#thank you thank you thank you for the ask ily

[starkwlkr]

cinephile | oscar piastri

an: i love free will cause wydm i made an oscar piastri letterboxd fic🤭 and yea i used laura harrier as a faceclaim b4 but she’s gorgeous and i love her so yeaaaa (update: there’s a small typing error in one of the tweets, pls ignore it pretty pls ily)

also my letterboxd is deadpunks if you wanna follow 😭

INSTAGRAM

liked by letterboxd, tchalamet and others

yourusername haven’t found mr.305 yet but i did ask some guys who drive really fast what their four favorites are! i love my job!

oscarpiastri thanks for the moulin rouge commentary 👍🏻

yourusername is moulin rouge officially a favorite?

oscarpiastri if i say yes, can we watch another movie together?

yourusername omw with my dvds

tracklimitslol i am witnessing the birth of a cinephile

polepositionsz apologizes oscar!! i wasn’t familiar with your game

landonorris i wasn’t either

view all comments

INSTAGRAM

liked by a24, oscarpiastri and others

yourusername went to an award show after party, took a hike with a pretty aussie and now he’s taking me to his work? i fear i may have girlbossed a little too much

oscarpiastri i think it’s only fair, you showed me movies and now i show you cars

yourusername sweet deal ig

landonorris is this the movie lady?

yourusername the movie lady has a name!

letterboxd oscarpiastri we’re going to need our movie lady back!!

view all comments

[moonstruckme]

may i humbly request our lovely steddie with a carsick reader on a roadtrip. i imagine it’s eddies poor driving that sparks it and i could so picture steve and eddie bickering about it but still being very sweet to reader until she feels better

ily feel free to change what you want or not write it at all! thank you either way <3

Thanks for requesting <3

cw: nausea

poly!Steddie x fem!reader ♡ 771 words

Steve is on to you. Glancing at you at first in his visor mirror and then by turning around in his seat, an uneasy set to his brows. You try to focus on the A/C blowing on your knees via the small plastic vent. 

Eddie swerves into the next lane, and your throat tightens. 

“Hey,” Steve says to him, agitated, “take it easy.” 

“What?” 

“You’re driving like you’re trying to kill us.” 

“If I was trying to kill you, I’d have done it back in Iowa.” Eddie gives Steve’s leg a jostle, firm but fond. “And if you’re gonna be a backseat driver, I’ll put you in the backseat.” 

You aren’t looking, but he must be too distracted to notice the car in front of you slowing until it’s close. Your body rocks forward as he puts on the brakes. 

“I’m gonna open my window,” you say weakly. The windows in the front seat of Eddie’s van have hand cranks, but yours in the back only has a latching mechanism that allows it to open barely an inch. It’s enough for a concentrated stream of wind to hit your face if you lean your head against the glass. 

“Baby, on the highway?” Eddie asks over the whistling of air. 

“You’re making her sick,” Steve accuses. 

“I am not.” Eddie glances back at you. “Am I making you sick?” 

“No,” you mumble. 

“Stop driving like a lunatic.” The range between the glare Steve pins Eddie with and the soft look he gives you is impressive. “Hey, try to look out the front window if you can, okay? Do you wanna switch seats?” 

“That’s okay.” You breathe in, focussing on the fresh air hitting your face. “I’m good.” 

“Is it the heat? Are you hot?” 

“She’s always hot,” says Eddie, earning him a shove. “Hey! No attacking the driver.” 

Steve frowns at you. “Do you want to stop? We can pull over for a while.” 

You shake your head, stopping when your nausea worsens. “It’ll pass.” 

“Okay. Look out the front window, honey.” 

You do. Eddie’s eyes continually dart to you in the rear view mirror. You meet them once, and he pouts. 

“You want some of my coke?” he offers. “It’s, uh, kind of warm, but…” 

“I’m okay.” You offer a wan smile. “Thanks.” 

Steve turns around again. “Are you sure you don’t want to pull over? We could use a stop anyway.” 

You lean into the wind blasting through your window, breathing deeply. “I’m fine.” 

Five minutes later finds you sitting on the curb of a gas station with your head to your knees. 

Eddie lifts your hair. The sun beating down on your neck is worth it for the cooling power of the breeze. He’s asked how you’re feeling about every ten seconds since you exited the highway. You’ve stopped answering in anything but hums and grunts. 

The crisp sound of a soda can opening is about the best thing you’ve heard all day. 

“Here.” Steve sits on your other side. “See if this helps.” 

Beads of condensation roll off the can of ginger ale, wetting both Steve’s palm and yours when you take it. You tilt your chin up to take a sharp, fizzy sip. 

Eddie grins when you exhale. 

“Good stuff, huh?” he asks hopefully. 

“It helps,” you agree. 

“I think we should wait a while before getting back on the road,” says Steve. “But when we do, I’m driving.” 

“Uh.” Eddie’s eyebrows raise. “No, you are not.” 

Steve gives him an unamused look. He mimics Eddie’s intonation. “Yeah, I am.” 

“No! It’s Eddie’s Van Halen. Eddie drives.” 

“Oh, grow up. We were going to have to switch out at some point between here and California.” 

“I don’t know what you were thinking, but I have a twelve-pack of Jolts in the back. I can go all night.” 

“Perfect, that sounds super safe. It was your driving that got her carsick in the first place.” 

Something dangerously close to contrition flashes across Eddie’s expression as he looks to you. 

You give him a sorry smile. “I’m feeling a lot better now.” 

His mouth tilts. “Yeah? Glad to hear it, beautiful. Hey, maybe when we hit the road again we can try something new. Obviously you’re a better candidate for the passenger seat than Stevie here, so you can play DJ.” He waggles his eyebrows. “We have an array of music in Eddie’s Van Halen, with vocal accompaniment by yours truly.” 

Steve huffs, an eye roll in audible form. 

Before they can start bickering again, you say, “Yeah, sure. A distraction might help.”  

Eddie grins. “That’s my girl.”

