#there’s definitely more but its been driving me up the wall

[gnohomotho-blog]

Just a game (part 2) 𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋

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Pairing: Hwang In-ho / The Frontman x fem!reader

Summary: We're getting there, folks. (☞ﾟヮﾟ)☞ ☜(ﾟヮﾟ☜) Mostly fluff, need, imagination, fantasy, slow burn. Focus on the f!reader, because you deserve nice things. She's home, receiving odd gifts, some sweet, some...quite the not sweet, the game and plot and trouser legs thicken (I'm so sorry, it's literally 2 a.m. here). In-ho definitely isn't obsessing over you, hatching elaborate plans, thinking of you so hard he'll break another turtleneck. Not saying the f!reader has any specific issues, but if you recognize any, I hope to be nothing but respectful. ♥ Oh, and we have a dream sequence, Freud would be proud.

(This was mainly meant as a "put your feet up and be cozy, read about yourself and feel good" read, the action will come later. Among other things. I'm so sorry, my thesis is driving me mad.)

Warnings: It's the god damn Front Man The usual Squid Game warnings, mdni, stalking, spying, voyeurism, touching, self-touching, sexual themes, sexual almost-intercourse, descriptions of anatomy and body parts, blood, yearning, some terrible references and Slavic folklore. Privacy? In my fic? It's less likely than you think.

Word count: 4.2k

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A cup of tea. A cup. You were watching the cup. Steam rises from it and folds into nothing. Your stomach is churning. Is it stress? You ponder. Seeing the liquid close in on itself as you stir it. Again and again.

"It'll get cold." You say, to no one. You try to breathe. Heart pounding. Head a bit spinny. You look around your room. Dimly lit, warm orange light from a salt lamp. You check your blinds - still closed, still safe. Noise from other people you try to filter out. Why do you jump at every single sound? Why does white noise blaring its head off make for the only atmosphere you can stand? You wonder. You get up. The world spins. The phone lies on your bed. As it has for the last three hours. Unchecked. Your sound is off. It always is. You turned off everything this time. It's just black. You try to think, ground yourself, poems float through your pounding head. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the tall mirrors of your wardrobe. An oddly shaped form stares back at you.

"Jesus Christ…I look…like shit." The mirrored lips curl around your words - but it might as well have been a stranger speaking back at you. You don't recognize yourself, and what you do, you dislike. Like a funhouse mirror. Without the fun. Your long hair falls across your shoulders, curling towards the ends. Your exposed skin is cold and giving a nice exposé of every vein under your neck, driving rivers of blue across your collarbones, your shoulders, your chest. You won't look further. They seem to be drawn to your middle, pooling across your skin. People often referred to you as pale, no matter your actual skin tone. When things got a tad too heavy, you became transparent. It was calming, sometimes. Calming that so much was trying to keep you alive to the point of exhausting itself and sending highways of signals through every vein to keep at it. Your head spins again. More poems. Try to drink the tea.

"Light your candle, one, two, there's a moth…" You know the rest. But the lips fail to speak. You pick up the phone. And almost knock over your tea. Then proceed to fight an urge to fling it into a wall and watch the stains roll down like fresh blood.

Seventeen missed calls from a blocked number - your now ex-companion. A worried message from your friend, no doubt spurred by said ex-companion with an entirely different story to reality. Frowning, you adjust your dressing gown and tie it down to hold everything in and hold you together.

"Hey, Y/N…I know you probably don't want to talk, but I'm sorry things went so badly. I'm here."

You hate yourself a little more. Clara has always been a darling, you…cared for her. A lot. You wish to say "loved", you squint your eyes and wish to say you love her. People are kind. People are always so very kind. And you can't drink a cup of tea. Nor reply. There's also an email. From a set of numbers, no name. You open it, against your better judgement. No subject, only a photograph. Of your door. Your door inside your flat. Which is locked. You didn't ring anyone in. You, of all people, didn't hear any steps on the stairs. You live at the very top floor. And still?! What is wrong with you lately, now of all times?

And still, there is a photograph of your door. With…things? Your shoes were gently placed beside your mat.

"Um…" You knock on your housemate's door - how grateful you are for the economic situation which doesn't permit you to live alone now, you think bitterly as his steps approach.

"Oh, Y/N, how are you? What can I do you for?" Ever the cheerful voice and visage stands before you, half dressed, always flooded with work and hobbies. The room behind him is full of papers and candles, manuals and scripts, and information that probably shouldn't be lying around covered in bird photography snaps. It calms you a tad. You breathe out and uncross your arms. In the back of your mind, you wonder what he's always so entranced with.

"I'm getting there, thank you, Lubo." Your chest falls a tad, you really do feel a bit better, but very on edge. You fidget with your fingers as you speak. "Would it be alright to ask if you could open the main door with me? Something is there and I've been listening to too many IRA anthems to trust it." Because making a joke out of a very serious situation never failed you yet.

"Sure!"

You notice one of the birds on the ground behind him. Gazing at one photograph a little longer, you smile at the birdie and its soft grey feathers, little black dash across its little eyes...you realise you're looking at a shrike. The universe really is sending her best.

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You open the door as Lubo endeavours to rummage through the things on your doorstep. It seems to be a very neatly wrapped black box with a pink bow. With a little token of a crow embossed on its side. Heavy, by the looks of it. You half expect your ex-companion's limbs to be soaking its insides.

"I'll take it indoors and disinfect it, ok? Just so it doesn't feel like you've contaminated the flat." You nod, thank him over and over, and feel very grateful for him remembering your slight fights with obsessive cleanliness and parasites. But this looks…clean. You take a knife from your room, the knife that's been under your pillow for good reason. Kneeling, you gently unwrap the box altogether and distance yourself from the thing for a little bit. Breathe. It's just a box. Those never go wrong.

It's…full of…gifts?

Your…favourite flowers, perfectly preserved. No one knows your favourite flowers that well. Under them, resting under jewels of crimson poppies, lies a book of poems, the ones you use to calm yourself down; the ones that make you feel less alone. In the correct languge, even. Next to the poppies, hot water bottles, wrapped, fluffy, still warm. Under them yet, medication you couldn't get from your doctor for the entire month due to disagreements and never being heard, half of them aren't even sold in the country. Bath salts, dark chocolate, tea…there seems to be so much. Your face is caught in a mixture of attempting to frown, being swept off your feet, and deeply uncomfortable with what is basically an encyclopedia of you in a box. You carefully lay the items to the side and begin to notice things you truly need your housemate to not see. You lose your breath for a moment and blush so hard you almost forget both the kindness and terror of the rest of the package. It seems to be divided into care for you and…some other forms of urges. As if. As fucking if.

"Google, remind me to photograph this tomorrow in good light," you say to nothing, "to use as evidence either after this person manages to kill me or before, if the courts move faster than an asthmatic ant with heavy shopping."

Against your better judgement, you carry the box to your room and watch it for a while, as you do other things, but can never quite relax. Surely he can't be serious. Your name isn't Shirley.

There was also a note you now keep flinging on your table and crunching in your hands, neatly written, with no name.

"Dear Y/N,

should you wish to meet someone qualified to help with the attached records, it has been arranged. Be at the coordinates listed between the red and white gift and you will be taken care of. No harm will come to you. You are safe. As right as rain."

Right as rain…that's a part of a poem, that absolute…dear God, fuck, the thoughts in your head are tumbling down at you and you collapse onto the bed, staring at your knees. It's a good thing he somehow didn't include your most loved flowers, since they're all poisonous. One of them you like specifically because it is elegant, sharp, snowy, and beautiful - and all of her body, leaves, and seed pouches scream "don't fucking touch me, if you do, you will die and wish for death the entire time you are doing so". You would very much like to be the flower now. Make someone else hallucinate.

You search the box again and find the beautiful gown, in red, and the gentle white lace undergarments - as kind and gentle and revealing as they are elegant. A little QR code is nestled between the lace.

"Nope. Nope nope NOPE. Absolutely not," you say out loud. Fighting the fact that the nightgown under the two other garments is cozy and light and so very beautiful. And it smells…oddly familiar. With a hint of something else. As if someone knew you loved scents of sweetness, vanilla, caramel, honey, and skin combined with darker, heavier tones that don't usually mix with feminine perfumes. Something lovely and gentle to draw you in, with something far more potent, enveloping, and enthralling to drag you down the lake to drown. And yet. Still. Something else. Something more. You decide to put on the gown and stare into a little crow's eyes. Such a pretty little statue, you don't even remember where you got it from.

"I'm going to be alright. Water is fine. This is just water. We've been here, we've been in the mud up to our noses." You are whispering to yourself, trying to sooth your mind. Metaphores, poems, sooth sooth sooth. You close your eyes, think of beautiful women, barefoot, in the dark of a forest. Glistening lights in their long hair, lights in their gorgeous eyes. Light on their feet, as they dance upon the water and through the marsh. You cannot drown a forest spirit of a woman scorned. They will mesmerize you, dance you, dance you to the end of your love and tether, and pull you into the depths. Then kiss you as you gasp for air.

You undress, eyes still closed, holding the long white gown. You slowly slide into the fabric, which clings to your skin as a lover's touch at the first sign of morning light. Still trying to be as unbothered and confident as a forest Rusalka. You aren't. But the gown smells nice. And it's quite light. Long sleeves, fabric that reveals but doesn't scream. Lace around your chest and stomach, falling down your hips and thighs.

…Kiss you as you gasp for air.

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In-ho was pleased with his gift. Not only the gift, but the message. Upon message. Upon message. He wondered, quite hopeful - yet reserved - if you understood them all. No matter.

You will. Oh, you will. Every word. Even if he has to cling them to your skin, one by one, with his own lips.

To the surprise of absolutely no one except you, perhaps, the small bird brought him all the feedback he could desire. Rather low quality feedback, he thought, as he watched you ponder, watched you crunch up the note, and watched you dress. Instinctively, he looked away as you began to slide your own clothes down. He glimpsed perhaps a strap, perhaps more skin than he first saw…light reflecting off you, sliding down, further down, caressing your tenderness…yet he looked away, calmly resolute to not look back. His gaze remained firmly in the corner of the room, he certainly wasn't fighting - or imagining himself being the photons of light resting on your supple skin. No. It would be unbecoming to watch a lady undress, so vulnerable, so unknowing. Never mind the rest. If you looked up the word "hypocrite" in the dictionary, In-ho's face wouldn't be next to it. It would be on the next page, because he would never be caught. As he looked back, you were dressed, not looking at yourself.

In-ho frowns for a moment, before he sees the rest of you. Even though it's just a phone screen and the picture quality truly isn't doing you justice, his breath is caught. He shifts and looks around instinctively, only a flicker of the eyes and a small movement of the neck. But he's nervous, nervous to be so exposed. He chuckles to himself just as unnoticeably - he's spying on you yet he's the one feeling exposed..was the chuckle to ease tension? This is just a game to him and you are nothing, after all. No one. He shifts once more and uncrosses his legs, one hand slowly combing his hair firmly away from of his forehead. Nothing. Just as it is nothing that is making the jacket around his neck feel tight. He sees you stand, further away now. He sees your entirety in the white flowing fabric, the lace, the…entirety…of you. His coat needs to come off, and is discarded to the side in haste. The remaining turtleneck isn't much help, but he goes in, now fully enthralled. Positioning himself, he endeavours to enjoy you. Slowly. From the tip of your head to the soles of your feet, remaining fully in control, admiring, never taking, never grabbing. Never…needing. But as he moves down your face, your cheeks, your chin, along your neck all the way to your hair resting on your now exposed shoulders, back to your mouth and lips - he leans into the screen - those supple yet reserved, tender lips whispering gently and curling around words as if speaking to a sleeping lover in the night who is caught in a bad dream, the eyes - damn the picture quality - the eyes that glint, yet resemble dark pools amid features that are…that mean…his heart is fast. His eyes pools of reckless abandon. They flicker to the movement of your hips and tick fast, fast back up top, stopping at the almond curve the nightgown begets your breasts - In-ho's hands twitch as his fingers yearn with a mind of their own, to hear you gasp and squirm and melt under their touch as he teases, cups, and caresses in the gown's place. Tender flowers, waiting to be kissed. As you move, for him, for his eyes only, his mind floods through its inhibitions and begins racing on instinct - yet does so wrapped in cotton; barely subdued. Algorithms, scenarios, plans - ten a second - gather in his mind - resting on nothing but your features, spurred into existence by you, your lips, your form, your movement. He's watching the last flame dance before him in a sea of suffocating darkness, and it is his. Tension grips The Frontman's trousers as he digs his fingers in to feel something, anything, as if to drag himself back, painfully if need be - all this…for a low quality moving picture of you.

You. Your self before him. No adjective does it justice to In-ho, no painter could stroke its surface, nobody could own this moment. Nobody but him. And he cannot reach, reach through the screen, for you, for you mean…you in your entirety, before him, vulnerable, bare, unknowing, both a deity to be worshipped and a form to be devoured and left pleading, barely breathing under him, his grasp, his hot breath, you, you mean…

…nothing to him. In-ho leans back again. He breathes a bit faster, containing himself. As his breath slows and features fall back into place, he straightens the trouser leg and exhales. Your name is on his lips as he does so; he whispers it to himself. A name that doesn't seem to leave his tongue, no matter how many times it wraps around every syllable.

"Y/N, Y/N, Y/N…you are nothing."

He turns off the screen with one click. "Nothing." He gets up, leaving the phone behind. He is back to his true self - unbothered, cold, empty. A statue of stone. It was fun while it lasted, but the shell he wears gets tired of the falsity imbued in it during these little sidesteps. Little adventures to ease the monotony. Your records lie on the table, next to his glass of dark liquer. He walks over slowly, cradles it, sipping with restraint, and puts it down just as slowly in the exact same place. He goes on with his evening, thinking, it must be said, of nothing. He continues his work, thinking of nothing. Nothing replaces the drabble of his underlings as they update him on the latest games. Nothing is on his mind as he showers, nothing is in the water that glides down his own body. Nothing is in the warmth that he doesn't imagine being replaced nor coming from a different source. The voice of nothing is in the hiss and humm of the shower, nothing sings to him sweetly as it envelops his form. Nothing is woven into his satin sheets, nothing still smells of the perfume he picked for you, nothing is in his bed and pillows and nothing is slowly, invariably, fatally invading his mind. The cologne he uses, the same cologne he rubbed upon certain parts of the gown you now rest in, isn't combining and wildly interweaving with your gentle, warm, sweet, yet heavy scent. Nothing is everywhere and nothing is driving him absolutely stark, staring mad as he lays there - naked, exposed, amid satin sheets, it is nothing that invades his dreams and wraps him in sensations he can still only dream of.

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Barren lands and dusk. No flowers. No life. In-ho is alone. As far as the eye can see lies nothing. He cannot feel his mask. A shape is in front of him, laying there, incredulous. Unfitting its surroundings. As if guided by an unseen hand, he walks up to her slowly and kneels beside her. She is dressed in white fabric, falling across her skin, exposing more than is becoming of such a form. Her hand is resting next to her head, her other at her side. She is peacefully asleep. A gentle humm escapes her lips - she must be dreaming. In-ho glides the back of his hand everso carefully across her cheek, guiding it down her neck and stopping at her collarbones. Her chest lifts in a slow rhythm as her skin touches his. She is his. Is she not? He could...open his hand, and his hand opens. He could place it around her neck, and he does. As he feels her warmth and blood pumping into his hand, he thinks he could squeeze and hold down. He doesn't. The form reacts to his intentions, seemingly, her face frowning in the most unnoticeable way, lips falling from their previous peaceful expression to a worried frown. As if caught in a bad dream.

No, no, no.

In-ho releases the pressure and merely rests his hand on her neck, pushing errant strands of hair away from her skin. They fall around her shoulders and between the fingers of his other hand, which lifts instinctively to cradle her head. Her expression relaxes, and he smiles almost on instinct. Suddenly, her eyes flutter open and gaze into his own, almost unblinking and holding his gaze. The pools of comforting darkness set in an innocent visage drive electrical current through his entire body and In-ho almost has to steady himself against the ground where his hand is holding her head, still. She isn't scared, she only gazes and studies, lays, and rests in his own dark eyes. Her smile mirrors his. As if the two of them were already familiar, already far beyond anything novel. She whispers to him.

