if you reaaaaallyy loved me you wouldn’t go.” “i have to, pretty boy, let me go please?” “fineeeee. but you better come back exactly a week from now.” “you’re such a baby.”

suguru had to internally cringe from hearing your baby talk from afar.

[itji]

LIA IMAGINARY FRIEND, 241109

[aethelwyneleigh27]

I HAVE BEEN LISTENING TO HOZIER NON-STOP FOR THE PAST 6 HOURS.

If you guys know his songs "Too Sweet" and "Work Song", YOU CANNOT TELL ME SIMON RILEY ISN'T CODED IN THOSE SONGS, LIKE I KNOW THE HARDENED LIEUTENANT MORE LIKELY DOESN'T LISTEN TO THOSE KINDS OF SONGS BUT YOU CAN'T TELL ME THOSE SONGS AREN'T HIM ENGRAINED IN LYRICS.

There's so many ways to interpret "Too Sweet" and though the original meaning of the song is rejection, I have another way in mind to interpret it. So the question is, what do you want me to post first? These post will carry angst, I have no promises of a happy ending but I'll do my best to make it work.

And yes, although I know it's a rejection song, I will say early on that I will interpret it far different than what others will because I want to sway it a little bit on the end goal. I need happy endings too yk.

I'M FUCKING OBSESSED WITH HOZIER, IS THIS A NEW PHASE?

Also would y'all be interested in a Simon Riley dating playlist from my music taste??

@wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @shadofireshinobi @thelightdjinnofpalestine @09maruchan @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @ghosts-cyphera @fawnchives @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000 @iexiam