[sevsgiirl]

hi, ive been reading a lot of your fics lately and i absolutely adore how you write sevika mwehehe can i have a request? can you make a fic where reader unintentionally raised her voice at sevika during an argument and sevika went teary eyed with her puppy eyes, and after that reader promised sevika that she'll never do it again, maybe a lots of angst and fluff/comfort? thank you so much and please never stop writinggggggg AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH

— sevika when you raise your voice at her

synopsis: you and sevika had one promise to each other; no matter what happens, you won’t blow an argument out of proportion. if either one of you senses you’re about to say or do something spiteful — you walk out. so what happens when you fail to do that and hurt her in the process?

tags: arguing, mentions of violence, screaming, miscommunication, hurt/comfort, angst, reader is kind of a bitch (I was lowkey projecting when I wrote this)

note: I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG but as a girly who has serious temper issues this req hit too close to home :’) because my biggest fear is accidentally letting my anger out on my partner so thank you for sending this req in and for your kind words. ily <3 I hope you like this.

it felt like you two were running around in circles at this point.

you only ever asked sevika one thing and one thing only - to look out for herself and to stop playing martyr all the time. you get it. she has a job to do and she looks out for people. but how much more of playing sacrifice will it take before her actions eventually backfire on her?

maybe you sounded selfish, but you didn’t care. you were exhausted seeing your girlfriend come home all the time looking so beaten up - sometimes her prosthetic was missing, she’s limping, blood smeared all over her and there have been occasions she didn’t even come home. you ran around zaun in search of her during those days just to find her sporting new bruises and another broken limb in the last drop, clearly not wanting you to see her in that state.

but you did. you always do and you were getting tired fearing for her life 24/7.

“sweetheart, it’s not that big of a deal-“

you scoffed, throwing your hands up “of course you don’t think it’s a big deal, you’re only thinking about yourself, vika.”

you’ve been going on about this for almost an hour now and yet neither of you can’t seem to reach an agreement. you were both stubborn but the minute she walked into the front door adorning another black eye, bruised upper lip and new stitches, you knew enough was enough.

you shook your head, setting the medicine kit aside as you turned away from her because you knew if you stared at her for too long you were going to end up having a nervous breakdown. because how much longer until she realizes her self destructive behavior is not only hurting herself but you as well?

she sighed, leaning against the couch as she watched you gripped the kitchen counter, refusing to meet her eye.

“it’s not like I wanted this to happen. who wants to get their ass beat? but it was inevitable and if I didn’t get those payments silco will-“

“oh my god, who gives a fuck about silco?” you exclaimed, whipping around to look at her with a scowl “he is not worth getting your ass whooped every. single. day, sevika. he really isn’t and you need to get it through your head that this need to put your life on the line for people who treat you like crap is not doing you any good and it never will.”

“he has a plan. I wouldn’t be trusting him if he didn’t.” she argued through clenched teeth, trying to sit up and you only threw a glare at her.

“sevika, sit your ass back down before you hurt yourself-“

“no, because I hate it that you’re treating me like I’m so fragile and acting like my work means nothing and that everything I do is just for nothing.” she hissed and you only looked at her with your mouth agape.

“when did I say any of that?” you said as you stalked towards her “stop making it seem like my concern for you is just me trying to undermine you and your job when I’ve been here to support you since day one.”

“well, it doesn’t feel like it-“

“because fucking look at you, sevika!” you couldn’t hold it in anymore, your anger finally boiled over and words were thrown just to spite “you look like a fucking idiot every time you walk through the door and you have a new black eye, your mech arm is ripped off, your leg is limping or you can’t feel your left fucking ass cheek. I take care of you every single time yet you still to go back to silco just so he can put you through the same bullshit over and over again!”

“so what? are you just reckless or too stupid? which one is it?” you were breathing heavily and sevika could only stare at you with wide eyes and her lips parted.

she’s never seen you this mad before, not only that but what you just said to her… it hurt not only because you wanted your words to hurt, but because all she could think about is how you once promised each other that you’d never let your arguments get this far.

she understood where you coming from but if there was one person she’d never expect to blow up on her, it was you.

she closed her eyes and tried to muster up a response, but she found nothing. instead, you were greeted with silence as sevika turned her back on you and placed her hands on her hips.

you were still recovering from your outburst but the second the dust settled in and you realized your mistake, it was as if your factory settings were switched and you immediately walked over to sevika, your hands trembling.

“vika…” you said as you laid a tentative hand on her shoulder “vika, I’m sorry I didn’t mean-“

“j-just forget about it,” you didn’t miss the way her voice shook. she was never the type to cry in front of anyone, not even you most times, but you recognized the signs of her resolve crumbling.

with that, you wasted no time hugging her from behind, holding onto her like she was your life support.

“vika, baby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to raise my voice I just…” you let out a shuddering breath and held her tighter “I just got so worried. I hate seeing you get hurt all the time and I know it’s your job and you know much I appreciate what you do for this city but just… I can’t afford to lose you, baby.”

you nuzzled against her broad back and let out a sniffle “because what if one day you just don’t walk through those doors anymore? what if it’s not your mech arm that’s gone, but you entirely? I can’t keep risking letting you get hurt until eventually I just lose all of you. that’d be the end of me and I can’t fucking do that.”

“I’m so scared of losing you, vika.” you said, your voice trembling “you’re the only one I have left and if I lose you I wouldn’t know what to do.”

it was quiet. so eerily quiet you could hear a pin drop before finally, sevika lets out a deep breath and loosens your arms around her so she could face you.

what you see once she turns around nearly shatters your heart into smithereens - tear stained cheeks and glossy eyes, she looked absolutely torn apart and you wanted to beat yourself up for even raising your voice at her in the first place.