"Darling, this isn't your place."

In-ho doesn't think, he knows the voice. The gentle, slow, melodic whisper that he wishes to hear before he goes to sleep himself. Putting more strength into his grip, he places his dominant palm in hers as it still lays beside her head. He squeezes her down. Without thought, his body shifts to move above hers, holding her gaze, now directly on top of her, without touching her body with his. His hands no longer gentle, but firmly holding down. His thumb caresses her cheek as his other hand pushes her palm into the ground.

"It doesn't need to be."

As the sentence barely left his lips, he connects them with her neck, firmly kissing the skin and pulling her into his bite. The taste is intoxicating, and beckons for more. Sweet, tender, pure, intoxicating. Down her neck he plants kisses and barely restrained bites, gliding his touch, gripping her hand and moving his other to her neck once more. He hears gasps and timid moans, and he moves down, lips brushing against her chest and resting upon it. He lets go of her hand and finally grips her, under the small of her back, caressing and squeezing her waist, lifting her body into his. Now he feels her. Now he feels her being react and pressure and squirm, now he feels the pulse of her body directly under his and melting into him. Every movement, every gasp, every beat of her heart - in his control, under him, sinking into him. Her waist lifts against his and he eagerly helps it up, feeling his need against her body, finally, all he needs to do is tear off the gown, take her, make her fully his and hear her cries and moans as he takes what is his. Still in control of himself, he fully recognizes his itch, his need, his voracious hunger. He recognizes it and fully gives into it.

But the dream does not let him.

Something is wrong. The body is colder now, her breathing is slow, her voice no longer caressing him, her being no longer reacting to his touch. The current fizzled out. Pulling away, he sees the damage done - even as her eyes are wistful and her smile still there, it is sorrowful and soft, gazing down at him although broken under him. He sees her neck and chest, her breasts exposed, her skin red with bite marks, red with his signatures. Lines where his grip failed to falter rest on her tender flesh, her pallor a canvas for his need and depravity. For his destruction. He does not want this, he does not want her like this, his mind races and tries to get back in control but cannot. The canvas before him begins to soak through in crimson, blood pools into the white fabric where he lay and pushed and tried to take her. As he watches the gown cling to her stomach with blood, fear drives cold daggers through his back. He is no longer the Front Man, he is himself. Himself before a Front Man ever was. And he is...scared. Still her voice reaches him, doing nothing to alleviate his state, doing nothing to destroy the damn invisible barrier that keeps him from holding her close, holding her together, holding him together.

"Not like this darling, not like this again."

How is she still smiling? How does she seem so cold yet encompassing an utter lack of proximity? Holding her now seems like the most sacriligeous, repugnant thing he could do. His hands shiver lightly, how is he afraid to touch her now? After all that? She is his, his, this is all so incredibly wrong! He doesn't care, he doesn't have feelings for such frivolities, she is a dime a dozen, she is worth nothing, and she is nothing to him; nothing.

And she's still smiling, a little laugh escaping her lips as if she can hear his inner turmoil and has seen it thrice before.

"Taking what you want, never what you need."

In-ho looks down at his own body, which begins to feel cold and wrong. As if missing something vital. He smells copper, his hand feels hot as he touches his chest yet his body grows colder. The last thing he remembers before waking up in a freezing sweat is looking down at his own body, now filled with open chasms wherever it touched hers - gaping empty holes that can be filled with nothing, bleeding him into the ground as she watches on.

In-ho gasps, springs up into a seated position and touches his chest, his stomach - and breathes in relief. As he is composing himself, a new manner of play begins to form in his mind. Between hurried breaths and elevated pulse beats, he plans a new way to play this game and win.

[wickedsniffles]

another night that i can't sleep

Summary: L/ogan is driving W/ade insane with his allergies, and being a bit of a stubborn brat about it. W/ade decides to fess up.

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: L/ogan Howlett aka W/olverine x W/ade Wilson aka D/eadpool

Tags: snz of course, kink!Wade, kink confession, smut, L/ogan being a grouchy brat, holdbacks/stuck sneezes, anal sex, top Wade/bottom Logan, fluff, spray

Word Count: 3.8k

There are fewer things more elusive than a Wolverine who doesn’t want to be disturbed. 

A lesson Wade’s learned many times as they’ve cohabitated, and come to respect as they’ve become partners. Logan just needs his space sometimes. He’s not asking for it to try and get away from Wade specifically – okay, maybe he is sometimes, but everyone needs a break from one another now and then. It’s more like he just wants to be alone to think. Be somewhere quiet. 

Wade’s fine with that. They both need time to chill out as individuals, a couple hours or a whole day. Logan does his drive-out-to-the-woods thing and Wade keeps himself busy with something sensory seeking that would normally drive Logan up the fucking wall. 

And they get by with this little routine, this mutual understanding. When they’re together again, it pops any balloon of tension that might have formed. Logan’s always happy to see him, and Wade’s clingy enough that he’s going to melt for affection as soon as he gets it. He’d say this happens about once a month since they started living together, since that boundary was first set. 

Like he said, fine by him. But the past few days haven’t fallen into the rhythm of that agreement. 

Logan’s been in a less-than-cheerful mood, and Wade can guess why. Spring is staking its claim on the city, and though they’re both glad for that first warm breeze after the grasp of winter, Logan’s struggling hard. Or his nose is, anyway. Having super senses isn’t all fun and games, as Wade’s been discovering. As much as Logan might try to hide it, almost everything seems to affect his sensitive nose. 

Before the pollenpocalypse hit, the main thing Wade noticed that set him off was dust. He’s guilty of putting dusting off for ages, because fuck is it tedious. But Wade definitely makes more of an effort to keep things dusted after seeing how itchy it gets Logan, trying to stifle irritated fits of sneezes whenever any amount of it gets stirred up. 

Does that go directly against how fucking hot Wade finds the whole thing? Well, yes. But if he can do something to make things a little easier on Logan, he’s willing to try it. He’s not a sadist. (At least not all the time.) 

Wade hasn’t exactly let Logan in on this kink just yet. Why not? Well. How would you feel if you told the hottest man you’d ever seen that you were into something kinda bizarre and he said “wow, Wade, what the fuck?” and hit the road right then and there? He’s waiting until he’s a hundred percent certain that Logan won’t laugh him out of his own apartment before spilling that kind of tea. 

It doesn’t help that Logan’s been outright torturing him this early spring. First of all, he almost always acts like he’s not affected by it. Nothing gets to the Wolverine, right? Instead, he just goes about his day, sniffling and blinking back allergic tears. Temper shortened by about half. Pausing throughout the day to squint and gasp before muffling sneezes into his shirtsleeve or handkerchief or tissue. 

Stupid 19th century etiquette. How dare he be so fucking polite. 

If Wade pauses to bless him, or suggest that he maybe take a nap or drink some tea or something, he just gets growled at. Because Logan’s fine and it’s just the weather changing and I don’t need you to fuss over me, Wade. Leave me alone. 

Touchy! 

Fine, whatever. If this is what he needs to keep his ego intact, Wade’ll do his best to pretend he’s not jerking it in the shower every other day. 

But he only lasts half a week before he wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. Now that’s a red alarm; as grouchy as he might have been recently, Logan’s soft in that he loves physical touch. Hold his hand, be his big spoon, pet his hair. Whenever they’re apart, he confesses that it’s hard for him to fall asleep without Wade holding him. He’s never seen Logan actively try to avoid it. 

Wade walks out to the living room to find the lamp on, creating a dim circle of light around his missing partner. His partner who is curled up loosely on the couch, looking miserable. Dark circles under his eyes and his nose scrubbed red. There’s no way to know how long he’s been out here, but something tells Wade that his allergies have kept him up for quite a while. 

“Hey,” Wade says, moving to sit down beside him. 

“Hey.” 

He bumps his shoulder against Logan’s gently. 

“Why you sittin’ out here?” 

“Well, I –” Logan looks down. Frowns at the floor. “I didn't wanna bother you. I guess. Thought I might keep you up.” 

Wade melts. Why didn’t he just say that? Not like he’s been dying to take care of him or anything, stubborn ass. Not like being with him is a gift and a treasure. 

“Aw, baby, c’mere,” he says softly, reaching out. “You're not bothering me. You don't ever bother me.” 

Hesitating only for a moment, Logan sighs and leans forward into his arms. He knows he's been a bit distant, acted annoyed and snapped when it wasn’t even Wade’s fault. He’s been stupid. It's nice to just curl up into Wade and not have to put unnecessary space between them. Nestling his face into the soft material of Wade's shirt, he lets himself relax. 

“That's better.” 

He kisses the top of Logan's head, shifting further into the couch so that Logan can cuddle in closer under his arm. Logan doesn't say these kinds of things out loud, but he loves being held. He makes a small, contented sound when Wade starts carding a hand through his hair. 

It feels so good to just lie there together like that for a while. Logan's thumb runs comforting little circles on Wade's arm for a few minutes, then drops to the side. Wade would almost think he'd fallen asleep, if not for the continued sniffling and occasional restless shifting to scrub at his face. 

“Still getting to you, huh?” Wade's voice is full of sympathy, and despite the reaction that this gets out of him, he means it. 

“Not a big deal,” Logan says. “Just a pain in the ass.” 

He curls up tighter into Wade, resting his cheek sleepily on the other man's chest. Like he really just wants to go back to bed but his nose won't let him. 

“Poor Wolverine,” Wade teases lightly, grinning even though Logan can't see him. “Don't think the comic book writers would guess your biggest weakness is just, like, trees and grass.” 

That's Logan's cue to growl and snap and tell him to shut his mouth. He doesn't take it. Instead he's gone strangely still in the cradle of Wade's lap, and Wade realizes what that means as soon as it's happening. 

He only hears the quietest handful of hitched breaths before Logan half-stifles two sneezes into his shoulder, each sounding desperate and irritated. 

“God, bless you,” Wade all but trembles out. He's so hard, holy shit, he can't move an inch or Logan will definitely know there's something not kosher about his beef. 

“Thanks,” comes Logan's reply, still breathy from sneezing. So hot. “And also, fuck you.” 

There it is. His spicy little guard dog. 

Wade pretends to pout. “Hey, who came out here to see if you were okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah. You know I'm just messin’ around.” 

Logan sighs, sniffling thickly and shifting to lie on his stomach to look up at Wade. In doing so, he rubs full force against Wade's very full, very hard cock. They freeze and look at one another. 

For once, Wade has nothing clever to say. 

“Um.” Logan grinds down for emphasis. Wade hisses, arching up on instinct, biting his lip. “The hell is this?”

He tries to look innocent. Innocent is not an easy look on him. 

“My…my penis? My disco stick? My –” 

“I know what it is, smartass,” Logan growls. “I'm asking you why you're this hard just sitting here right now.” 

Of course, he says all that with such an exasperated, sneezy look on his face that Wade's cock has to be leaking in his boxers. There's no way it isn't. 

Wade's never been shy – so he really doesn't need to pick tonight to start, does he? It’s probably time he confessed. 

Fuck it. 

“You're turning me on,” he admits. “The sneezing, it's – it's always kinda done it for me. You're looking at the reigning champion of weird and surprising kinks.” 

Logan takes a second to process this. 

“It – huh. I do. When I –? Oh.” 

He doesn't say that in a negative way, just like he's contemplating it. There's a beat of quiet. 

Wade tests the waters, his anxiety getting the better of him. 

“And… what is your opinion on that?”

Logan gives him a self-conscious half-smile. 

“I mean, not the weirdest thing I've heard of by a mile. And if that's what you're into –” he chuckles, “ – seems like you lucked out with me, huh?” 

!!!!!!!!!!!! 

His brain does a series of excited little skips and hops before registering that Logan's pulling the Bedroom Eyes on him, dark and seductive. A cute, sniffly Logan who's just learned one of his weirder kinks and is cool with it. And who just now happens to be propping himself up for better leverage, leaning pointedly into Wade's cock again. Grinding up and down, waiting for a response. 

“Jesus Christ,” Wade whispers. “Did you know you're fucking perfect?”

Logan smirks. “I wouldn't go that f-far…heh…heh’ESSH!” He ducks down with the force of it, popping back up a little pink in the face. (Wade has to be dreaming, right?) Logan's expression stays stuck in a moment of pre-sneeze bleariness for a handful of seconds until “ – ESSH! huh’ESSH’ew! God.” 

“Bless you, fuck,” Wade blurts out. 

Grinding even harder against Wade's cock, Logan blushes deeper, but says nothing. He reaches up to take Wade gently by the jaw, closing his mouth for him. 

“Do you wanna fuck me, sweetheart?” 

Just a low purr of a question delivered in Logan's sexy voice, and Wade's gasping, squirming, so ready for anything. 

“Please,” Wade begs at once, tears threatening to well up from how badly he wants it. “Please, Logan, I want that. Want you, baby.” 

He grins. 

“You're such a weirdo.” 

Logan leans up to kiss him, the words coming out fond. He takes a second to wrestle out of his sweatpants and underwear. Wade's too stunned stupid to do the same at first. He just lies there still clothed as Logan kisses him, grinding into him hard and dirty. Logan's such a good kisser that it's hard to blame him, all hot, open mouth and little sounds of want. Wet allergic sniffles. 

On every grind, the tip of Logan's cock rubs against Wade's stomach, slipping up under his shirt and leaving a trail of precome behind. It's tantalizing, hot, like they're teenagers doing something they shouldn't. Wade knows he's already making some pathetic sound, knows he could come like this if it goes on too long. A mess. 

“Don't know how you plan to get inside me like that,” Logan pulls away to remark, considerably breathier than before the kissing had started. “C'mon, Red. Lose the pants.” 

Fuck. 

“Right yeah of course I was totally gonna do that –” 

He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pajamas and almost dislocates a hip in the hurry to get out of them. Logan's eyes are burning on him for the second they have to break contact, and when they touch again, it's like gasoline on fire. He wants to be fucked about this newly voiced kink. Badly. 

Wade moans into Logan's mouth when their bare cocks rub together, thrilled when Logan answers with a sound of his own. He whines a little when Wade's mouth travels to his neck, granting him full access. Grinding into Wade when he bites down. Like a whore. Like he's been so fucking ready all day, waiting – 

“If you wanted me this bad,” Wade murmurs, fishing for the bottle of lube stuffed between the couch cushions, “why didn't you say something earlier?” 

“‘Cause I'm like this,” Logan answers, gesturing vaguely at his whole face. Eyes a little watery, nose scrubbed red and irritated. “Most people don't really want to fuck someone when they're like this.” 

“Lucky for you that I'm always down to clown,” Wade jokes weakly as he lubes himself up. He doesn't miss the way Logan's eyes follow his every move. “Lift up, baby, move your legs – there we go. Perfect.” 

With a shaky exhale, Logan adjusts until Wade's right up against his opening. 

“You ready for me?”

“So fuckin' ready,” Logan says, low and needy. 

Wade pushes in slow, taking time to savor the way Logan's body takes him perfectly every time. If it were up to Logan, he'd be pressing in harder, rougher. But Wade wants to a.) tease him a little and b.) be gentle with him, at least to start. Logan deserves some gentleness in his life. 

They're tangled up in a mess of limbs. Logan's legs around Wade's back. His arms around Wade's shoulders. They kiss like it's a language each is desperate to tell the other, interspersed with little moans and gasps as Wade gets closer and closer to bottoming out. 

And all the while, Logan sniffs and huffs and tries to ignore the buzzing itch in his nose. All he wants to think about right now is Wade, how good he feels and how he's trying to thrust back. His face is practically buried in Wade's neck when they pull away to breathe, making him all the more aware that he's trapped. But if Wade really likes that sort of thing, then… 

“Is that good, peanut?” Wade asks with his first handful of thrusts, because his answer is oh holy fucking shit this feels amazing and he's hoping they're on the same wavelength. 

He feels Logan nod right away. 

“Fuckin' course it's good,” he answers. “I just – if you don't move, I'm probably–” His breath hitches, interrupting what he's trying to say. “Y’know, I'm gonna – huh –” 

Wade feels Logan's whole body tense, feels that delicious hitched breath in his ear. Disappointingly, he turns as much as he can and stifles four each in rapid succession – but God does he clench around Wade’s cock. 