“oh baby,” you cupped her cheek and almost as if on instinct, she leaned into it “I’m so fucking, sorry. I’m so sorry, vika. please f-forgive me. I just-“

she shook her head, placing her palm on top of yours “i-it’s okay,” she said “just… I understand where you’re coming from, and I’ll try to look out for myself more properly. but just know you’re never gonna lose me, okay? I’ll always be here with you. no matter what. forever and always.”

she squeezed her eyes shut and intertwined your fingers together “let’s just not fight like that ever again, okay?”

you nodded, engulfing her in a tight embrace “I promise.” you said, emphasizing every word “never again.”

[hobivore]

Transient | LMH

— Lee Minho x reader (f)

Growing up in the casino business, you—now standing at the head of your family’s imperium—know all the tricks of the trade. Rule number one: don’t gamble. It would be such an easy rule to follow if it weren’t for your company’s most trusted lawyer, Minho Lee, who loves nothing more than to raise the stakes.

AU/Trope: lawyer!au, smut (minors DNI)

Warnings: sub!minho, rope bondage, sensory deprivation (blindfolding), impact play (face slapping), wax play, knife play, one small drop of blood, choking, spitting, light cockstepping, no aftercare, power dynamics, complicated ‘relationship’ (two people using each other because they’re bad at feelings)

WC: 4.8k

A/N: This piece was originally uploaded to my old sideblog linoguistics and written for the s! week sub!skz event by @skzseasons​, check them out for more. Many thanks to the wonderful @hesperantha for beta reading. ILY!

© hobivore Reposts, translations and modifications are not allowed. All events and characters are fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

— SKZ masterlist | Ask box

“Will that be all, boss?” 

Boss. The word ricochets against his teeth and rolls off his tongue like a caged bird set free. Only Minho Lee could make a title sound like that: like a prayer, a taunt, a pet name, a challenge.

The tilt of his head tells you he already knows this isn’t all. Of course he knows; it’s nearing 1 a.m. on a Tuesday, and you wouldn’t have him come over to your apartment only to deliver you the most recent news on the acquisition of Full House Entertainment. Sure, it’s an important step for your company, but acting the herald is way below his pay grade.

No—Minho is here for something else entirely, and his feigned innocence is all part of this cat and mouse game the two of you have been playing for years now. 

He waits for your answer, shoulders straight, something subversive to the set of his mouth. You let your gaze travel down his figure, stretching out the silence until it thickens the air with tension. Your fingers play with the silver necklace around your neck, lingering on the edge of your collarbone, and he swallows. 

You suppress a chuckle at the familiar, telltale sign betraying him. In a way, you and Minho have grown into your roles in the company alongside each other. It had been your father who had hired him—although he probably wouldn’t have, had he known the man would end up in his daughter’s bed—when Minho was fresh out of law school, stiff-collared, hungry, ready to take on the world. 

To Minho’s credit, he remains still, and when your eyes meet his again you see a hint of that same fervour behind them. But rather than a spark of wildfire, it’s the burning of a furnace; calculated and controlled, white-hot. 

“Drink?” you inquire, more command than question, walking towards the cabinet and opening a whiskey decanter. He follows your movements, watching closely. Even when you turn around to pick up a glass you know his gaze never travels below your shoulders. His self-restraint is admirable. 

“Tell me,” you hand him his drink and he takes it, clinking the edge of the glass against yours. “What do you think of Nick Blake?” 

Minho narrows his eyes. “He’s a fool.”

Nick Blake is the current chief financial officer of Full House Entertainment. You’ve been told that although he may be new to the position, he shows promise, so you tilt your head in interest at Minho’s response.

“I’ve heard other things.” 

Minho swirls the liquor around in his glass and shrugs. “Whoever you heard that from is wrong. You should’ve asked me.”

You raise an eyebrow at his brusque tone. Few men would have the guts to say something like that to your face—or behind your back, for that matter. But Minho has never been anything but forthright with you, quickly becoming one of your most trusted employees. And he knows it; knows he can get away with a lot more than the average member of your staff. 

You decide to challenge him, to push back a little and see if he stands his ground. “Last time I checked, this was my company. I’m perfectly capable of deciding who to seek out for counsel.”

“It is. You are. But none of us benefit from mistakes. I don’t trust him.” 

You sigh. Ever since you took over from your father the company has grown explosively. The profits are great, but with diverse lines of business comes an increased difficulty in oversight. You find yourself needing to rely on others more and more—something you don’t particularly like. 

“So you think I should fire him?”

Minho takes a swig of his whiskey, eyes meeting yours. “I don’t know, aren’t you the boss?” he retorts, defiant, one brow raised. 

You snort—an ungraceful sound—and he grins. You put your glass down on the cabinet and give him a small nod. “Thank you for your honesty. I will reconsider Blake’s position.”

A silence falls between the two of you, not unwelcome, some of the earlier tension permeating the air again as your eyes fix on the curve of his cupid’s bow. The anticipation feels familiar in a way that puts you at ease, makes you relax. 

Minho is not the type for small talk and useless chatter. It's one of the things you like about him; he's astute and straight to the point. He doesn't waste your time. 

And unlike most others he doesn't try to flatter you. It's a welcome change from the sycophants that come with your position. Instead, Minho has always relied on his wits and his sharp tongue. Navigated his way through the muddy water of rules and regulations until he knew them like the back of his hand. Knew how to bend them and how to break them. 

There was a certain softness to him at first, back then; but much like you, he’s always been quick to adapt, quick to change. 

You don’t pry into his personal life. You don’t ask and you don’t care. Just like you don’t care how he gets things done as long as he does them—because you know he always delivers, one way or another. He doesn’t keep to his luxurious office, preferring the grimy underbellies of your casinos instead, not afraid of getting his hands dirty. 

Still, it’s all too easy to picture him as a deer-eyed, grubby-kneed kid, growing up watching the same programs on TV as you did. Fast-paced animations, colourful heroes saving people and serving justice. And then, later, the hours spent behind stacks of books, in courtrooms, for a good cause, only to end up here—

But Minho isn’t innocent. Every move and every choice he makes is deliberate. He, like no other, knows the world isn’t black and white. He wades through the grey fog, always mindful of the lines he should not cross.