“Bless you,” Wade says, then mutters cockblock though he knows Logan can hear it. 

He sniffs thickly. “Cockblock? You're inside me, asshole!” 

Too true. Wade picks up the pace again, faster now, and Logan buries his face in the other man's collar with a needy moan. 

“Guess I am,” Wade teases. “And if you want me to stay here, you should probably do what I say. Right?” 

A stubborn look flits over Logan's face, replaced quickly with want as Wade adjusts his angle just right. 

“And what are you gonna tell me to do?”

Ooh, this is just like Christmas. Better than, maybe. 

“I wanna hear you. No stifling or holding back. Got it?” 

Logan rolls his eyes, but he's blushing. Wade's not fooled; he knows Logan likes to be bossed around a little if he's going to be the one bottoming, and hey, Wade is more than happy to give him what he wants. 

“No promises,” he says finally. “You fuckin' brat.” 

Wade gives him a satisfied hum. 

“We'll work with it.”

He kisses Logan on the shell of his ear, pleased to get a little shiver in response, and ups his tempo. Logan clings to him, grasping tight at his tshirt, his little moan sounding relieved as Wade fucks him deep.  

Logan's never one to hold back when they're having sex, dissolving into it, a mess of pleased sounds and open expressions. Nails and teeth. Letting the animal out. So why draw the line now, just because of some pesky sneezes? 

“You needed this, huh?” 

It takes Logan a few seconds to answer, panting hot and open against Wade's ear. 

“Y-Yeah.” 

He's crushing Wade to him, body tense, his cock wedged between them. Every inhale comes with a hitched whine, eager to take everything he's given. Every few seconds he sniffles, harsh, as if that's going to help anything. 

“My poor kitty cat,” Wade simpers. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me how bad you want it.” 

Another long, low sound before Logan can focus enough to find the words. A few breaths. He swallows. 

“It's good,” he says finally. “You always make it f-feel so fuckin' good, and you're really deep inside me and I – hh–” 

Logan fucking rubs his nose against the collar of Wade's old tshirt to try and quell the itch. And yes, Wade does gasp about it. 

“All I wanna think about is what we're doin’ but I cahhn’t–” 

“Can't what?” Wade asks, trying to keep his tone somewhere near neutral. He feels like he's about to pass away. 

“Can't think,” Logan groans. “Itches too bad, all the fuckin’ t–hih-time–” 

God the suspense is too much. Wade can't concentrate on rolling his hips up into Logan with perfect timing and think about whether or not he's about to have all his kink dreams fulfilled. His rhythm falters. 

Can he write it off as a power play? …Maybe. But probably not. 

“What did I just say?” 

Wade's tone treads the line of stern but doesn't quite get there. His voice is too gentle for it, too utterly delighted to hear Logan all tense and caught up the way he is. 

Logan really can't think, poor guy. His body feels tense, breath coming in halted pants, clicking in his throat. 

“Told me not to hold back,” he answers finally. “I'm not doing it on – purpose. I just can't.” 

“Oh, I believe you, kitten.” He forces himself to go completely still inside Logan, prompting a disappointed huff. “You're getting all shy about it now, huh? Performance anxiety?” 

Another growl as Logan thrusts up, trying to get them going again, making Wade's legs twitch. He's a lot less intimidating with all the snuffling and watery eyes. 

“I don't kn–heh–” Logan breaks off in a series of hitching gasps, and Wade bites him lightly on the shoulder, groaning in anticipation. But nothing comes of it, and Logan sighs, just as frustrated. He's cute when he's irritated. “ I don't know. Can you just fuck me? Please?” 

“Sneeze first,” Wade says sweetly. “Or I'm not moving. C'mon, I know you wanna.” 

“What I wanna do is claw you through right now.”

Wade ignores that; they both know it's an empty threat. 

“It'd feel so much better to just let it out,” he muses, teasing Logan with a handful of thrusts. 

Logan arches for it, whimpering. He can't even suck in a full breath without hitching like he's about to sneeze, grappling with it. Wade keeps talking. 

“I can tell when you're trying to hide it, you know. Those cute little stifles you think I don't notice. And it itches so bad, doesn't it? All the pollen and the dust. So sensitive, right? But you don't want anyone to –” 

“Wade,” Logan trembles out. “F-fuck, I'm gonna – hh – hih –! HEHSSH’IEW!”

“There we go,” Wade says eagerly, sliding his cock back up into Logan deep with a groan he doesn’t even bother to contain. “And bless –” 

Logan is not done. The first sneeze was wet, desperate, and loud, spray landing on Wade’s shirt and collarbone. If there’s one thing Wade’s taken away from watching him endure allergic irritation, it’s that he never sneezes just once. 

“Fuck, sorry,” he manages to say before tensing up again. “I – heh’ESSH! ESSH! ESSH-uhh! God, Wade, please please don’t stop –” 

The way Logan melts into a breathless whine as soon as he can stop sneezing to do it makes Wade go fucking crazy. He growls in answer and shifts one of Logan’s legs, fucking him harder, knowing he’s found that sweet spot when Logan keens so high his voice cracks. He reaches down to stroke himself, and Wade gladly lets him. 

“That feel good, baby?”

“Yes, hell yes, I’m so – hh so fucking –” 

Wade’s rarely heard him so undone. His own self-control is in tatters, orgasm building at a rapid pace as Logan comes apart underneath him. He can hear himself panting, ragged, open-mouthed, but can’t bring himself to care. 

“ESSH’iew! ESSH! Heh’ESSH! HEHSSH’IEW! Oh god,” Logan gasps. “Wade, Red, sweetheart you’re gonna make me come –” 

“Then you’d better – do it. C’mon, peanut, give it to me.”

With a broken sound, Logan keeps his promise, sinking his teeth into Wade’s t-shirt and covering it with streaks of his release. Wade’s only a few short thrusts behind, shivering through every pulse and praising Logan for being so fucking good for him. 

(At least, he’s pretty sure he’s praising Logan. His mouth is moving and words are coming out, and Logan’s looking up at him all dazed and sweet.)

For the interested reader, here's the dialogue that Logan would later tell Wade was being babbled out at him: Logan. Oh my god holy fucking shit. Bless you baby bless you times like a thousand I fucking love you. You're so fucking hot. You took me so well, didn't you? Such a good boy. You're the hottest person on the fucking planet. Would it be weird if I kissed your nose right now? Yeah probably I'm not gonna do it, okay, I love you, did I say that already? You're so pretty, fuck, you're so pretty –

Eventually, Logan smiles at him, all soft edges. He reaches up and cups Wade’s face. 

“Wade.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you even know what the hell you’re talkin’ about right now?” 

“Uhh.” It’s a little humiliating to admit he can just ramble without having a fucking clue what’s coming out of his mouth. “No. All systems offline. Floating through dead space, captain.”

Logan huffs out a laugh. “Then float back to me, knucklehead.” 

Something in his chest goes all half-baked cookie dough soft. 

“Aye-aye.” 

Wade leans in to kiss him, aware of how fast his heart is still beating. That got intense. And so fucking hot. To be honest? He's already raring to do it again. From the way Logan's nose has been acting up, he's certain they'll get their chance sooner rather than later. 

“Hey, bub?” 

“Yeah?”

Logan swallows, his eyes cutting away. 

“Sorry I've been kind of a prick. Haven't felt the best, but that's no reason to get short with ya.” 

Well, shit. If fucking him senseless through an allergy attack was all it took for Logan to go this soft, Wade would have done it weeks ago. 

“I get it,” Wade says playfully. “You have a whole testosterone-fueled persona to maintain. But you could, you know. Let me take care of you. Help you feel less sniffly and pathetic.” 

“Not tryin’ to maintain anything,” Logan argues. “Just not used to people wanting to – I dunno. Look after me.” 

“Then get used to it,” Wade says. “Cause I don't plan on going anywhere.” 

Logan blushes at that, smiling a little despite an effort not to. Wade kisses him one more time, a soft and purposeful thing, and they shuffle into the shower. Even Logan's sneezes sound sleepy now, and this time when they crawl into bed, he tucks close into Wade's chest and falls asleep in minutes. 

That's more like it, Wade thinks.  

[autistic-katara]

me personally i think every american who wants to write fanfic about british media should be legally obligated to do extensive research on what terms are used over hear before posting it

[ddejavvu]

reader just had a shitty day and the only thing she had to look forward to was her date with spencer but her dress zipper breaks/she has a wardrobe malfunction and that was the last straw for her so she just cries and its just s fuckkkk ton of comfort from spencer? <333

"I'm going to kill myself," You decide, feeling the breeze on your back from your dress that is very much not zipped, "It's over for me, this is my last straw, and-"

"Uh, your- zipper... doesn't close?" Spencer guesses, keen eyes assessing the situation and finding your bare back exposed in the dim lighting of your closet.

"No," You groan, leaning forwards against the wall, all of your weight slumped in defeat, "I was- I was looking forward to wearing this dress all month, and now-" Your voice wobbles dangerously, "And now it's broken, and I don't have anything else that I wanted to wear tonight because this was supposed to be my special dress, and-!"

Whatever the rest of your speech would have been, it's lost in a garbled mess of tears as your shoulders begin shaking. Spencer's there in seconds, and the smooth fabrics of his suit jacket and tie press warmly against the exposed skin that your dress fails to cover. The front sags, and you're surely looking indecent, but pressed up against the wall, you don't care. You just let yourself go, and Spencer's arms snake around your waist to hold you up.

"It's okay." He soothes, his voice calm and kind, "Here's what we're gonna do, okay? Penelope's at home right now, and I know she can fix a broken zipper faster than Derek can bust down a door. And if it doesn't work, we can go shopping for a new one on the way to dinner. We can go to that boutique you were window-shopping at yesterday, and we can get the yellow dress you raved about. Actually, even if Penelope does fix your zipper, we can still get the yellow dress."

You think you know what he's insinuating, but just to be sure, you sniffle and peer cautiously at him from over your shoulder, "Spencer, I can't afford the yellow dress."

He laughs softly, kindly, and kisses a tear off of the apple of your flushed cheek, "I'm buying the yellow dress for you."

"Thanks," You reward him with your own wet, watery laugh, sniffling again as you turn to face him. You've forgotten that your dress has abandoned you, but perhaps that's Spencer's reward for treating you to the yellow dress you'd admired from the window only days prior.

He blushes as though he's never seen them before, reaching out to hike your dress back up onto your chest.

"Change into something a little more- uh, modest for the drive." Spencer suggests, "Otherwise we'll get arrested before we even get to Penelope's, and they're definitely not gonna let us into the restaurant."

[floralcyanide]

ᴜʟᴛʀᴀᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ― ᴀʀᴛ ᴅᴏɴᴀʟᴅsᴏɴ

sugar daddy!art donaldson x afab!sugar baby!reader (nsfw)

a short introduction to you and art's relationship.

⤳ warnings: smut, unprotected sex, mutual orgasm, penetrative sex, age gap (reader is mid 20s)

⤳ word count: 0.4k

⤳ author’s note: I have been struggling to write anything for weeks now and this sorta poured out of me. it's not much but I think I may make this into a blurb series. maybe. idk yet. I'm sorry it's definitely not what y'all wanted or expected. it's not for me either, but I think if I don't do the blurb series, this will be the beginning of my hiatus for now. much love!

masterlist | divider credit: @cafekitsune

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Art had ripped off the cute outfit he had picked out for you in a pinch, and it hadn’t even been on for more than ten minutes. Today at practice, he had tentatively braided your hair into two plaits after the rubber band holding your ponytail snapped clean off. Now, he’s gripping them with fervor as he slams into you from behind. Your ass is up in the air with your back arched as perfectly as you can muster despite your sore muscles from earlier. The mix of your pleasure seeping out of you as Art pounds into your welcoming cunt echoes in the room, along with the front of his thighs smacking the backs of yours.

“Just like that,” he leans down to growl in your ear, “Such a good girl for me, hmm? You like me pulling your hair like this?”

You nod, whimpering an incoherent response as you’re delirious from the feeling of Art driving his cock into you. It’s hard to form words at this point. Art chuckles cockily, shoving your face down into the very mattress that he sleeps on every night with his wife. This fact doesn’t slip far from your mind the entire evening or didn’t every evening before this. Tashi, however, didn’t care. As long as you and Art focus on your aspiring tennis career, you can do as you please at the end of the day. Tashi saw herself in you. And after all, there had been an agreement. Art would care for you in numerous ways as long as you played tennis and were coached by him and Tashi. Everything was fine this way and has been for a little while.

Art lands a harsh smack to your right asscheek before gripping it to ground his thoughts, driving himself deeper inside your fluttering walls until he eventually hits your cervix. You elicit a sharp cry at the feeling of unbridled pleasure at the sensation, causing Art to repeat his exact motion over and over until you cum around him, your orgasm washing over you in violent waves. Art finally cums shortly after as the feeling of you losing control underneath him sends him over the edge. You lay on your stomach on the bed, catching your breath as your eyes are heavily shut and unwilling to open. Art runs a hand down your back soothingly, giving you a moment while he pads to the bathroom to retrieve something to clean you up with. 

You still can’t get entirely used to someone taking care of you like this. And for now, you’re going to relish it to its full extent. 

[marcsburnerphone]

And they were roommates

(Captain John price x F!reader)

Summary: that captain wants somewhere more homely to settle down and when an offer like yours comes alight on Zillow he must take up on it.

Warnings: some awkward moments but nothing crazy.

part 1 - Part two!!! - part 3 - part 4

—————-

You indeed did not see John price the next morning but what you did see was a handwritten note stuck to the fridge beneath a magnet.

“Good morning, as I mentioned my job is demanding. I’m not sure how long I'll be gone for but I can estimate at least a month. If you need me, my phone number is below along with my check for this month's rent and the next. - John price”

You reach for the envelope that is attached behind the note and pull it open and what the fuck. You knew he had to have money but in what world would someone pay this much rent for a house with a roommate? You immediately grab your own checkbook and write him for the amount that’s overpaid, making a mental note to make sure you give it to him.

————

Weeks pass slowly and life goes on as it did before. The only difference is you're no longer struggling to make ends meet. So to celebrate your success you order that 6 foot canvas you’d been wanting for ages and a new oil paint.

When you got the notification that it had arrived, thank god for two day shipping, you squealed and ran to grab it before the mailman even walked away. He offered to help you as he watched you give it a bear hug and waddle it through your door yelling out a meek ‘no Thankyou’. You dragged it down the hallway and into the sunroom resting it up against the wall. Ripping the clear plastic film off of new canvases comes in third place to the best things in life.

Sitting in the sun that evening you stroke deep blue oil paints that try their best to replicate ocean waters, and white specks that wish they could induce the same feelings stars do.

You’ve been at this same painting for 3 weeks, coming home and straight to it. Now that it’s finally done it sits sunbathing till it dries. You still visit it and admire its larger than life beauty.

John’s been gone for 1 month and 3 weeks now and in that time some problems have arisen, 1. The faucet in the kitchen leaks and below it the pipe also leaks and the only plumber that’s willing to drive out to your house and inspect it says he won’t be available for another week which means the water bill will sky rocketing till then. And 2. you have no idea where the huge painting will go.

You walk around wondering where to place it. You thought maybe the living room, or even in your room but after testing both those places it still didn’t look right. You can only think of one other place which is the hallway to John’s room. Of course that spot is perfect, maybe he wouldn’t notice since he only spent one night here. You grabbed the drill and got to work mounting it immediately. Once all was said and done you gave it a once over, smiled, snapped a picture of it to send to your sister and walked away.

———

John arrived back exactly at the two month mark early in the AM. He opened the house door as quietly as possible and removed his boots by the door to avoid the creaking wood of the floor and continued sluggishly hauling his bag to his room. Being the man he is, he notices everything, those watchful eyes of his never miss a detail so he does indeed notice and take a second to admire the newly found painting hung in front of his bedroom door before unlocking it to set his stuff down.

After a much needed and appreciated shower he reads the clock at 7AM thinking he can sleep for a little, that is of course until he hears a knock at the door. Making his way down the hall he peeps through the window and sees a handyman?