It seems you are his only exception.

There’s an irony to it, its taste bittersweet on his tongue every time you kiss. An acidity to the both of you circling each other as you take his glass, your fingertips brushing against his skin. 

“What do you want?” you ask, putting his drink down next to yours. You wait for him to say the word, confirming that he wants this as much as you do.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and it’s out of line, teetering on the edge of mockery if it wasn’t for the honesty in his eyes. His long lashes caress his cheeks when he blinks, twice. “Venom.”

There’s a beat of silence as the word hangs in the air between you, followed by his look of surprise when the flat of your hand connects with his cheek. The expression lasts only a second, quickly overtaken by something darker as his skin flushes pink. 

“I asked you a question.” You step closer, grabbing his jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh of his cheeks, distorting his grin. “Answer me.”

It’s a deflection, an attempt to steer away from his admission, and it works: the immediate effect it has on him, how it makes his pupils dilate and his breath hitch in his throat. 

“Please,” he says, barely audible, mouth forced into a pout by your hold on him, “make it hurt.”

His words trickle down your skin like molasses and settle deep in your belly. You press your lips against his, tasting the rich, smoky flavour of the alcohol you’ve been raised on, coupled with that sweet taste that’s so unmistakably him— 

Minho lets out a sudden moan as you sink your teeth into his bottom lip and you swallow the sound, letting go of his face, not missing the way he sways into you as you lean back and tap one finger on his suit jacket. “Follow me.”

There’s a shift in the air as you enter your bedroom, a place he’s seen countless of times—a privilege reserved to only a handful of your lovers. You can feel his presence behind you, heat radiating off him in waves, feeding your own excitement. 

“Take off your clothes,” you instruct, walking towards a large wooden chest beside the bed, “and get on your knees.”

When you turn back around, a long piece of red rope in your hands, you’re surprised to see him kneeling on the thick rug already. His eyes are trained on the floor and his clothes lay next to him, neatly folded.  

“Someone’s eager tonight,” you smile and grab a fistful of his dark hair, tilting his face upwards. 

“Just making it easy for you,” he grins, “for now.” 

You tighten your grip and he shivers at the pinpricks of pain tickling his scalp. “You’ve always liked to play with fire.”  

He tilts his head, as much as your hand allows. “A man can hope.” 

You crouch down in front of him, noses almost touching, catching his half-lidded stare. “Show me you deserve it.” 

Rising to your feet again, you instruct: “Arms in position.” He puts them behind his back, forearms parallel to each other, fingers grazing his elbows. 

You carefully wrap the rope around his forearms, then twice around his chest, right above the pectoral muscle. Putting your hand in his, you ask him to squeeze it. “Good?” 

He confirms, voice low, and you bring the rope together at the back to tie it to the loop on his wrists, locking the box tie with a sturdy knot so his upper arms are confined against his body. Your fingers adjust the hemp where needed, your own body remembering the familiar motions. You wrap the leftover rope around his torso, this time just below his pectorals, across the sternum, and fasten it at the back. 

You check his range of motion one more time before stepping in front of him, admiring your handiwork. His arms are pulled back, chest rising and falling steadily, pushed forward by the rope. The red hemp forms a striking contrast to his skin and when your fingers skim the side of his shoulder he shivers, the muscles in his thighs tensing. 

With a pleased hum you notice his responsiveness to your touch. Your gaze drops down to where his cock hangs between his legs, already half-hard. The sight of him on his knees, wrapped up and presented to you like an offering, sends a lick of heat down your spine and you fight the urge to reach out and touch him again—there’s a time and place for your own desire, and it will have to wait for now. 

You walk back to the chest and take out a bottle of massage oil and a silk sash, sifting through the chest’s contents until you find a small white box holding a collection of candles: massage candles, coloured soy flakes, and plain white paraffin candles. You know Minho prefers the latter, their heat more intense, the hot wax contrasting the colder air in the room. For a moment you consider starting with the massage candles just to rile him up, to have him writhing in his restraints and begging for more—but tonight’s not a night for such patience. 

You take the necessary precautions for his safety and return with the items, displaying them on the carpet in front of him. 

He watches you pour some of the oil on your hands and tilts his chin towards the candles. “Looks like it’s my lucky day today.” 

“Don’t be so sure of that.” You kneel down in front of him and smooth one hand over his chest. “I haven’t started yet.” 

Expertly, you massage the liquid into his skin, enjoying the warmth of his body underneath your fingers. When his chest and stomach glisten in the muted lighting you move behind him, lathering his shoulders with copious amounts of oil. Minho’s silent except for the occasional sharp inhale when you graze your nails over his skin, the subtle scent of sandalwood filling the air. 

“You’re sensitive today,” you murmur as you trail your fingertips down his nape, gooseflesh erupting in their wake. 

“It’s—it’s been a while,” he groans, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip when you press your front against his back, reaching around to rake your nails over his chest. “I’ve been away for a long time.”

You ignore the implications of his words—you know he could have anyone he wants, anytime, anywhere—before they can unravel the frayed edges of your chest, forcing yourself to focus on the sharp press of your nails. 

“Good,” your breath ghosts the shell of his ear as he shifts under your rough touch, “more fun for me.”

You stand up and move to face him again, tutting when you notice he’s closed his legs a little, looking for some friction on his aching cock. You nudge one thigh with the toe of your shoe. “Keep them spread.” 

He obliges, albeit reluctantly, and you bend down to adjust the ropes around his torso a bit, making sure to linger in front of his face. His eyelids flutter, gaze briefly flicking up to your chest, and you chuckle. 

“Like what you see?” 

“Always,” he says, amused, despite his impuissance. “I told you I’ve missed you.” 

You smile at his words, their intent unmistakeable this time. And it’d be a lie to say you didn’t enjoy this, this back-and-forth between the two of you, even though you know he doesn’t mean half of what he says; weaponises his words and uses them to try and get a rise out of you. He’s a lawyer, after all. A good one. 

And all good lawyers lie. 

“Don’t make me hit you again.” You give the ropes a last tug, straightening your back. 

“Now that—” Minho shakes the hair out of his eyes, looking up at you, “—that would be a real shame.” 

“Absolutely,” you confirm, picking up the black sash, mirroring his smirk. “You’d like that way too much. Besides,” you tie the fabric around his head, “you haven’t earned the right to look at me just yet.” 

Minho opens his mouth, witty response dying on his tongue as your oil-slick palm, unseen, wraps around his cock. “Fuck—” he curses, and you squeeze him, once, before removing your hand again. He groans. “That’s not fair.” 

You bring your face next to his, lips brushing his cheekbone. “Nothing in this world is fair, Minho. You of all people ought to know that.”

Crossing the room, you grab the dressing table chair and put it down in front of him. His shoulders tense at the sudden sound; it’s the only reaction he shows, putting on a false display of nonchalance as you sit down and light a candle.

At first glance he does appear at ease, but you notice the small signs of tension: the quickening rise and fall of his chest, the tautness in his shoulders, the tremble that runs down his body at the soft click of the lighter. His head is slightly cocked, turned towards you, trying to catch any sounds you might make when you dribble some wax on your own arm to test the heat. 

When the first drop hits his skin he hisses sharply, wax trickling down his chest. You know it doesn’t hurt when drizzled from this height, not really, a mild sting at most—but being blindfolded and unable to anticipate your next move is enough to have him on edge. 

You pour the hot wax on his shoulders, his chest, his arms. The room is quiet as you work in silence, adjusting the heat and intensity by moving the candle closer or farther away from his skin. He bites back a whimper as some of it drips on a nipple, trying to stay focused, trying to predict your next move.

But when you press the sole of your shoe against his neglected cock he whines—loudly—and you laugh. You keep it there, the pressure not enough to satisfy him, and he shifts uneasily under your touch. 

“What do you want?” You feign innocence, voice flat and uninterested. 

“Please—” he begs, hoarse, “—more.” 

“Go on then. Move.” You dribble the hot wax on his upper thigh, close to your foot. He groans in response and rocks his hips, reluctant at first, almost shy, giving in with a choked-off sound. He’s more frantic now: previous restraint gone, the rope spanning taut across his chest, his knees digging into the carpet. 

Minho tends to be quiet, holds back his moans as if he’s afraid they’d escape the room. But you know his cursing is only a preamble so you aim to draw out every sound. To coax them from his lips until he can’t keep them caged behind his teeth any longer. 

“Look at you,” you muse, in awe of the vision of him, “such a desperate mess.” 

It’s a sight few people get to see: Minho Lee bound and covered in wax, quickly cooling, hardening into white strands of pearls on his skin. Your foot is pressing his cock against his lower abdomen, precum wetting the red sole, his thighs trembling with exertion as he ruts against it. 

You squeeze your own thighs together in an attempt to find some relief and when his tongue darts out to wet his lips you can’t help but lean in, blowing out the candle and crashing your mouth against his, taking him by surprise. The kiss is messy, feverish; all tongue and teeth as you nip at his lips, a hand tangling in his hair. 

He objects, a faint whine, when you pull back and take your foot off his cock. “You did so well,” your voice sounds breathy as you untie the sash, steadying your wobbly, eager fingers, “you deserve a reward.”

Minho blinks, letting his eyes adjust to the light, pupils still blown wide and unfocussed. 

“But you’ll have to get it yourself.” 

You hike your dress up, spreading your legs, inviting, and he sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of your soaked panties. 

“What are you waiting for?” you bait, enjoying the brief, rare glimpse of bewilderment flickering across his face before he collects his bearings and shuffles closer on his knees, until he is mere inches away from your clothed core. 

Minho closes his eyes, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing as he leans forward. His skin is still covered in dried wax, which has started to flake, but he doesn’t seem to care—too preoccupied with pushing his face into the black lace at the apex of your thighs. 

When he flattens his tongue against the fabric it’s you who has to suppress a moan, nerves set alight with every nudge of his nose.

“Ugh—this—” as expected, it doesn’t take long for him to get frustrated with the barrier keeping him from tasting you properly, “—is supposed to be a reward?”

You grab his hair, tugging at it sharply, noticing the way he hisses in response. “Don’t get greedy now, Minho.” Your index traces the edge of his jaw before giving him a gentle smack on the cheek. It’s nowhere near firm enough to be satisfying, only serving to fuel his impatience. “I can leave you here and go back to my other employees, if that’s what you prefer. Or we can continue like this.”

He narrows his eyes. It’s nothing to him if it isn’t a competition, a dispute, always and everywhere—in the courthouse, at the office, in your bed. You know he would’ve lost interest long ago if you hadn’t met him with the same fervour. 

His jaw ticks, determined, and he sits up, taking the hem of your panties between his teeth. You lift your hips so he can pull them down your legs, clumsily yet insistent, until they gather around your ankles. You lift one foot out of the fabric but before you can move the other leg Minho is already back, his face between your thighs.

When his mouth connects with your core he exhales, mumbling, “Fucking finally,” cutting off your reply with the plush of his lips wrapped around your clit. You can feel them curl against your skin at your jumbled words, warning him, a hand tangled into his hair as you hold him impossibly closer. 

It’s a little embarrassing how fast the knot in your stomach tightens, only to be unravelled again by the expert teasing of his tongue. “Fuck—Minho—” you gasp, and he pulls back slightly, slowing down his motions until you can feel your high ebb away, just out of reach. 

You groan. “Stop teasing.” 

He chuckles, the sound reverberating through your body, and you shiver. “Am I not good enough?” He leans back and looks up at you, eyes glinting. “Maybe you should go back to your other employees instead, then.”

His smile is a little crooked, and he tongues the inside of his cheek, as if he’s waiting for you to make a move. Expecting you to lash out or press your heel against his cock, anything—

You won’t give him the satisfaction. 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you bend down until your face is in front of his. “Miller is more than capable.” 