“Good morning sir, how can I help you?” He says opening the door.

“Good morning, your wife called for a leaking pipe, told her I’d come by sometime today.” He looks down the hall towards your room and confirms the fact that you're definitely still very well asleep.

“My wife? Oh yes my wife, that lady I could’ve sworn I told her to cancel this appointment we actually got it all sorted out.” He lies like it's second nature.

“I actually charge a late cancellation fee that must be paid upfront.” He inquires slightly annoyed.

“How much?” John replies feeling sorry for this man that drove out here and is now being sent away.

“100$ flat.” John shuts the door and quickly fetches his wallet from the pocket of his cargo pants and returns with two bills one for the inconvenience and sends the man on his way.

Sleep can wait.

—————

You wake up to the sound of clanking in the kitchen and as a woman that technically lives alone in the middle of the forest you're terrified.

Grabbing the bat beside your bed still fully dressed in the least threatening attire, you tiptoe to the source of the noise and breathe out the strongest sigh of relief ever known to man.

“Jesus Christ John you scared me, what’re you doing?” You loudly admit startling him in return.

“Fixing this pipe that you called an overpriced handyman for.” You stare at him subconsciously admiring the way he looks, slightly disheveled, face screwed in concentration and strong hands twisting the wrench in his hand and let’s not mention the rise of his shirt.

“You okay?” He says removing himself from under the sink leaning back on his knees to stare up at you.

“Yeah, yes I’m so sorry, um so where did the handy man go?” He stands with a grunt and leans his back against the counter.

“On his merry way.” He replies, turning around to turn the faucet on checking if it leaks, then off to see if it still drips and as he expects, it does neither.

“How much do I owe you for the late cancellation fee?” That man has handled your plumbing issues before and you’ve definitely canceled late more than once.

“Technically you didn’t cancel on him, I did so don’t worry.” He says picking his tools up off the ground placing them messily into the tool box.

“Well Thank You.” You say awkwardly.

“Of course.” He smiles making the dimples beneath his beard awfully noticeable.

“Oh and by the way your rent is only two thousand five hundred a month.” You say walking to the kitchen drawer beside him and pulling out a check that’s already filled out and handing it to him.

“Utilities included?” He asks, grabbing the check written out for three thousand and also taking in notice that same scent that clung to those sheets you made his bed with weeks ago as you sweep by.

“Yeah I don’t mind paying more cause I mean look around, this place has my style written all over it which makes it feel more like mine than yours.” He looks baffled at your reasoning.

“I actually like the decorations, not sure I’d change a thing about it.” You laugh at what has to be a lie.

“I doubt it.” You chuckle and slightly blush at his kindness.

“No I'm serious, I especially love that painting in the hallway, where’d you get it?” You seem surprised at the mention of it and even more flattered at the compliment.

“I actually painted it.” He gives you a surprised look.

“See you’re even hand painting the art, please I can afford much more than twenty five hundred.” You act like you're considering it for a moment.

“As much as I’d appreciate it, I'm already grateful for what you pay.” You say truthfully.

“Also, welcome home.” You quip before turning around walking back towards your room to get ready for the day

—————

John’s been home for nearly two weeks now and he’s slightly growing on you and you on him. You co-exist in harmony most times. That doesn’t mean the two of you still don’t clash from time to time.

“Good morning.” He says scrambling eggs in a pan as you walk into the kitchen reaching in the cabinet for a coffee mug.

“Morning to you too.” You say groggily, setting your feet flat on the ground and placing the cup on the counter, reaching for the pot to pour some coffee.

“If I can just- oh I’m so sorry.” He says accidentally bumping into you making the coffee spill on the counter.

“Oh no don’t worry about it, I can just clean it.” You say turning around quickly to go grab paper towels and end up accidentally running into his chest.

He grabs your shoulders to hold you in place and let your brain catch up with the speed of events.

“We will learn to both be in the kitchen together someday.” You affirm with a laugh that makes you feel alive.

“Hey the first week this happened almost everyday. If anything this is a huge improvement.” He jokingly abides.

“True.” You say as he turns around handing you the kitchen towel to clean it up. He watches you with amused eyes and a smile that still hasn’t left either of your faces and for a second something alights in John something that scares him so bad he doesn’t hear a thing you’re saying.

“John, I said did you sleep well?” You speak a bit louder, snapping him out of it.

“Yeah darling sorry I’m just going to take this to my office. I've got some work to cover.” He says hurriedly plating his food and scurrying off.

“Okay well I’ll be heading to work soon.” He doesn’t even let you finish before closing the door leaving you to stand there a little stumped.

“So I’ll assume he didn’t sleep well.” You say to yourself before pouring another cup and heading to your room to get changed.

——————

Comments and reposts are appreciated <3

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[onelittlespiral]

FML: Loop

I woke up with a start.

My head was killing me. What did I get up to last night? I was supposed to just hang out with a buddy of mine. But there is no way this is his place. For one, the room around me is bare. Just grey carpet and white walls. I mean, he’s no designer but I would at least expect a lamp or a tv or a dresser. Something. I start to get out of bed when I notice myself. I am nearly nude, stripped down to an unfamiliar jockstrap. Definitely not a good look for me. It’s kind of tight and I am quickly growing self conscious of my body on full display. What is going on? I start to look for my buddy, but quickly realize there isn’t any door to the room I am in. The barren walls leave no means of escape. Panic sets in. I begin shouting for help, searching for any hidden means of escape. The headache is only intensifying, and before too long I am sat back in the bed.

I try to remember the night before. I had been out with some buddies downtown, we had gone to a new bar none of us had been to…what was it called? I don’t know, something that probably should have clued me in that it was a gay bar. I knew the two other guys swung both ways but I was uncomfortable the whole night over in the corner. Some guy came up to me though, what was his name? N… started with an n. Suddenly, the lights in the room go out. A strange sound begins to play, as my headache vanishes in an instant. As colored lights fill my vision, I feel as though I am falling through the air. I am aware of each moment that passes as I pass into nothingness. Then, everything goes black…

I am usually not a dreamer, and when I am they are quite simple. But something was different that night. I dreamt that night of a vast sky and a falling forest. I was surrounded by animals and trees, plummeting towards a ground that did not exist. I tried to explore the sky, but could not find a place to land. What I did find was a bear. A beast of the forest. I watched its magnificent fur streak through the sky. Suddenly, it turned its attention on me, and pounced.

I woke up with a start.

My head was pounding. Man, what happened? I scratch my face and look around. I kept scratching. My stubble was irritated, I should make sure not to cut it so close to the skin. Around me was just a bare room. No windows, no doors, nothing. I got up to look around, nearly falling over as I did so. It was so strange. I felt like somehow I was taller than I was before and- AHH- headache was hitting. I sat back down on the bed. As I try to relax, I take stock of myself. It’s only then that I notice what I am wearing. Or rather, what I am not. Only a jockstrap hangs loosely around my waist, the rest of my body is on full display. I feel a bit self conscious about showing off so much of my lanky body, so I wrap up in the blanket on the bed. I sit and try to recall what happened last night. I had been trying to go… somewhere. With… Nick, maybe? But I don’t know why, I don’t think I knew him. He wrapped his arm around me and I just felt safe. God, everything was an absolute blur. Without any other options, I shout out for someone, anyone to give me some help. And the room seems to respond. In an instant, the lights go out and a sound that I can’t quite place but seems somehow familiar fills the room. Then, the lights go harsh, blinding me as I hear a faint hiss all around me. A sweet smelling gas hits my nose, and I am falling down, down, down…

I dream that night of food and the gym, a cacophony of metal plates and frying meats. The dream feels heavy. There is resistance and strain to lift every well-earned bite to my mouth. All the while, a sweet smell wafts through the scenes, one that drives me to push harder and eat a little bit more.

I woke up with a start.

My body and head were aching. What happened last night? I looked around the room and felt a strange feeling of deja vu. This was, like, so weird. As I moved to get up, my body felt sluggish and bloated. Looking down, nothing seems out of the ordinary. I flex a little to feel my fat pecs and biceps swell. Yeah dude, this pump is pretty sick, even for the day after… after… after what? Suddenly, a migraine hits like a bus. Fuck, I’ve got to turn down the lights in here. I fumble around trying to find the switch, but I notice that the walls are bare. No light switch, no door, not even a closet. Damn, really wanted to put something on other than this jock strap… wait, what jock strap? I feel my bare body and the skin tight jock trying to hold back my cock. As I brush against it, it begins to come to life. It feels so sensitive as I gently run my hands over it, but as it continues to swell a thought enters my mind: this is all wrong. The jock, this dick, the room, my body. What is happen-AUGH! I hold my head as I fall to the floor in pain. My mind is being bombarded with conflicting sensations of pain and pleasure as my now throbbing member shoots through the pain with insatiable lust. My mind is trying to grab for memories that aren’t there. Memories of this room and how I ended up here. Memories of friends and family who I know must be there but I can’t quite picture their faces. Memories of why I feel so strange in this large, bulky… awkward… strong… sensitive body. I let myself feel my chest and rub my perky nips. All I can remember is a man’s face, pulling me into this room. As I continue to rub with my thumbs, swirling fur between my thumb and chest, the pain begins to subside. God, they’re just as sensitive as my cock now. Continuing to rub with my left hand, I move my right down to my dick as I rub the first drops of pre around my fat mushroom tip. A faint moan escaped my lips. The rest may feel wrong but this feels so right. I am forced to release all inhibitions about what may be happening. This feels sooo good I can’t focus on anything but my own body. I am about to start stroking when the lights begin to flicker. Not again!… again? I feel something curl around my left arm, holding it in place, then my right. They lift me over to the bed, where I am then locked in by my ankles. I try to fight back, pull myself out of whatever contraption I’m in, but to no avail. A helmet is coming down from the ceiling, locking my head in place and obscuring my vision. A prick at the base of my neck turns my body limp in an instant. A screen in front of me flickers to life, and the patterns it plays are so… strangely… soothing. My mind lowers resistance as I feel myself falling down… down….. down.

I have strange dreams like I never have before. Dreams of flashing lights and pulsing music. Bodies that morph and swell. Hair and sweat and muscle mingle together in a cloud of lust and musk. Years passed by in that place. Somehow I feel at home.

I woke up with a start.

My head was throbbing, begging for my attention. What was I up to last night that left it this excited? My balls were heavy and aching. I knew that if I didn’t get some relief now, it would just be a distraction all day. I reached down and pulled my pipe out of my damp jock strap. A heady scent wafted up from the soiled pouch. My cock was already slick with pre, so I slowly began rubbing my hands over my plump, mushroom tip and girthy member. It wasn’t long before I was pumping with one hand while rubbing the other up and down my pelt of fur. I found a rhythm, some short thrusts while twisting one of my nips, that was driving me wild this morning. It was not long before I busted a nut, shooting my load over my broad torso. I relished the sensation of rubbing my cum into the forest of fur on my belly. Satisfied, I got up, and walked over to the corner of the room where a fresh tank top and jeans were laid out. I slipped them on, feeling them hug my curves and fur and muscle, sat down, and waited

It wasn’t long before my helmet dropped down. I carefully pulled it on and strapped it in place. It was so safe and calm in my helmet. So perfect. As it whirled to life, I gazed eagerly into the colors and listened intently to the strange sounds. I felt a tickle move through my spine as my muscles relaxed and flexed, relaxed and flexed, growing by command. I couldn’t help it as my eyes went cross as my memories stretched and changed like putty. I remembered playing the circuit party scene, partying hard and fucking harder. I remembered cruising through my twenties, playing the apps in my thirties, all to end up with my partner now, Nicholas. He was my world, my joy, my play thing. We dated for years before I proposed in 2015. And now here we are, years later, and it was as though I was falling in love with him for the first time. But my libido was being raised through the roof, and my tender love was turning to lust. I needed him, legs up, ass lubed now. The thought of his mouth working magic on my shaft was driving me wild.

I didn’t even notice when the helmet has pulled away, I was lost in my fantasies. Until he spoke.

“You just gonna sit there babe?”

My beautiful boy was laying across the room from me. In an instant nothing else mattered, I dove across the room to feel his soft lips.

He grunted his approval, “Fuck, look at you!” He ran his hand through my fur. I flexed my biceps for him so he could feel my muscles. He playfully grabbed my nips and twisted, a moan escaping my mouth before I grabbed him,

“You aren’t supposed to do that without permission,” I growled.

He chuckled and rolled his eyes, “oh like you don’t love it.” He made another grab but, this time I caught his wrists and pinned him down under my weight,

“Try that again and it’s a rough night for you. I don’t have to give you what you want.” I rubbed my crotch against his.

His eyes went big and sad, his signature puppy dog eyes. “Please, I’ll behave,” he said before giving me a wink. He knew I couldn’t say no to him.

I pulled back and ripped off my tank top. I let him kiss my torso as I unzipped and pulled off my jeans. It felt so right to be here with him. I couldn’t imagine life any other way. I grabbed the lube and rubbed it generously over my shaft before I flipped Nick over.

“Ass up, boy. Daddy’s coming home.”

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 4

[prompt: roleplay] male reader x kang hyewon 8k words

“I need you,” Hyewon says in the uneasy dark of a hotel room, with two urgent fistfuls of your shirt, “need you to do to me all the things my husband never will.” “Yeah, I know,” you tell her, “you said that,” and her eyebrows move in all the wrong directions, “I’m just wondering if, you know, maybe we should give him a little more credit.”

-

Here’s the truth:

Hyewon doesn’t believe in leaving evidence behind and you don't find it particularly productive to doubt her; you’ve been talking in code for years. Parts and pieces of yourselves reduced down and bottled into set phrases that, to anyone else, would be totally incomprehensible.

"i've been thinking," she texts you, which you've come to understand means she's already made up her mind, "maybe we should do that thing we were talking about. tonight."

(You're not always so fast on the uptake.)

You send two back two texts, both of which ask "which thing?" because the hallway from the breakroom to your desk has poor reception and it never lets you send just one.

Then, right after you cross the threshold between signal-drowning-concrete and the glitzy glass-walled arboretum they've built to make you feel like you're not a total cog in their corporate machine, your phone pings the receipt of Hyewon's reply: a picture - her laptop, propped up on your coffee table with its screen angled for perusal, of a booking site that's filtered to show results for their 'king bed & view' room at a midrange hotel a forty-five-minute ride from your apartment.

"not really doing much narrowing down here hyewon."

She replies to you - her text bubble appearing over another couple still images, of herself in the vanity mirror as she curls her hair around her finger and holds this little black slip of a dress over her shoulder, black lacy lingerie in tow, the whole nine - with:

"i'm feeling kinda adventurous."

-

Five o’clock rolls around but you never really do figure it out. You spend the last three hours at work deciding which kink of hers (oh, does she have a few) this is all in service to.

There's nothing overtly sexual about her pics in the first place - not more than usual anyway, more showing off her curves and cut jaw than showcasing anything for her 'adventurous' intent. So that can't be the tell - you'd seen her in a corset once (you can't unsee it) and the angle of her hips to the mirror makes you think that if she was planning on pulling on a  pair of crotchless panties then she probably would've found her thigh high stockings, too.

You try and think of what the two of you had even talked about when discussing these little scenes - how many times you'd ended up 'in the mood' during or after such a meeting of the minds, how it'd snowballed from there, a whole list of filthy what-ifs that she'd probably put more thought into than you ever have - but you draw a total blank. It could be any of a number of things.

Until,

"i left you instructions on the kitchen island," reads a text on your phone which you definitely don’t check while you’re driving -

And then it hits you.

"ah."

"yeah, 'ah'," she replies.

-

A quarter past seven at the hotel bar is way too early for any real promiscuous activity, but then again, you're here playing at pretend and half the fun of games like this is in the setup.

Meet me at the bar, your instructions read, introduce yourself, and play it by ear.

There's some couples at the other end, some friends downing shots by the round, people musing over their aperitifs, and a woman sipping alone at the bar - Hyewon, appearing to you from the back first:

The pointed edges of her shoulders narrow out over this tiny cocktail dress that somehow covers less of her than if it weren't there at all, skin tight, accentuating even her softest curves. She has her hair fixed a particular way - teased enough to flip at the ends but still a single sweep down her shoulders, pulled together softly by a ribbon in the back, tied like a fantasy, allowing a wispy strand to fall to her face - glossy and dark and glowing to this rich, deep mahogany where it's cast in the lamplight.

The line of her throat, of her chest. Where her hips meet her waist in a rounding flare. The effort and beauty she's gone to, for you - that she puts in every day just because she knows it gets your attention, can do more than turn a head or two; Hyewon's appearance is almost indifferent of you, only coincidental, but she puts on a damn good act.

(You look a lot more worn in comparison: jacket thrown over dress shirt and khakis, tie loose at the neck. Standard office attire with just a step-outside-regulation. Disheveled.)

A drink, you suppose - approaching the bar to try and catch the bartender's attention to order a single malt.

But if Hyewon's been waiting long, she doesn't complain when you pull into the stool beside her and sit for a long moment.

"Do you mind if I join you?" you say over a pair of politely folded hands - and that's generally where her 'instructions' end.

The look she fixes you with is just this unashamed smoldering, her body language this contradictory kind of lazy - cool, like her night was going exactly the way she planned but she still had places to be.

"It depends," she replies, one slender finger curled around the stem of her martini glass - which historically, is a drink she hates. "Who's asking?"

"Just me," you offer, letting the gesture and your tone leave it up to her. And then slowly, perhaps awkwardly: "ostensibly a complete and utter stranger who knows a gorgeous woman when he sees one - and who could never pass up a chance to see how the rest of her is."

"Smooth."

"I guess it is, considering you didn't immediately run for the exit."

Hyewon nearly snorts.

"Hard not to." She tilts her head back at you, assessing. Her cheeks are rosy pink. "A handsome thing like you doesn't usually buy themself a girl's time with flattery -"

"Buy your time or your drinks?" you tease, and you can tell she wants to roll her eyes - but she keeps them carefully lowered. Eyelashes dipping down like blackened fans.

Hyewon shifts slightly, resting her chin onto the heel of her wrist like she's leaning against an imaginary windowpane and tipping her face a little sideways. It makes you smile. "One gets the other, if you catch my meaning."

Maybe it takes you a little too long to lift your gaze off her lips to find her eyes, or off the sweeping curve of the hemline sitting high across her long legs, but she watches you for just a breath. It's a more telling moment that she pretends she doesn't know you.

"You can look at me if you like," and then without further preamble, she introduces herself with a slight tilt of the head and an expectant expression: "call me Hyewon."

You figure that if you've gotta say one word to get the ball rolling you want to say her name, and as a little revenge for forcing you to think on this scene and think on what to say, what your character would say, how exactly she wanted you to go about 'meeting' her in a hotel bar, how her fucking scenario's been building up in her head for god-knows-how-long (even though, in the scheme of the two of you and your relationship, it’s nowhere close to being the most demanding sex you've had), you reply simply with:

"Pretty."

It's satisfying, how she hesitates - pausing a little longer on your face to gauge exactly what you meant. Studying. But the next beat of your heart - or hers - is effortless, easy.

"I know. That's what my husband calls me."

"Husband?" You keep yourself from raising an eyebrow. "And I don't suppose I'm also... married?"

"Different day, different you."

"Meaning I have a wife or a mistress of my own," and you flick your wrist at the barkeep for a top-up of what's in front of Hyewon. "You're telling me I'm the kind of man who'd only settle for two."

It doesn't sound quite right, though Hyewon picks up on it. Doesn't let on. "Aren't men like you always? Charming to a fault, but always voracious - insatiable, especially with women like me."

"Women like you."

"Married women. Unavailable," she simpers, and in a practiced little motion, draws her hand out to where you can see it properly, this sparkle on her fourth finger that catches the lowlight of the bar. The diamond looks real - not that you'd actually know - and your stomach flexes up mid-somersault thinking about the financial impropriety for what amounts to a gag. A practical joke. Hyewon the comedian.

Still, you go with it and take her hand in yours, admiring. "What a pity." The glint off its faceted surface - Hyewon's watchful as she allows it.

"Isn't it," she agrees.

The more unnerving thing - besides how composed Hyewon can make herself be - is how the narrative quickly becomes a whole hell of a lot clearer with the context of marriage in play. She's mentioned it before: the infidelity thing, the way it leads to the raunchiest, filthiest bits she'll dare to explore. In some ways, her desire for the untouchable makes a lot more sense -

And maybe that's what had been nagging at your mind since she brought up the idea of playing the part: you always end up kissing in that stupid 'caught up' sort of way. With an intensity that's hard to beat. Even though you wouldn't ever cheat on her. Not in a million years. You'd watch her leave before doing anything like that.

But it's thrilling, almost, and even more thrilling that this isn't entirely improvisation: how well the two of you might actually play this off, as two total strangers to this illusory little roleplay that you'd normally say was your very last interest.

"But you know there's something I've come to appreciate about married men," Hyewon continues, her voice in this conspiratorial sort of hushed.

You blink, drawing her out.

"They know how to tie a knot."

There's the flirty wink, an upward flick of the chin that draws your eye to the span of her chest. To her body in that skin-hugging dress and your fingers entangled in hers - the gentle bump and shift of the bodies behind her, moving between the tables - Hyewon a queen of circumstance, playing to the moment as it bends; as her lips part in a pleased smile, red and smooth, almost innocent, and you can't help but imagine tasting her on your tongue, the force that'd take for her to yield when you finally got your hands in her hair.

(What a character, honestly.)

"Tell me something," you say, "why would a married woman, this pretty little thing like you, be all alone in a place like this - without her charming husband."

Hyewon's smile curls at the edges like smoke. "I never said he was charming."

You raise an eyebrow. "Good-looking, then."

"Never said as much either."

“Why are you with someone you find neither attractive nor charming?”

Hyewon makes a face, slightly pitied. “If that Isn’t what I’m asking myself everyday.”

"Hm." You narrow your eyes into something more quizzical than suggestive. It works on her anyway. "That doesn't feel too much like it's in character, Hyewon."

She shrugs, but it's that coy kind of shrug. She thinks you'll let her off easy - you usually do. All considered, she's the type who thrives off the chase and, as of today, so do you.

"But he is cute." Her expression is just this side of sweet, as she takes a dainty sip of her drink. Like the taste doesn’t bother her, like she isn't pretending she doesn't hate it with every fiber of her being. Like this is easy. "And maybe -" she quirks an eyebrow at you, withholding a smirk. "-you're right. Maybe, I was looking for someone cuter to fill the bill. And luck would have it, here he is."

So - apparently - her character doesn’t mind a little light infidelity.

Hyewon takes in the vague sense that the message wasn’t as clear as she might have liked, her forehead scrunching as she tries to convey - in a way that would communicate even to an airhead - some realization to play your part.

"Maybe it's the wrong question,” you start over, taking it from somewhere near the top, “what are you doing here, with me?"

That's when Hyewon graces you with one of the soft, slow kind of smiles: the kind that manages both an air of 'you dimwit' and 'good question'. Her fingertips barely graze yours but it's noticeably electric. Just enough to feel your pulse fluttering.

(You don't care that none of it’s real - Hyewon looks to you through thick eyelashes like a goddess of temptation and sin - and it makes something wicked coil up warm at the pit of your gut. A curious thrill and a recklessness that you have to admit feels a little nice - being the man trying to talk this woman into bed. The challenge and the buildup, the want to work for it. It's new. It's fresh. Lo-and-behold, it's kinda hot.)

When you catch her stare, she fidgets. So slightly, so briefly, your chest is on fire and you're barely into the pages of her plans, of this night ahead.

"Wish fulfillment, let's say," and that is no less true. "See it’s my husband."

"Mhmm."

"He respects me too much to do the things I'm going to ask you to do."

"Like?" you continue to prod.

Hyewon lets out the tiniest shiver of a sigh, like a trickle of cold water down the length of her spine. "Take a good guess."

You finish the rest of Hyewon's martini, slow. Savoring the warmth and bitterness sliding down the back of your throat. The night's young, sure - and if you're supposed to be spending it all wrapped around Hyewon's finger. This means you can take your time.

"Show me your room?" you propose, gesturing to the empty glass.

"I thought you'd never ask."

At your offering, she stands up and throws on her coat - long, double-breasted, chic - but only really just off her shoulders to have the hem hit her legs mid-thigh. One of her many personal quirks. Hyewon knows how to move like there aren't two eyes staring at her wherever she goes: not the awkward side-to-side of a girl who wasn't made to wear heels - a loping gait - nor the assured click, click of the taller kind that totter like it's all they've got going for them.

Something totally different: a little careless and a little haughty and an assurance of the highest confidence.

She winds an arm round yours like they do in movies, this parody of a leading lady - Hyewon not a seductress as much as she is someone who'll look the part just to convince you otherwise. There is a pretty big discrepancy, you find, between her bravado and her smile, her figure and her artistry - you couldn't act if you wanted to; meanwhile, she does whatever she damn well pleases. And somehow that doesn't even begin to cover the things that turn her on.

The two of you make for the stairs, winding up floor after floor until it's perfectly quiet, perfectly out of sight - hidden away from prying eyes and ears.

The silence of an empty hotel stairwell is thick - Hyewon's hand comes off the railing, as she takes to the wall and turns to face you. It's a gentle tug at the tie loose around your neck, barely any give before you're already there, holding her by the hips.

"Might've gotten us lost there," you whisper, as her finger plays at your chest and finds its way round the collar of your shirt. Your top button is already undone by the time you notice she's not fond of it. "The elevators would've gotten us where we're headed faster."

"Don't worry." She hums, leaning in close - like a magnet, like gravity. "You're getting the scenic route."

"Anything to stall the inevitable," you tease, but it isn't a thread she seems interested in developing.

"Something like that."

Hyewon shifts her weight back onto her right foot, her skirt riding up just barely. The dip between her inner thighs and the smooth curve of her leg is open and bare to your sight, her dark stockings like an unspoken challenge: the panties, lacy, loose, no crotch.

And it gets... indecent, the way your lips connect, how you realize half-way into that kiss, she's still smiling. It isn't any one way that does it; maybe it's the clever use of her tongue, or that particular position you've coaxed her up against the stairwell wall that makes it seem like Hyewon can't be any more in danger - it's too much to handle and your mouth goes slack on the reflex of an apology; her hand has a hold on you by the jaw and it won't budge.

"My husband," she murmurs into you, the trace of the words ghosting into the breath between the both of you. "Never lets me."

"What," you rasp, barely recognizing your own voice, your hand heavy on her side - the very real fear that you might tip over a banister because Hyewon's got her heel half-way into the back of your calf and any less bracing would bring you down. Your thoughts are a fog, with her cheek in one hand and your knee already up between her thighs.

"His wife," she almost swallows down, kisses turning chaste because maybe it's just easier to gently peck out her intentions, how she looks to you with dark eyes, heavy-lidded and wanting, a thumb trailing down the plane of your cheek. It'd feel like pity if you weren't thinking exactly the same.

You try to finish it for her:

"She likes it rough."

"No." Her nose traces yours before she connects you again - gentle and slow, and a shudder rolls all down the expanse of her shoulders; you think you have it about right. Until she makes the slightest adjustment and her grip in your hair turns agonizing, perfect and burning on the edge of too tight - too much. You are straining against the wall of a hotel hallway and she's saying, "not rough."

She kisses you. Hard. Until you gasp for the stolen air in her lungs.

"Filthy," she manages against the heat and sting at the side of her cheek.

(Damn.)

Your voice has gone and lodged itself firmly somewhere between her lungs - but there's something that says she knows. That you've got it in you, the brimming potential that might just say everything you ever wanted but couldn't figure the right way to put it.

It's the tone of her voice or the spark in her eyes, but one moment into the next - you're caught in this pull - like gravity's increasing tenfold at her will; her heartbeat's so strong you swear you feel it against your ribs as she's demanding:

"Messy. Dirty. A little uninhibited," and the obvious thrill of that must flare up like lightning under her skin - the way it makes her moan, soft and breathless: "fuck me like my husband doesn't."

She’s not even waiting for the comfort of the room yet, which in hindsight is probably checking more of Hyewon's many boxes - it's the sex in public thing, the fear of discovery thing, the desire to have you ravish her out where anyone can come upon you sort of thing - the thought of which has your jaw go a little slack too. Her leg up is coiled up around your hip, your fingers tangled in her hair and sliding up the length of her thigh, until you're fucking kneading up her ass and drawing out that desperate whine in her.

"Fuck," she exhales into your shoulder - a hand on the metal bannister to brace against those little circles you start to rub inside her, pushing - slowly - one, two, three knuckles deep, testing - before drawing back, and plunging forward again. This ache, slow and purposeful, pressing just enough into her until there's a wet sort of friction that has your hand slick all down your wrist.

It never takes long, with your fingers on her clit, fingers inside her, a palm covering the moans out of her mouth -

She cums just like that.

Whining and broken and bent under you, and with an elbow hard against her ribcage to make the breaths come shallow.

"Stay quiet for me, sweetheart," you find yourself murmuring, as your teeth graze the shell of her ear - the short burst of hair and silky strands across the back of her neck; you're undoing the neat ribbon tied round the length of her hair and letting her waves settle on her shoulder in time for you to swallow down the sound of her sighs, the tension in her lips, and the frantic jolt when your fingers push through the wet, heat of her pussy again, merciless and quick. You have to be careful; she nearly bites your fucking tongue out.

"Can't." Her jaw's tight on it, the slight staccato to her breathing, murmuring and slightly dazed: "if we get caught, someone will see. Someone will notice."

Her next exhale is more shaky. "Anyone could see us like this," with just her toes curling and her stomach tensing on every second beat. Your grip leaves a bruise. "Please-"

"We're not supposed to be doing this at all, are we? If you've got a husband waiting somewhere?"

You hear yourself, and it sounds sorta degenerate, though in all the right ways, you figure, like something straight out of one of Hyewon's romance novels, the dirty, smutty ones that she swears up and down she simply reads for the plot, but the dazed, hazy kind of mood they get her worked up into suggest otherwise.

You trace the rough pad of your thumb over her pussy, this delicate, ghost of a touch. One you'd have to strain to even tell if it was there or not until she whines - eyes screwed shut like she doesn't mean to, just does. The sound of it bouncing around the stairwell.

And then, all this wet: her skirt's ridden all the way up to her stomach, damp and near-transparent with slick, and you can just imagine the puffy pink between her legs - between her stockings in the afterglow of an orgasm, spent and sensitive and sore and wanting for more. Your eyes linger a little too long -

"I shouldn't let you," she manages, half a moan on it - one of her heels comes up the stair you're standing on and the way Hyewon clings onto you for balance says enough, but still, she demands, with all the strength her throat allows: "make it fast. You're lucky I let you see me like this at all -"

And she cuts off abruptly, looking at you.

(She'll play coy for a while longer. Which, Hyewon being Hyewon, will look like as much an effort as her sprawl out on the bed for you is.)

"The room," you say to her, harshly, "where is it."

"Four more floors."

-

Room 1014 as it turns out is like every other room you've ever been in, each one perhaps a little more identical than the last - except this one has Hyewon sitting in your lap while you get comfortable on the bed, and there's also the way she looks in the mirror above the headboard, the desperation in her stare, right back into the reflection.

"What all," she says, "do you want to do to me?"

This time - no explicit instructions - just an implication. You have to figure it out.

See, the image of her is like every fantasy rolled into one, wearing this thin black bra that has her breasts just about spilling over. They're amazing - the color and shape of her skin. Soft. Cradled between the cups like a godsend, and maybe that's why it drives her a little crazy how good you look biting down the ridge of her breast and flicking your eyes back up to catch her expression.

It has you feeling, if nothing else, a little ‘adventurous,’ too.

Her belly tenses on a heavy sigh and it's one hell of a thing to have Hyewon staring you down, like you're an animal or an idiot, with her eyes flashing and a thinly veiled anger in the purse of her lips. There's a thousand things she'd like to do to you - for you to do to her - but it's about the predicament: the silk necktie she'd pulled off you as you both stumbled through the door has ended up around her wrists, pinning her arms behind her back in a way that suggests a loss of control. Just the mere suggestion of a little playacting, but she's almost keening.