His expression falters for a second, morphing into something unreadable before he puts his carefully crafted mask back into place. “M—”

You cut him off with the press of your fingers against his lips. “Open.”

He obliges, eyes falling shut as you grab his tongue between your thumb and index and spit on it, coating your fingers in the mixture of saliva and arousal and spreading it over his already saturated face. 

“Go on, Minho Lee,” you tap his bottom lip, ignoring his protest as your fingers leave his mouth, “show me that tongue is good for anything other than fucking the law over.” 

This time he doesn’t have to be told twice, working a steady rhythm, paying close attention to the sound of your moans and the involuntary shaking of your legs. 

He revels in it: on his knees, restrained, driving you to the edge and turning you into a whimpering mess. It’s a small price to pay for the pleasure that crests over you in waves, the soft strokes of his tongue bringing you down from your high. 

Through the distorted blur, stars behind your eyelids, you see his face, still covered in a mixture of arousal and spit. A pleased smile pulls at the corners of his lips and you suddenly feel exposed despite his state of undress.

Rising to your feet, you pull your dress down and flatten the fabric with your hands, eyeing the way he tries to adjust his arms within his confines. “Let me clean you up and get these ropes off.”

You retrieve a stainless steel knife from the chest, kneeling down in front of him and carefully chipping away at the dried wax on his shoulders. It peels right off, the scent of sandalwood filling your nose once more now you’re in such close proximity to him. It’s mixed with something sharper, something you’ve come to associate with him—intimately familiar, a scent you could pick out in any room.

The blade drags across his collarbone and he shifts on his knees. “Don’t move,” you warn, enthralled by the gooseflesh erupting in the wake of the cold metal. A few inches higher, there’s the steady beat of his pulse, pressing against the steel. 

“I could kill you.”

The laugh he lets out is soft but complacent, a low rumble deep in his chest. “You won’t. I’m too good at my job.” 

There’s a sharp pang behind your breastbone. Does this count as work for him, too? When you call him late at night, is there ever a part of him that doesn’t want you? 

“Men can be replaced.” 

He turns his face towards you, the curl of his lips turning treacherous. “You like me too much.” 

It’s cocky, smug, and you hate it—hate how it’s the truth. In moments like these you wonder if he knows how much power he holds over you, and not for the first time tonight you’re thankful for the pokerface you were taught to wear. 

You press the tip of the knife into the hollow above his clavicle, a red drop blooming underneath the steel. “For a man so meticulous you’re pretty reckless sometimes.” 

If he felt the small cut he doesn’t show it, tilting his head towards the floor instead, angling it away from the sharp metal. “If it isn’t for me, it’s for this ridiculous pristine rug. I know it was a gift from your father. I’ll live.” 

It’s there, as always, woven between the threads of light-hearted banter and off-handed sarcastic remarks; something that shouldn’t exist between the two of you, something that has no place in your world: trust. Even if it exists only in these rare moments—fleeting, transient, a gossamer thread.

You shake your head and straighten your back, stepping behind him, worried he’d be able to hear your heart hammering against your ribs. Sometimes it feels as if he can see right through you—it makes you nervous, kept on tenterhooks, your intricate house of cards threatening to collapse. 

Busying yourself with prying the last bits of wax off his skin instead, your other hand traverses over his chest and shoulders, feeling the ridges and dips of sinewy muscle underneath. He leans into your touch and heat courses through your body as your own desire flares up again. You untie him and help him to his feet, his fingertips leaving scorching marks on your skin as you realise it’s the first time they’ve touched you tonight, a promise for more. 

You swallow thickly. “Get on the bed.” There’s an urgency to your voice that wasn’t there before, and you’re thankful he holds his snarky retort and clambers onto the bed without a word, back against the soft mattress. 

When you finally sink down on his cock it takes you all your effort not to moan loudly, hissing through clenched teeth. He’s right—it has been long, too long, and the slight burn as he bottoms out only fuels your arousal. 

The tips of his fingers caress your knees, but you allow him, too preoccupied with rolling your hips just right so his cock brushes against that sensitive spot every time you push yourself back on his thighs. 

His half-lidded gaze travels over your body and you put your hands on his shoulders, steadying yourself as you set an unrelenting pace. His jaw slackens at a particular motion of your hips so you repeat it, bending down to capture his mouth with your own, the faint taste of your own arousal still lingering on his tongue.

“Ah—please,” his brow furrows as if he’s in pain, pleasure overwhelming his senses. “Please let me fuck you.” His hands hover above your thighs, waiting, desperation lacing his voice at the thought of your refusal. 

Your fingers graze the edge of his jaw, almost tender—wandering down to his throat, wrapping around it, as you squeeze and tell him, “Then fuck me.”

Minho plants his feet on the bed and grabs ahold of your waist, nearly toppling you over if it wasn’t for the hand around his neck holding you up. You let yourself collapse against his shoulder, his pulse quickening underneath your fingertips as his thrusts become frantic, chasing the high you’ve been withholding from him all night. 

He mutters your name into your skin, a Judas kiss, and you feel your body react, disloyal—clenching around his cock, limbs leaden and heavy. Your fingers slip into his mouth, mind buzzing, a half-hearted attempt to stop his perjury. 

It’s sanctimonious, though, when you fall apart around him with his name on your lips. He follows suit when you tell him to, hips stuttering before stilling underneath you. There’s a drawn-out silence, only filled by your laboured breaths. Your dress is a welcome barrier between your bodies as his hands fall away from your waist, reluctant, and you resist the urge to hold him, moving off the bed. 

You watch him go through the motions you know by heart: bending down to retrieve his pants from the pile of clothes on the floor first, faint imprints of rope still lingering on his skin.

“Stay,” you say, and this time you hope it doesn’t sound like an order, “finish your drink first. You have a long trip back to Oklahoma ahead of you.”

He turns around, wearing that smile he’s mastered for your clients in court, and you already know the answer before it has left his mouth. The familiar words erode all the nights spent together until they slip through your fingers like sand. 