You feel the touch of her right calf keep rising - curving down your waist, hooked behind the small of your back - her thighs smooth, and a hot line along your sides.

"I should fuck that pretty mouth of yours," you say against the shell of her ear, because you know better than anyone, the very concept gets her wet. Uncomfortably so.

And she leans her head against your temple like she'd love it. You could be imagining the little whimper as she clenches up round nothing - until a growl escapes the back of her throat and she's saying -

"Is that how you're going to cum? With me on my knees and nothing else? Cover my pretty face? How you’ll completely ruin me?. You’re more creative than that."

“I don’t know that I am.”

Her hips move to find some friction where there isn't any until you give her some, pulling your cock out through your pants and feeling it brush, once, twice against the seam of her. Hot, and hard. Ready. And if she only tried a little, the angle was made perfectly to slot your head in, but neither of you move. She doesn't yield.

"Let me fuck myself on you," she suggests, strained, almost pleading. "Then perhaps I will."

You could take her like she is. Any which way. But this is about getting a particular reaction - one that'll leave her spent and trembling - and nothing like that will happen without a little bit of preparation and prelude. You want to watch her writhe for hours. Until she forgets she's playing a character at all, until she's panting your name and whimpering for release, her cheeks burning.

But at least it gets her writhing on you, the heat and press of her body as she leans in close, your eyes locking:

"Get your cock inside me-" the urgency in her voice. "-fuck me right now, this second-"

"Say it again."

"Fill me with your perfect cock." The words land right on your lips, frayed at the edges as the tether to her control slips another notch. "Push my thighs apart until you break me," Hyewon tells you - and then with her legs twisted up in the comforter, the creaking mattress and the sweat on the sheets: she rolls her hips like they're pleading for it.

"Pushy."

"Gentle's got no appeal for us."

"Apparently not," you reply - but then it's suddenly a lot easier, to slide one hand in Hyewon's hair, and grip at the knotted silk wrapped tight 'round her wrists to hold her. There's no hiding the subtle arching of her spine, how the pressure off her arms pulls her chest in or makes it all the more comfortable, she doesn't let on, she'll probably keep pretending she doesn't like this, that she hasn't always wanted -

You run your tongue over her collarbone and thrust up inside her, once - a warning that you're not giving in to her quite yet.

The smile that runs her lips is brittle. Like her patience isn't what it used to be - she makes a quiet little noise, pained. A flash of discomfort. But there's a moan and a curse out of her:

"Like that. Harder."

"What does harder mean?" you ask, with a deliberate repetition in motion, thrusting upward, forcing her hips to shift a few degrees further back - her knees clenching around the sheets as you're met with no give - Hyewon's resistance through a dark smile, and her grip slackened in her hands, despite you keeping a fist wound tight in the hair on the back of her head, tightening the other around her restraint.

Her throat flinches: this shudder.

She takes a couple heaving, open-mouthed breaths, before she has it in her to glare at you again.

"Harder-" The way her mouth shapes around the word gets the better of you - cute little cupid's bow in pink, full and swollen and pursed up as if in pain. Or desire. Or both, the way her head is tipped back, hair half undone - an idea is already coiling at the back of your mind. "-until I can't stand."

"Or talk?"

And when your hand loosens on her wrists, her posture slumps like it's relief, that you're finally going to move along in a direction she's getting some satisfaction from -

Hyewon shakes her head in a moment that's almost blissed.

"You," her voice breaks on the tail end, "fucking wish you could shut me up that easily -"

In a motion almost gentle, you twist the length of hair down around her, from her scalp to her jaw, and wrap it around a hand. "Let's see if you'll change your mind, shall we."

There's a sharp draw of air in past her lips, just one sound, not a word. No proper rebuttal. She bites down, teeth clicking.

So you pull.

And this isn't some revelation, that Hyewon's cunt is heaven. Slick and tight, the fit around your cock and the gasp escaping the base of her throat - that isn't new. You've been here countless times, fucked her past her breaking point, beyond what should reasonably satisfy her or satisfy you, but that still doesn't take away from this incredible, heady rush that pulses through your entire body. It never stops getting better, not inch-after-fucking-inch the way you're bottoming out inside Hyewon's body and feel how hard the rest of her muscles tense up in the contact, how her pussy tightens and quivers, and grips around the entirety of your cock, the briefest taste of pleasure and release before it's pulled back just out of her reach - overstimulated, until Hyewon cries out.

You expect, predict the fight, the whimpers that spill out of her mouth with every slap of your skin and the breathless way she begs, pleads, like she'd rather her pride take it from her than have your fingers tug her hair up, right out of her scalp, with your arm locked around her lower waist. With your cock pumping faster, faster and a pressure, hot and inescapable, right there - the friction building - the slippery-wet heat sliding along your shaft with every stroke until you bottom out and her next exhale is a sob.

A goddamn fucking sob and the warm gush of liquid down her thighs - all on you. You fingers are pressed into her ass, pulling onto you, steading her bounce - and Hyewon finds her breathing uneven, as you smear wet across the curve of her backside, rubbing circles into her lower back as you catch up on the rhythm she'd lost.

"This tight little cunt, huh," you tease, and she nods so desperately it seems like she might snap. Like she might cry again and this time for real, a drop of her eye color past the blush, streaking down her cheek. You have the wherewithal to remember your character, your blocking, your lines: "this is what your husband won't do? Won't fuck you on every piece of furniture until you're a ruined fucked-out mess? Doesn't have the decency to work over his little slutty-wife until she's passed out, dripping with cum?"

Hyewon's fingers curl up into two balls of white knuckles and she chokes on her reply. "He won't."

"Tell him. He has a hot and dirty little piece of ass right under his own roof-"

"You think," and the string of words trails off when you manage to grind in, at this angle that has her reeling, trembling at every shift and jerk in momentum. Your knuckles drag against her soft and giving curves, almost gripping at her in the attempt to hold her down on you. "-my husband isn't enough."

"Well you wanted me to fuck the domestic housewife out of you," you murmur, taking two greedy handfuls of the ass bouncing in your lap, rubbing your palms along her hips, up and around the shape of her abdomen and her ribcage like you'd map it, memorize it. She wants this, you know this: your palms come around and over and brush your thumbs against her rising gooseflesh - she's putty in your hands. "No strings attached, remember, a one night kind of thing-"

"My husband loves me."

"Then it seems-"

"He makes me cum with his hands alone."

Your jaw works tight - Hyewon's cunt feels as good wrapped around you as she says your cock feels making a mess of it.

"Tells me he'd die happy hearing me moan his name."

"Oh, because no matter where he goes," you say, fingers wrapping under and around the back of her neck, forcing her to look you in the eye, "no matter what, your sweet cunt's the only one his mouth is ever watering for, isn't that right-"

A blink, lashes thick and feathering down and over the pools of her pupils as you have a hold of her tight. 

You're having a hard time with this, and you want to give it to her, the toe-curling-crescendo that would see her cumming at your will, or worse, losing the plot completely and your entire setup falling away from the charade of characters you'd both conjured. But she looks at you like she's never loved anyone like she loves you, the naked, barefaced devotion, the tenderness - a quick breath, a second - and the game is suddenly something far more personal, a truth. It isn't exactly fair: how your heart stutters. How much her heartbeat makes your pulse flutter, the electrifying rush you get when you fuck roughly up into her tight, wet cunt and make her bite down on nothing in the throes another orgasm.

You barely have a second to think of something coherent, let alone an out before she kisses you. If that isn’t totally disarming. So you move her into the next, flipping her onto her stomach, and she does nothing to fight back: Hyewon just lies there - the side of her face plastered to the comforter - exhausted, and gives a willing, malleable moan at the contact where your hand digs into the shape of her upper thighs, spreading them out as her elbows struggle behind her back.

"Here, baby," you say, finally unwinding the silk knot between her wrists, "I'll have you like the little desperate fucktoy you really are."

There's the bite to her bottom lip, the whole five seconds it takes for her hands to spread out and twist her fingers tight in the bedspread, before she whines - full-throated - and rocks back onto her toes to arch her back.

(See, the thing: Hyewon likes being fucked within an inch of her life. On all fours and pleading for more.)

With your free hand, you reach around her to run over her inner thighs.

Hyewon brings her grip to the bottom of the bed frame, for purchase, or leverage, you don't know, and in one simple motion, you slip your cock back deep inside her pussy.

You curse under your breath.

Hyewon fucking collapses.

It's a dangerous combination, having her begging and you nearly fully clothed while she's wearing barely more than this thin strip of black silk around her waist and a stocking on one leg, but you can't help it - she looks good this way.

"Fuck," she spits out, voice lost when your hips find hers in this wet, sloppy crash of skin that gets louder, faster and more punishing on each beat. "Like that, oh my God-"

Her whimpering only gets worse - when you start only pulling out halfway, until she's gasping like she can't breathe. You think there isn't a more wonderful, more obscene, more gorgeous thing than Hyewon spread out in front of you - the curve of her spine defining each and every one of the lines, dips, and rises of her body - and you would thank God or some higher deity right about now.

It’s fuck and please and every other little pliant utterance of “fuck my brains out, use me, make me beg, I'm so turned on right now I'll let you fuck me anyway you want - harder, faster, I can do whatever, just show me how, make me, push and fuck me hard until I'm raw and aching - god - like this, let me cum, please, let me - keep fucking going, oh my god, please, like this, fuck, just like this-"

You do thank God, actually - there's mirrors everywhere in this room, and you can catch the circular swing of her tits every time you force a curse and a sigh out of her: the bared teeth and the effort to push herself back on her arms, bracing for every thrust, fighting and fumbling to keep her balance and to make sure you have to pound her into the mattress until her cries reach a pitch.

Then, the thing you'd learned she'd never ask for but oh-so-dearly-wanted - you open your palm and bring it down hard on her backside. The impact of your flesh to hers, a crack, a moan and her whole body flexes - and it's then you do it again: matching the hit to the visible red outline of your handprint. The third time, she hisses, biting into the bed sheets so as not to cry out.

"Right? This is what you want? To be fucked and used?"

She doesn't reply with words, because she may in fact be biting her teeth into the cotton threadcount at the end of the bed, but she lifts her ass higher, angles her hips like she's waiting for more. Her brow is creased in a smile, even though a frustrated groan escapes her lips - so you give her that again, and again, until the back of her thighs are turning red and she's clawing one hand back along the length of your legs - pushing and pulling.

"You want me to fuck you senseless, sweetheart?"

And then, so needy and desperate she's just saying the first word that come to mind:

"More-"

"-when I've been railing into you so hard and your husband probably knows already, has to have seen, maybe he's listening at the door- oh," and your whole train of thought comes to a sudden halt upon seeing Hyewon's hand land on the perfect round of her ass, fingers pulling her soft, reddening skin taut, up and away from where your cock is disappearing between her cheeks - to allow more of your shaft into her hot, wet cunt - allow you to fuck her and fuck her up - allow the length of your shaft to slide deeper and hit all the spots that will send her reeling into this orgasm and the next.

Your gaze is stuck however, not to her curves rippling in excess, the damage of your thrusts pounding her body to ruin, or the look of flawless pleasure twisting up the pretty features of Hyewon's reflection, but instead it's the fucking flash and catch of the diamond that adorns her fourth finger. Even when you have her completely helpless, bent on your mercy, she's still wearing that promise, that intention to have and to hold, and you think, for at least a second, this whole roleplay thing isn't the worst idea: being a surrogate to fulfill someone's wildest fantasies. It might even be enough to make you hard all over again - the thrill and the debasement of your girl, lines quickly blurring between the Hyewon you'll take home and put back together and the Hyewon you're fucking pouding into a mattress - the here and now.

"Fuck, Hyewon," you find yourself swearing - steadying the hips rolling back in your palms, bending down until the flat of your chest meets her back, until your nose is in her hair, the long strands sticking to her lips and the back of her ears. Until you feel her shaking as you suckle against her skin, at her neck, hot kisses between the shoulder blades, finding a grip in her hands. Her grip in yours - as she's muffling these exquisite, needy sounds; she is perfect. Hyewon is perfect.

The first time you cum, it's this hot splatter of white: smeared across her ass and the crease of her lower back. It feels almost dirty to think that's just how you feel about it; your heart is stuttering in its erratic pace, but your eyes are drawn and enraptured, the sight of it all.

Then second, maybe your favorite: when she slips her hand to your aching shaft and simply takes you back inside her. This soft, wet, inviting heat that pulls you back to her.

"God- please," her head tips back, you feel the arch of her back through her ribs and stomach, the way her breath catches as you slide your cock through her creamed-out-cunt so much harder and smoother. "It feels so fucking good, baby," and there are tears now, welling in the corner of her eyes, "don't stop, God don't ever stop-"

She can barely finish her sentence before she's cut off, a moan ripped from the bottom of her lungs and a gasp straight from the pain-pleasure that has your balls slapping against her pussy every other stroke. And suddenly she's sitting, or rather, squirming into your arms, her face buried in your shoulders as she starts riding you, and not-quite crying and saying again - again, the whole filthy lot of things: about her wanting you to fill her, to plug her up with your cock. Every thrust she whines in your ears, clutching onto the fabric of your shirt and making a mess of herself in you.

It's this wild and reckless thing that makes its way around the room, on every surface and bit of furniture. You fuck her over the counter, let her ride you on the sofa, the chair, the two of you managing to find some sort of assistance in the wall even, the door frame, her legs up your sides and the slippery-sticky-heat of your mouths connecting and everything that isn't exactly meant to support that kind of strain buckling and nearly giving way - once when the wooden joints in the door-frame shift, once when she begs for release in that frantic voice that doesn't sound a thing like her. And the way she comes apart under you after, on top of you - is even sweeter; you imagine there's this endless possibility for love, for pleasure, a whole world in bundled in the notion that you could do it for her again, that it was always a question of Hyewon letting you have her that way, and the rest was mere foreplay - a stretch.

Only, on the bed again, Hyewon shivers beneath you, this full-body response, and you've got her stretched as she opens up - that the slightest of movements has her already whimpering out "fuck," and "please," and "right there," and "fuck you're going to make me come like this. You're so good, just fucking," and "more, harder, please, you feel so fucking good-"

The desperation for release is so palpable in her that it's curling into your stomach as your press Hyewon's knees into the points and edges of her shoulders and fold in her half - this perfect angle of leverage. Fucking her like she's yours and no one else's - the absolute delight of her cunt, wet, hot, and desperate to milk you empty - her body quaking at the force of each thrust, and the hungry grind of your hips into hers. Her fingers digging and knotting in the sheets around you until her knuckles pale, and your own grasp on her skin threatens to bruise.

"Inside me," she gasps out, because she can feel that edge just as well as you, "I want you to fill me, just cum inside, God, you always feel so amazing, fuck, like that, cum inside me, cum in me-"

"How could I say no, especially when you ask so sweetly," you tell her, kissing into her smile, "can you take another? Baby, look at me, look into my eyes, yeah? Look right back at me."

Her eyes blink and roll back a bit, almost losing focus and her eyelashes flutter - the creases in her brow, the elegant lines of her face locking up in the overwhelming tension, then, a peak.

And a demand, meekly asking you to fill her up. Until there's nothing left. "Cum," Hyewon moans, "for the love of fuck-"

You push her past her climax until she's practically weeping, sobbing through a litany of nonsense and slurred, unfinished sentences and almost howls, struggling beneath your weight and coaxing her fingers over the surge at the base of your spine. Before a hot liquid mess bursts out of you, into the deepest reach of Hyewon's throbbing cunt - cumming inside her, while you hold her down, not allowing her to move as your hips lock and you're both left groaning in utter agony.

(This was the thing you'd told her once - cumming inside her was almost always worth the effort it took to clean it all back out. You like the possessive aspect of it, maybe the slight humiliation, and more than anything, she'll just melt: once she's gone past the immediate discomfort. If anyone could really learn to get off on feeling a little filthy, it's the two of you. And she knows that too, Hyewon's eager little pout intimates, as she blinks down to watch where the two of you connect.)

You don't say much for the next while. If there's a line where this particular escapade blends back into your normal life, where the Hyewon curled up in the sheets is your own girl and not some half-conceived entity that didn't fit the reality of the rest of the evening, or how you see Hyewon everyday, even then, it’s not clear.

She's utterly boneless - this fragile, dazed thing that runs her palms all the way around her breasts and pulls up her stockings a little further up the line of her hips, as if you weren't going to peel them back and slip them all the way off when you had the wherewithal to handle it. But the strength in her isn't entirely lost either, she looks ready to burst: this air of pride and smugness - victory, right in her grin, which isn't totally surprising. Hyewon usually gets an odd satisfaction out of your participation in whatever hedonistic or obscene thing it is she wants to try.

This was her fantasy - maybe not a deeply rooted or unattainable one, but she'd worked out some kinks of hers and has walked away a far better woman for it, knowing what a sight she is to you. Like this.

"That was... fun," Hyewon eventually says, collecting articles of clothing strewn about the room.

Her shoes are one of two sets in the shoe-rack, but she'll have to look around and under the bed to find her dress. It would probably be some strange level of easy to play dumb and wait until she comes to the conclusion on her own that she should bend down and check down there, but she looks a little too worn out to really be interested in her clothes, more like, ready for the next part.

"We should do it again," her gaze lands, intent, and serious, back to you.

"Which part?" you have to ask, because you're probably still, a little slow on the uptake.

A small laugh, the sly smirk to herself; she knows she has you wrapped so perfectly around her finger, ready to bend to whatever game she can come up with: "whichever part you like."

[notreallythatlost]

DRESS

➴ halbrand/sauron x female!human!reader

summary: it’s your last evening on númenor and you decide to wear a special outfit for the man you love.

warnings: 18+, MDNI, acting silly because of alcohol, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving)

word count: 1.4k

note: well, do i have to say anything more about this? no. 🙂‍↕️ inspired by one of my favorite taylor swift songs. this is my first time writing smut, so i really hope it turned out well. likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. xx

inspired by: this song

THE RINGS OF POWER MASTERLIST

It wasn't your intention to draw everyone's attention when you appear. You only wanted the attention of one person.

And you can feel his gaze on you, so hot that it literally burns your skin, but you don't let it show.

The dark red dress clings to your body and sparkles silver in the light of the fire. Your hair falls in soft waves over your shoulders and you know that everyone would fall to their knees at the sight.

But you only want to see him kneeling in front of you. With his hands and lips on your naked skin.

After a brief moment of silence, conversations start again and you slowly turn around, only to meet Halbrand's gaze, who is standing next to Galadriel a few meters away from you.

You know the effect you have on him, you can see it in his eyes even from the distance.

“This time you really surpassed yourself,” a voice sounds next to you and you tear your gaze away from Halbrand.

Smiling, you take the mug filled with ale, that Isildur holds out to you and take a sip.

“Someone told me to come out of my shell,” you reply and you both laugh.

“Since when have you been listening to my advice?” he asks, still with a smile on his lips.

You just shrug at his words and look at him with a grin as he puts an arm around your shoulder and pulls you towards the others.

The evening continues and you have stopped counting how many mugs of ale you have already had. You are just about to take another sip when someone takes the mug out of your hand.

“Hey...” you protest and look up at Halbrand, who is now holding your wrist. “That was definitely enough ale for today,” he says as he pulls you to your feet.

You giggle softly and sway slightly against his firm body. “I won't let you boss me around, handsome,” you say and pat his chest before you try to pull away from him again, but he doesn't loosen his grip.

“Oh, yes. You will,” he whispers and a shiver runs down your spine as he looks at you like a wolf that has finally caught its prey.

Without another word, he pulls you with him, away from the drinking soldiers and to a place where you would be undisturbed.

Before you know it, he's pressed you against the nearest wall and buries his nose in your hair. His hands wrap around your waist, caressing your skin through the fabric of the dress.

“You have no idea, how much control this evening has cost me. I wanted you the second I saw you in that dress,” he growls, now tucking your hair behind your shoulder, to give himself access to your neck.

His lips brush the sensitive skin there, making you hum as you close your eyes.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” Halbrand whispers against your skin and you shiver, a reaction he’s only too happy to see.

“That was your intention, wasn't it? You wanted to drive me crazy?” he continues and gently bites your neck, eliciting a soft moan from you.

“It's our last evening on Númenor, I thought a little distraction wouldn't hurt,” you whisper now, the effect of the ale suddenly replaced by the desire that shoots through your veins like fire.

The sound that comes from Halbrand is like that of an animal and he presses you a little harder against the wall.

“Did you see the looks they gave you?” he says close to your ear and lets his lips slide over your jaw. “Everyone wanted to rip that dress off your body.” With these words he lifts you up and turns with you.

Your lips meet in a wild, longing kiss, as if you were about to starve. You feel him take a few steps until your back hits wood. You moan, the sound swallowed by his mouth and his grip on you tightens.

The kiss becomes wilder, your tongues in an endless dance for dominance.

A surprised sound comes from your lips as he takes your lower lip between his teeth and pulls on it.

Finally, he turns away from the wall again and gently lays you down on something soft moments later.

You are apparently in his room. You don't know how you got here and you don't care, because all that matters to you at this moment, is Halbrand leaning over you.

“The only reason I'm wearing this dress is so you can take it off,” you breathe and place your hand on his chest. But Halbrand wraps his fingers around your wrist again and looks you in the eyes with a mischievous smile, before he takes the other one and holds both of them above your head.

“Oh, my sweet little girl. We're not there yet,” he whispers and starts to push the skirt of your dress up with his free hand.

Your breath catches and you try to turn your hands out of his grasp, but he holds them too tightly.

“Halbr-,” your words are cut off by a moan as he runs a finger through your wetness. Another growl escapes him and he nuzzles his nose against your cheek so that you feel the scratch of his stubble on your skin.

Without further warning, he pushes two of his fingers into you, making you moan loudly. He doesn't seem to want to make any secret of what's going on, just encourage you.

“Let me hear you,” he whispers, moving his fingers until you're writhing beneath him, desperate for more.

Then he releases his grip on your hands and slides down your body. Knowing what would follow, you bury your fingers in his long hair and close your eyes.

As his tongue slides through your folds, you moan and your hips jerk forward. Halbrand grabs you with his hands and holds you tight, so you can't move while he eats you out.

You long for release, you can hardly think straight anymore, but he doesn't seem to want to give it to you.

Just as you wanted to tease him with this dress, now this is him paying you back.

“Halbrand...” you moan his name loudly and he raises his head, leaving your throbbing cunt full of desire.

“Tell me what you want,” his voice sounds and you hear the rustling of fabric. “Tell me what you long for,” he continues and you sit up slightly.

“I want you,” you whisper, with all the strength you have left. Then Halbrand holds out his hand to help you up. His fingers immediately find the back of the dress, where he quickly unties the laces. As soon as the fabric loosens around your body, he pushes it over your shoulders, until it slides down of its own and reveals you to his gaze.

“You are…” he doesn't say anything else, just stares at you in awe as he pushes you back again and you look up at him.

His hand finds yours on the mattress and he laces his fingers with yours. With his other hand, he positions himself in front of you and slides the tip of his cock over your entrance.

With one fluid movement, he sinks into you and you can't help but let out a breathless gasp. The air leaves your lungs and you feel Halbrands' hand resting on the side of your face.

“You belong to me. Don't forget that,” he says with such devotion and yet so firm that your heart clenches in your chest.

“Forever,” you reply breathlessly as he starts to move. The feeling makes you moan and your eyes roll back as you arch towards him.

“Fuck,” he moans and lets his head fall forward. In this moment, there is only him and you and nothing could ever come between you.

Halbrand starts to move faster, hitting a spot that makes you moan whenever he moves his hips. It doesn't take long before you're screaming his name as the orgasm flows through your body like a wave.

The sight of you must have been enough for him, because not a second later he empties himself into you with a rough gasp and then sinks down on you.

“You're perfect,” you hear his voice between bliss and satisfaction and smile weakly.

You want to say something else, but you're too tired.

But you got what you longed for.

It was your last day on Númenor, after all. Soon you would be going to war.

2024 notreallythatlost

[infiniteglitterfall]

friggin faux-Palestinian history, istg

I'm in the middle of writing a post about the difficulties of pinning down details and dates in Palestinian history. This one is just me stopping to vent for a sec.

I came across the Wikipedia page for GUPS, the General Union of Palestinian Students. This is an organization with groups at colleges all over the world. Ish. It's shrunk over the decades.

The page made a bold claim: that GUPS was officially founded in Cairo in 1959, but had really started in the 1920s.

I called bullshit. The only source cited was a dead link to the 2010 version of the SFSU GUPS page, which said the same thing -- no context, no source, and especially, no explanation of how Palestinian student organizing could have started before there were colleges or universities in Palestine.

There were two. They were tiny. And they both taught in Hebrew.

Certainly, there could have been Arab Palestinian students there, who learned Hebrew there, or already knew it.

But were there so many that they started a student group that apparently lasted 35+ years before getting a name??

I could not find one other source for this.

So I deleted it and called bullshit.

Within a day, someone who wasn't even logged in reverted my edit. They told me that I hadn't proven that it was wrong, I'd just said it was illogical.

I started looking up sources and putting together a more detailed edit. In the meantime, I started a topic on the totally empty talk page, politely calling bullshit.

I said that I hadn't been able to find any sources in English OR Arabic that confirmed this claim, and that I thought it was an error made on a dead page.

The same person, now logged in, replied:

"you still haven't refuted the claim. the claim is still on their web page."

BRUH.

IT'S AN ARCHIVE OF A DEAD PAGE. BY DEFINITION, IT DOESN'T CHANGE.

This is exactly how it feels to research any of this stuff.

Every single time, it turns out that people's unsourced online bullshit is absolutely wrong.

Every single time, people just respond by insisting on believing whatever claim some rando made on the internet.

The problem is not that Palestinian history doesn't exist, hasn't been written down, or hasn't been researched. Of fucking course it has!!

(I have literally seen people claiming the contrary in the most wild-ass fucking ways. Supposedly-pro-Palestinian people, acting like Palestinians are wooby powerless fuzzy babbies whose books were all stolen by the cruel Jews 80 years ago, who had no way to replace that historic knowledge, and who have just been standing around ever since. It is the most Western Paternalism shit ever, and it absolutely drives me up the wall.)

The problem is that this is a topic that a lot of people are passionate about. And unfortunately, a whole lot of people are unwilling to back down on literally anything that "feels" pro-Palestinian to them, whether it's true or not.

It's purely going on Vibes, but the Vibes themselves are based on how something compares to the Vibes they get from social media and stuff.

And those vibes are so extreme and vehement that any kind of pushback sounds like You Love Genocide And Kill Babies For Fun.

It's just a fucking vicious spiral.

It's like playing tennis against the tennis-ball-throwing machine. It's not a real game. Nobody is engaging with you. It's just the same shit over and over.

(I was trying to type "shot." But apparently I swear so much that instead of autocorrecting me to "ducking hell," my phone now INSISTS I meant to cuss.)

I ended up getting Google to give me the Arabic for GUPS, and then digging for sources about its actual origin.

It turns out Yasser Arafat formed the Palestinian Students League in Cairo in 1949, and that became GUPS in 1956. This is entirely fucking unsurprising in any way if you know anything at all about actual Palestinian history. Of fucking course he did. This also explains why the first search result I found about GUPS was from the PLO. Of fucking course it was.

[cecizilla1]

Before someone sends a pipe bomb to my house, is it really that horrible and controversial to say that Jimmy was just as much of a victim failed by the same disgusting system as everyone else? While support from loved ones is important, he needed actual resources. We don’t know anything about him beyond that he was struggling, so all we can assume is that he couldn’t hold down a job that was definitely due to his severe mental health issues. There’s nothing wrong with being an advocate for a friend, but it’s incredibly irresponsible to put someone you know is unstable into a literal inescapable environment for MONTHS with people who don’t know what they’re getting into and ripping him away from the possibility of actual helpful resources like intense therapy, psychiatric counseling, and rehabilitation. This man needed to be surrounded by professional and community support systems, not a friend who dismisses everything he does because how is that productive at all? So many people are avoiding this conversation because they believe they’re dismissing what he did by being empathetic in that way and it drives me up the fucking wall.

Although I’m not an obsessive, violent, sociopathic narcissist, it’s painful just dealing with being bipolar, past suicidal deviation, and comparing myself to my best friends who have accomplished way more than me while I’ve been struggling to fill out even one job application. The capitalist system we live in grinds us down to our bones that if we can’t climb up the social ladder, that if we can’t pick ourselves up from our lowest alone, we aren’t worth shit and are weak—which leads to people like Jimmy lashing out on everything and everyone to gain some sense of superiority.

As someone who is extremely passionate about how capitalism has completely obliterated what it means to be in a caring community because of its intrinsic suffocating individualism, its exploitation of the lower class, and how we are chained down to an unforgiving inherent debt for our whole lives, I just find it childish that so many people avoid thinking about this aspect of his character or completely override him from the story all together.

As much as I LOATH him, I can’t help but wonder what could’ve happened if he did get the help he needed before Curly roped him into PE. While it unfortunately blew up in Anya and Curly’s face because they were taken advantage of, is it that fucking horrible to believe that someone can grow and change if given the chance (as long as they obviously don’t hurt you in the process)? It’s the same reason why the prison system—especially the American prison industrial complex—should be abolished because how the fuck is locking someone up for the rest of their lives going to do anything for anybody in the long run? Obviously he needed to be brought to legal justice, but I believe that we should start at the core of why he is the way he is, what will be effective for everybody in the long run, and the possibility of him being reintroduced into society once he gets his mf shit together before people start pulling him this way and that (with boundaries ofc.) I’m a victim of sexual assault and emotional abuse myself, but I don’t want that person to rot behind bars. I just want to heal and move on. I don’t want revenge, I want closure. I want to be able to face that person and know that they won’t hurt anybody else if I am to believe that I myself can grow beyond what happened.

I know that many other creators have expressed the same sentiments already, but I needed to get that off my chest too.

Anyways, this game means so much to me because it touches on societal issues that I care about. Fuck capitalism and may everyone be free from this hell.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiebingo.

Black Velvet, If You Please

12 Days of Christmas Prompt: Velvet | Word Count: 1113 | Rating: T | CW: Language | POV: Steve | Tags: Future Fic, Established Relationship, Famous Corroded Coffin, Corroded Coffin Guys, Steve Trolling Eddie, Because He Loves Him

It's tacky. Kitsch. An oversized eyesore. 

And it's perfect. 

Steve couldn't be more pleased. It's exactly what he envisioned and more when he commissioned it.

He watches the artist carefully wrap it, then with their help, Steve picks up one side of the frame, both of them wrangling it carefully so they don't drop it, and carry it out to the waiting car. Gareth's behind the wheel, engine running, like he's the driver of a getaway car. 

He kind of is. Eddie's gonna consider this a crime.

And Steve loves it.

They very carefully place it in the folded down backseat of Gareth's ridiculously huge SUV, which for the first time in history actually came in handy. Steve shakes the artist's hand, and then climbs in the passenger side. 

"Well. Let me see it," Gareth says.

"It's wrapped, you can see it when we get it to the house," Steve explains. He's definitely not unwrapping it until they get it home safely.

Gareth mutters, but agrees, and puts the car into drive. 

Heist over, bounty secured.

Once it's safely hidden away inside the pool house, Steve gently peels back the brown paper and cardboard that has been protecting it.

Gareth leans forward, as if that'll help him get a better look. It's huge. He could see it from across the lawn. 

"Holy shit," Gareth says. 

"I know," Steve laughs, delighted. 

"It takes talent to craft something so magnificently ugly," Gareth says, and Steve agrees. It's ugly because it's on black velvet. That's kind of its thing. But it's not technically bad, nowhere near. It looks just like Eddie, and cost a pretty penny, but Steve definitely got his money's worth. Because the painting is damn good, and exactly what he commissioned.

But utterly and completely ridiculous.

Eddie — on black velvet. 

Christmas is gonna be so good this year.

"Why are you talking all the pictures off the wall?" Eddie asks, laying on the couch, eating popcorn, watching the annual A Christmas Story marathon. He's said he isn't moving today, and Steve is taking advantage of that. Eddie won't ask too many questions, for once in his life. Because if he does, he's scared he'll have to help.