“Whatever you want, boss.”

Thank you for reading! If you liked this story please reblog, leave a comment, tell a friend, send me a pigeon, launch a mars rover. Your encouragement fuels my inner writer cryptid 👾

[captain-hawks]

OKAY HI i’m here to add another side to 🧸 anon’s bfb!iwa track

bfb!iwa who won’t make a real move no matter how high the tension is, and it’s driving you insane… but it’s also driving his own friends insane. they are all sick of watching him and his third degree yearns but his absolute refusal to do anything abt it

so mattsun and makki hatch a plan (well really mattsun, makki is here as an agent of chaos)

you’re hanging out w your bff and getting all dolled up, iwa catching you checking your makeup and doing a double take before asking what you’re dressed up for, his sister chiming in loudly from the other room w “SHE’S GOT A DAAAATE”

and they’re picking you up from the iwa house for some reason he cannot fathom, until you bounce to the front door in your too short skirt to reveal your date’s identity as none other than makki, one of HIS best friends

(all according to mattsun’s plan ofc) you go out and have a great time and when you’re dropped off again at the iwa house you just can’t shut up about how great it went and how sweet he was and how maybe you’ll get a kiss next time and and and (you’re in on the plan and almost feel guilty for playing it up so well buuuut)

LEIRA U ABSOLUTE GENIUS HAHAHAH (u 🤝 mattsun). ily thank you so much for this.

like the way i can absolutely see this man practically breaking his neck walking by his sister's room, freezing in place as he tries to remember how to make a normal face when he catches sight of all the bare thigh you have on display????

AND MAKKI'S THE DATE. OF COURSE HE IS. OF COURSEEEEE. he throws iwa a wink and tells him "i'll have her home by ten, sir" (mattsun promised him witness protection for his inevitable death when this all blows up).

and when you get back it's all hiro this and hiro that because makki knew that would piss iwa off even more.

(dare i say u accidentally text hajime a picture of a pair of lacy pink panties saying "these will match hiro's hair hehehe" pretending the text was for his sister—)

[uhohdad]

hear me out, loser! könig who's in love with his best friend and she drags him to go dress shopping and he has to consciously keep himself from drooling everytime she shows him a new dress. She's just so pretty, grabbable hips with the prettiest smile and she has that sparkle in her eyes and she's looking at *him.*

(18+) Dress Shopping with Loser!König

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅^ྀི ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅^ྀི ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅^ྀི ⋅˚₊ ‧୨୧ ‧₊˚

“What do you think of this one?”

Loser!König has heard this question all day long, and if he answered honestly, you’d run for the hills.

Loser!König can’t believe you’re inviting him to ogle at you. His eyes devour the way each dress hugs your curves, your legs that curtsy and twirl as you show off, hips that beg for his strong hands. His favorite are the particularly low-cut dresses, shamelessly drooling over your plush, perfect cleavage. He imagines he’s slipping his hardened hands down your collar and into your bra, grabbing two handfuls of your soft breasts, massaging them against his palms.

Loser!König’s erection has turned painful long ago, forced to tuck his aching cock into the waistband of his pants in hopes you can’t tell that you’re torturing him. Torturing him with your perfect body, with that brilliant smile, with soft, sweet eyes looking up at him so innocently. It brings a heat to both his face and his cock, leaking and throbbing in his pants.

Loser!König who can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to lift the hem of your dress and get a glimpse of your panties. He wants to sneak an upskirt photo, craves to know what color you’re wearing, what cut, if they’re lacy or not. The thought of a dainty bow on the top of your panties has a huffy groan threatening to leave his lips, a pretty little present for him to unwrap.

Loser!König can hardly resist the urge to drag you into the fitting room. Pin both of your wrists to the mirror with a brute hand, the other sneaking up your thighs and bunching up the dress. Grinding his aching cock against your front, nestling himself between your lips and rocking against your clit. Yanking your soaked panties to the side and bullying his thick cock into your dripping cunt while you claw at him, his name stuck in the back of your throat.

Loser!Konig who practically throws his wallet at the cashier when you go to pay. He would buy you a hundred dresses if it means he gets to look at you in them.

Loser!König pretends to use a fitting room to try on a shirt, but instead relieves his painful, throbbing erection, biting back his pathetic whines and grunts as he imagines he’s filling you up, hands dug into your hips in that pretty dress. Ravaging your tight, wet cunt until he paints the fitting room mirror with his finish, choking back a moan that threatens to twist into your name.

Loser!König is bright red and sweating when he leaves the fitting room, hoping you haven’t realized what a perverted creep he truly is.

“Äh, it didn’t fit.”

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅^ྀི ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅^ྀི ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅^ྀི ⋅˚₊ ‧୨୧ ‧₊˚

Loser!König

[choccy-milky]

K I love your art and story so much you don’t understand.

Clora is an absolute angel child that Jo will adopt and take everywhere on little Ravenclaw dates while Seb can go pout.

Also Your Sebastian….does things to me.

But to be faithful to my lovely darling Ominis I just have to say I love him in your art style, he looks so pretty and I would literally die if you did more of him.

ILY 🫶

i love YOU so much you are such a ray of sunshine and you make everyone in this fandom feel so included with how much you interact and contribute, its amazing...as an introvert ass hermit i admire you so much PLS NEVER CHANGE💖💖

and since you wanted more ominis HAVE HIM GIVING HAND SMOOCHES TO JO!!!🥰 ALSO YES absolutely 10000% jo and clora need to do cute ravenclaw things together NO BOYS ALLOWED

(tho in the end i think clora just yapped to jo about sherlock the entire time LMAO...sorry jo🙏)

[poke-poke-poke]

omg goomy miku...................

(i asked @mikufigureoftheday about miku figures with a goomy-esc colour palette a while back-- one of the figures picked was a figure i actually own! )

sketch + wip lol

[lazylittledragon]

mini mcm dump 🖤

only 24 hours out and i already want to go back

(puppetstarion was made by bokkicat!!)