"Gonna dust the frames, maybe change things up," Steve says, clearing off the entire wall behind the couch.

Eddie just shrugs, and goes back to watching the Bumpus hounds wreak havoc on the turkey dinner.

And Steve turns back towards the wall, grinning to himself, as he carefully measures, then drills the new holes in the wall to anchor it. 

It's like a black ops mission. Steve crawls out of bed just after four a.m. and when he gets downstairs, Gareth, Jeff and Goodie are all standing around waiting. 

"Sorry. Overslept. I couldn't set an alarm," Steve whispers, and they just nod, looking tired. He appreciates them all getting up early on Christmas morning just to help pull this off. 

Steve stands on one of the dining room chairs, Jeff on another while the other two hold the bottom of the giant frame.

"This is a ridiculous way to spend money," Goodie grumbles.

"Says the man with so many basses that he needs storage units, plural," Gareth banters back.

"Those are for work," Goodie snaps, a little too loudly.

"Sshh!" Steve shushes.

And in an unprecedented move, they stop fussing and fighting. 

It's a Christmas miracle.

They get it hung, and the holes Steve drilled yesterday actually work perfectly. He was worried his measurements would be off, and then they'd be screwed. Eddie can sleep through anything, but maybe not power tools in the middle of the night.

"He's gonna shit," Jeff says, and Steve giggles. That about sums it up.

They scatter, back to their own homes, their own families, and Steve goes back to bed. 

With no kids, Eddie isn't exactly raring to hop out of bed first thing in the morning, even on Christmas. This will work in their advantage.

Steve stays still in bed, waiting until he hears the first signs of movement from downstairs. They're back. After having Christmas morning with their families, they've all returned to see Eddie's face when he notices this thing for the first time. 

Steve gets up, and heads down, and with help gets brunch started. They always do a full spread, the works, and today is no exception. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, ham steak, hash browns, and every burner and the oven are being fired up all at once.

The kids are all screaming at a dull roar, showing each other their new toys from Santa, and Harrington House feels like a home in a way it never did while Steve was growing up.

He loves it.

They finally hear Eddie moving around upstairs. He's loud, by nature, so there was no chance he was gonna sneak up on them.

Steve carefully wrapped the front of the painting after it was hung, anyway, so even if he did, they wouldn't miss his reaction. 

"He's coming," Gareth says, stating the obvious.

"He's gonna kill you," Goodie says to Steve, "and I'm gonna tell him Gareth helped."

Gareth makes a noise, and Jeff steps in to intervene. They can't have bloodshed before breakfast.

Then Eddie's coming, heavy feet bounding down the stairs, and they all freeze. Waiting for him to go through the living room.

"What the fuck is that?" Eddie hollers, "Steve?!"

Steve just smiles, and throws his tea towel over his shoulder. When he walks through the doorway, everybody following, Eddie is standing in front of the wrapped painting. 

"I don't know. Santa must have brought it," Steve lies, and Eddie turns to look at him.

"What'd you do?"

"Open it and find out," Steve says, and Eddie grabs a corner of the wrapping paper and tears. It doesn't come off in full, but it reveals a hint at what's to come.

"You did not," Eddie says, as he pulls more of the paper loose.

Steve did. He definitely did.

Eddie bends over at the waist and laughs, "I hate you. I hate it."

Then, he stands up, throwing his arms around Steve's neck, "I love it. I love you."

Steve laughs, that's about what he expected. And Eddie pulls away to study it again, as all their friends hoot and holler in the background, riling him up further as they all look at it. 

Eddie, painted in his onstage glory, young and wild, on black velvet.

Steve watches as Eddie reaches out to touch the canvas, "Black velvet. Like I'm Elvis."

Yep. That's exactly what Steve had in mind.

Eddie turns back to grin at Steve, "Has Wayne seen this yet?"

If you want to sign up for a future bingo event or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiebingo and follow along with the fun!

Notes: The "painting" image is from this statue of Eddie that's for sale. I thought I could make it look more like a painting than an actual picture from the show.

The title come from the song Black Velvet by Alannah Myles.

[lokis-army-77]

A New Purchase

Eddie Munson x fem reader

Word Count: 1.6k

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

Warning: 18+. p in v, riding.

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

Masterlist

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

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

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

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

“Eddie, what the fuck are you doing?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Eddie, really?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Eddie no-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eddie just whimpers in response. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eddie-” You moan.

“I know, love.” He mummers. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head. 

“Eddie.” 

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

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

[simplyhughes]

A Hughes Summer: The Arrival

Synopsis: A Hughes Summer is an ongoing series about a HughesSister!Reader x Connor Bedard! This will follow multiple scenarios of their summer together spent at the infamous Hughes Lake House! If there are any specific scenarios you’d like to see, please let me know! Thanks for reading!

Content Warning: none!

Pairing: Connor Bedard x Hughes!Reader

Part One

wc: 1k

Navigating dating the best rookie in the league while being surrounded by three brothers, all notable players themselves has been extremely chaotic, to say the least. Hockey has permeated all corners of my life, not that I necessarily mind, but being born into a hockey family has definitely altered my taste in men. Connor, my boyfriend, and my trio of brothers have clashed on the ice before, obscured by layers of gear, battling fiercely for the puck. But today marks the moment of formal introduction, and I can't deny the flutter of nerves within me. My brothers are intense; Quinn has this odd maternal instinct toward me, Jack is just downright wild... and with Luke, I'm actually not too concerned, as long as I keep him supplied with a snack to gnaw on.

As the 2024 hockey season drew to a close, Connor and I made the spontaneous decision to embark on a road trip from Chicago to Michigan, where I planned to introduce him to the beloved Hughes summer lake house tradition. Every summer for as long as I can remember, my family has spent the majority of the summer in Michigan, lounging at the lake house. With every mile closer to our destination, my heart quickened its pace, anticipation mingled with nerves as the moment of collision between my two worlds drew near. Yet, amidst my own jitters, I couldn't help but notice the anxiety radiating from the driver's seat beside me, where Connor sat, his nerves seemingly even more pronounced than mine.

It seemed like he was on a timer; every couple of minutes, he dragged his palms against his thighs, wiping his sweat to keep his grip on the wheel. In between that, he’d run his hands through his hair and check his reflection in the rearview mirror. After watching him do this a few times, I couldn't help but chuckle. Connor glanced over at me before turning back to the road and smiled. “What?” he chuckled back at me.

“You are just cute, that's all,” I replied, still with a smile plastered on my face.

“Oh yeah?”

“For Sure”

The car fell into silence for a minute. It was a comfortable silence, but you couldn't help but feel bad that he was nervous. “Connie, they are gonna love you. I promise.”

“I really hope so, y/n.”

“I know they don't know you yet, but I do know they already admire your skill and drive. But they are gonna love you, promise.”

Connor looked at me, his eyes softened and gave me his signature lopsided smile. I stretched my arm out to the car's console and turned up the radio's volume.

The car rumbled along the graveled, mud-plastered driveway, flanked by towering trees that resembled skyscrapers, the only resemblance to the city we had just departed. Finally, the vehicle came to a halt. Connor shifted the gear to park and wiped his palms once more. He unbuckled his seatbelt, popped the trunk, and went to retrieve some of our luggage from the back. Before handling our belongings, Connor opened my door and offered me a hand. I grasped his hand, stepping out of the car.

“Thank you, Con. Chivalry isn't dead, I suppose. But you gotta do something about the sweat, baby,” I teased.

His eyes rolled, and he bumped me jokingly with his hip. Together, we made our way to the trunk. As I started to gather my things, Connor swiftly snatched the bags from me.

“Hey!” I yelped.

“Chivalry,” he smirked.

Connor, busy with all the bags, let out a huff as he unloaded his arms on the front porch. I rammed my finger into the doorbell multiple times, rapid-fire style, just to annoy my brothers.

“HOLY SHIT MAKE IT STOP!” I heard one of my brothers yell, muffled by the walls. The door swung open revealing the shortest of the three brothers. “QUINNIFER!” I shouted, jumping into his arms. “Hey, Peanut!” he shouted back. We shuffled back into the house where I was then greeted by the other two. After almost being squeezed to death, the attention shifted to the awkward blonde standing alongside the bags. I cleared my throat, “Guys, this is Connor!”

“Hey man, it’s nice to finally meet you,” Quinn said, giving him a handshake. Luke followed suit while Jack just stayed back. The middle brother narrowed his eyes, watching his other brothers greet the new guy. “Jack quit being a dickhead and say hello.

“I’m just busting his chops y/n, don't worry,” Jack smirked. “What's up?” He finally spoke, shaking Connor's hand.

“Quinny, can you please handle our bags while I give Connor the grand tour?”

“Whatever, anything for my favorite sibling,” he replied, immediately getting hassled by the other two.

I managed to grab Connor's hand and sneak him around the brawl leading him into the living room. His eyes trailed along the pictures that decorated the mantle; pictures that told the Hughes’ past summers, the quilt that was draped against the couch; the quilt that was ripped and resewn back together, it held too many memories to throw out. He soaked in the room, observing all the details laid before him. I plopped down onto the couch, also soaking everything in. “What do ya think?” I questioned.

“I think that you were adorable,” Connor gushed while picking up a framed picture from almost 14 years ago. He looked it over for another minute, then put it back down in its spot. I smiled watching Connor, seeing him in this house that meant so much to me. He fit in so perfectly, it’s like he's been here all this time. My smile only grew thinking about the events this summer longs to unfold, how this will be his first summer in Michigan with many more to follow.

[velnoni]

any romantic/nsfw headcanons for stanley pines in a relationship with a trans man who has top surgery already? can be young or old stanley, it doesn't matter

Admittedly, I've never written for a trans male reader, so I hope this came out good. Hope you enjoy it!

Stan Pines x Trans Male Reader

His dating pool is quite minimal if we're being honest here but when he meets you he's genuinely embarrassed, trips over his words a bit, and sweats more than normal. Definitely has the hots for you.

Over the years he's mellowed out and accepted that he could be into guys as well, keep in mind this is a fella who grew up in the 50s so expect him to be a bit nervous or rough around the edges. He shows a genuine interest in you and tries to woo you by giving a tour of the Myserty Shack, ending on the note of giving you his personal number.

Enjoys showing you off. Does not care for the age gap if there is one. Truth be told, he hadn't realized how lonely its been all these years. He really likes giving you kisses on the forehead or sneaking up behind you to tickle your sides in the morning. Will proudly grab your shoulder or waist in public and wiggle his eyebrows to make you laugh or get flustered.

In regards to your top surgery scars, he won't ask too many questions except for maybe did it hurt or how long it took to heal. If you ever feel uncomfortable about it or how they look, he'll smile gently before raising his own wife beater to show his aged body littered with scars, each one with stories from his younger days. Claims that you're both matching.

"They ain't somethin' to be worried about trust me." And he genuinely means it. He's not gonna pretend to know what you been through or force a story outta you. But just wants you to feel comfortable in your own skin, especially around him. Life is too short to be worrying unless you hear sirens.

He does like to kiss the scars or touch them. He likes how they feel under his fingertips.

He'll call you handsome, beefcake, cutie, or a shortened version of your name as terms of endearment. Wonders if it's appropriate to buy flowers for guys, too. He's a bit old school and might get you a bouquet of daises for the first date. If you do that for him, he'll nervously laugh and accept the flowers. If his eyes are watering no they're not.

On slow days, when it's just the two of you laying in bed, he likes to cuddle and caress your happy trail if you have one. If not, then he'll run his hands alongside your belly till he doses off.

nsft under the cut

He likes to top as it's something he's more used to and will gladly eat you out if asked. Enjoy when you wear more revealing outfits near him because his body will act like a hormonal teenager around you.

He's pretty good with his tongue and fingers, a bit on the rusty side, but enjoys hearing your moans when he slips his fingers inside your tight walls. He likes to edge you a lot since if he cums once it'll take longer for him to get it back up. His stubble when he leans in to kiss your neck during intercourse ironically makes you feel more sensitive.

Please sit on his face. He loves squeezing your ass a lot and smelling your natural musk right on his face, it drives him wild.

If you want him to use toys on you at first, he can't help be slightly offended. He ain't good enough for you? But you reassure him that it's a good way to spice up the night and help when he needs a break. He doesn't mind plunging dildos inside of you every now and then after that convincing argument, plus it's fun to push your limits with permission.

Pegging him, fingering him? It'll be a very long time before you can convince him to bottom for you or just try new things. It's unfamiliar territory but maybe you coax him just enough with a blowjob and a lot of explaining then maybe just maybe you'll be greeted with the view of a nearly knocked out Stan painted with his own cum, with your strap on deep inside his ass.

[uchihaharlot]

How does Shisui (or the other Uchiha) cope when he's finally, blissfully rawing you for the first time ever? 😩

Nonny,

This is so sweet 🥹 I was actually cackling because boy do I ever have a dirty mind (and for once Madara is on point and I had a nap).

NSFW; how the Uchiha boys cope with the feeling of your sugar walls for the first time; artificially induced orgasm lol 😈

Madara:

Lol. Well, firstly. He was always raw dogging you and making you full of him. 😂 Contraception was a thing, but like, who the fuck wants to wear a pigs intestine?? Even if its clean, that’s just not something Madara would ever consider. If you ended up pregnant, you were merely upholding your agreement in this marriage. However….that doesn’t mean that the first time he penetrated your slippery moist cunt it wasn’t divine. He actually can be tender, and you wouldn’t jump in a dry ass pool. So, of course, Madara was deliciously teasing you until there was little resistance the first time he had you. Phew. Your inner sanctum sucked and swallowed him whole, deliciously. He stifled his groan but the first signs of pleasure tumbling out her mouth has this man a mess.

Obito:

🥹 I’m sure you’ve all sensed a pattern here for our dear heart, Obito. Such a sweetie pie. So nervous and gets unbearably excited when his s/o asked this one time to just feel his thick cock dredging her precious moist hole. Firmly believe Obito whined like a squealing serpentine belt the whole time she was grinding up and down his girth. If she spoke; he didn’t hear it. Was doing every thing in his power to not be a two pump chump! And it worked, until she got louder, started to swell and then came all over him. Driving Obito even more delirious with pleasure. Would prefer she had at least one more orgasm before he did but that notion is thrown out the window when he’s already coming. Filling her for the first time ever. Fucking it back into her even.

Shisui:

😭😭😭 my bby! Was huffing and sucking in his bottom lip like a Dyson, eyes blissed out and breathing so damn heavy. Rhetorically asked if you were heavens above, his cock was pulsing from your ringed muscles gripping him on first drag in and out!! Head tilted back, gorgeous curls bouncing on impact when he really got into it. Don’t even get me started on when they stick to his forehead and you have to brush them out of the way!! He’s trying so hard to hold on too, for you. Though you’re definitely more than sated, mostly exhausted, “…just one more, baby. Please..’ Shisui desperately needs to feel your warmth before coating you from the inside out. How can you say no to a face like this? You can’t. There is just no way you would break this man’s heart and not choke his cock again, allowing him to swell and pulse within you. Filling you and slipping out to see it drip out. Only for him to gently stuff it back inside with two fingers and plug you up.

Itachi:

I’m positive the first time Itachi did the deed raw it was rather embarrassingly quick! Said something along the lines of, ‘my apologies,’ after finishing. He was so frustrated, but didn’t show it one bit. Wasn’t ready to be swallowed whole by your sopping heat, even worse when he stole a glance and could actually see how slick he felt. (I’ve been putting this off for some time, but this will not do for this man). If you already had one ‘free space’ round, what’s another? Something in the air today would have Itachi lulling your consciousness to bend at his will. You didn’t even see it; but could definitely feel it in the stagnant state of your psyche: Tsukuyomi. It’s a one liner you’re all too familiar with, it reverberates the echo chamber of his playground, a feigned replica of your bedroom. A place you’ve never been for salacious purposes. As a cascade of several contrasting climaxes physically immobilize you, those famous last words seem to pass through you like wave lengths… ‘you’re already under my genjutsu..’ As the curtain to reality slowly drops, altering the landscape in a hue of reds and blacks.

You’re in danger.