[snowluvvie]

hiii may i pls req a strawberry shortcake with clark kent?

p.s. love ur blog<3

— with love from @preyingfaes / @fae-of-prey (sorry my main is shadow banned so i can only send messages on anon)

₊˚⊹ ♡ . Clark invented being gentlemanly and all-American, Valentine’s Day is a time for him to shine that's second to only your anniversary and Fourth of July ( shirtless at the grill, you get it. ) the two of you are so gross on Valentine’s Day. he's bringing you breakfast in bed and you're eating all giddy-like, stopping to kiss in between bites and he's holding your legs between his while you eat, like he can't stand to stop touching you, even for a moment. while you're out on your date during the day, you run into one of Smallville's other couples, and the girl is shooting a sidelong look at her boyfriend when she sees the way Clark treats you. sure, it's normal for him to do everything for you—every door opened, jar opened, heavy object carried—it's days like this that just emphasize it and make you stare at him in wide-eyed wonder, trying to figure out how he ended up this way. ( lots of boys are raised on farms, and they're not all Clark Kents. ) when he's fucking you on the barn couch that night, and you're digging your fingernails into his shoulders like he's gonna run away, he's babbling away in your ear, waxing poetic between moans and whimpers about how much he loves you. even when you're falling asleep that night—you're more than tuckered out after that—he's keeping himself awake mumbling to you about "all the rest of our Valentine's Days." next year, and the year after, and the year you get married, and when you have your own house, and when you have kids. what can he say? he's a forward thinking guy—you're perfectly happy to just live in this day, though

[hngryazn]

Hi I love your reverse alien au! I like to think alien Bruce swims through space like an octopus. Like ☂️🌂☂️🌂☂️🌂 you know what I mean???

nyoom

[nibbelraz]

YESSS happy that you liked!!! :D

Also, pls, Tianshang has become my obsession the past weeks, all I can think is how Tianlang-jun's first love was also a cultivator in yellow and how he is doomed to love the sun again again and again-

ALSO-

the Heavenly DEMON?? IN LOVE WITH GOD???

I need them to kiss and them I need Mobei to be jealous and fall into the Tianshang orbit without realizing he is out of his depth aaaaaaaaaaaaa

Ahem

I'm normal about them :3

THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU DONT KNOW HOW HAPPY THAT FIC MADE ME AAAAA SO GOOD

Daddy on Daddy action has been stuck in my head for DAYS since I saw that like I NEED more of them so badly and I truly adore Mobei Jun so all three of them...what a lovely Demon Sandwich Qinghua has 💞

YES YES THE FACT THAT HIS FIRST LOVE WAS A CULTIVATOR IN GOLD-

Hold on because I have thoughts about them I love to think that either the first time Tianlang-Jun saw Qinghua or saw him from behind but genuinely just forgot who he was. He was severely taken aback because I like to headcanon Shang Qinghua with curly hair and Su Xiyan is said to look closely to Luo Binghe so From Behind with Qinghua's hair down, An Ding golden robes, and for a moment an air of unwritten confident as he manages the peaks with ease, he was briefly reminded about someone he onced loved.

HOWEVER!! I really enjoy the idea that he fell in love with Shang Qinghua because he's so drastically different from Su Xiyan. He's a crying, manipulative, two faced man, that will do anything to save himself, someone that genuinely has a lot of love in his heart to manage his peak with as much care it while juggling a spoiled kings kingdom that is OBVIOUS he has an attachment too. This nervous, sweaty, pathetic little human will fall to his knees and cry for mercy while plotting your demise, he's cunning, smart and uses his resources so well. And he writes the best smut he's ever seen. Things he didn't even think could be put into writing let alone attempt. He's head over heels and he's absolutely fascinated at how strange he is. How interesting. Completely different.

ALSO THE GOD THING, DADDY X GOD GOES SOOOOO GOOD AAAAAA I NEED MORE OF THEM SO BAD

Mobei Jun would be so jealous ohhh especially when he finds out the former emperor has snagged HIS HUMAN!! That he's been OPENLY COURTING HOW DARE HE!! Tianlang-Jun is aware of this courting, he's very interested in Mobei Jun Too, knows Shang Qinghua is into Mobei as well. He's going to make it happen 🥰

[arczism]

Just letting you know that any time I see your Sanji, my heart skips a beat. And it gets even worse when he’s with Zoro. You draw them so beautifully.

AWWWWWWWWWW Please accept this cozy zosan as my humble thanks

[buwheal]

Raises my eyebrows. Up to nothing. Huh Spamton?

[uhohdad]

What would truly humiliate König (sexual style)? ;)

König loves being forced to eat his own cum :(

Especially if implemented when he breaks the rules, finishing too early or without permission. It never fails to turn him red in the face. When the degradation pairs with a scolding, he feels small, a feat only you could pull off.

Swiping two of your fingers across the mess he made on his stomach, ordering him to open up so you can drag his cum across his tongue, forcing him to clean your fingers over and over, stretching out his punishment until he’s swallowed every drop.

If he stains his underwear with his finish, he’s gagged with the crumpled and ruined fabric, the wet splotch settled right on his tongue, his whines and needy moans muffled until you’re satisfied.

If any of his cum gets on the floor, he’s ordered to get on his hands and knees and lick up his mess until it’s spotless. If he’s been extra disobedient, you press a gentle but firm shoe to the back of his head, smearing his mistake on his face.

If he can’t control himself while pleasuring you, finishing into your warm, tight cunt too early, he’s dragged between your thighs by his hair. He’s not allowed to pull away for air until he’s tidied his mess and corrected his failure - lapping at your arousal and his cum until you’re spasming on his greedy tongue. ♡

♡ KÖNIG DRABBLE MASTERLIST ♡

[shamedumpster]

Okay now I really wanna see grantaire in one of your cool outfits :DD

Here you go! >:)

(+ bonus Enjolras 👀)