#wip upper/under

[akindofmagictoo]

secret third WIP 👀

@ellatholmes @e-lisard @klywrites much love for all of you <3

you will have to bear in mind a couple things: this is a revamp of an existing concept that never made it to first draft, and a lot of what i'm revamping is still very up in the air. oh, and also, this contains lots of spoilers because i can't talk out my plot without including twists.

but essentially our story follows Nyx, an assassin/soldier on behalf of a country at war; Albin, a prince of a nearby country which has broken off contact with Nyx's people some time ago ... and also the guy Nyx was meant to be killing at the start of the plot; and arguably Minerva, who is the main reason Nyx and Albin don't kill each other by page five.

Nyx's people are known as the Underworld. Albin comes from the Upperworld. there is some kind of physical separation; probably a big cliff. the Underworld has control of the underground water supply, which was cut off some decades ago (through no fault of their own). in response, the Upperworld cut off communication and has been refusing any interaction.

here's what I do have. Nyx is on an assassination mission, i think. her people are at war, invaded by [probably] underground shapeshifting monsters. they have been trying to call for help for literal decades, and no one's listening, so it's murder time. logic of "if this doesn't get their attention nothing else will". except ... she doesn't make it there. she's ended up in prison, accused of murdering the queen. she was here to do a murder, yes ... but she's pretty sure she didn't do that one.

she's approached by Minerva, a member of the Upperworld's court, who offers an opportunity to get out. she has to go on a dangerous quest to retrieve a stone of some variety, which according to prophecy will reunite the countries and end the war. Nyx likes Not Being In Prison, and agrees. except she also has to travel with Albin, the murdered queen's son. and also the guy she was supposed to be murdering. great. cool. fine. no one is happy about this except maybe Minerva.

(Nyx is a little bit happier when she is informed that if she kills Albin in the stone's location it will be helpful for her, she just has to persevere).

now, here is where things get messy (both in and out of world). Minerva is a shapeshifter, but she has defected to come help the Upperworld and Underworld to get their act together. or has she?

the stone would be useful for the war, but it's also within the stronghold of the shapeshifters, deep underground. will Nyx and Albin get there? or will they both die? is Minerva's claim that Nyx can sacrifice Albin for the stone legit, or has she perhaps said the same thing to Albin? is the prophecy even real...?

(short answer: prophecy not real, Minerva is trying to get them both killed and deepen the civil war so there's no chance of reunion and thus victory)

(however, tough luck for Minerva, Nyx and Albin grow to actually care about each other and manage to pull through, save each other on several occasions (after the occasions where they tried to kill each other), and reunite their two countries to drive out the shapeshifters)

primarily i have lots of feelings about Nyx and Albin as characters so i'll follow this up with a reblog, hang on.

[nostalgia-tblr]

"Short fic is anything under 30k"

GET FUCKED, REDDITOR!!!

[oof-ow-my-bone]

sneezes

[eoieopda]

insomniac | ljh (m)

there are certainly worse ways to tire yourself out.

summary: it’s 2:00 am, and you can’t turn your brain off. thankfully, your boyfriend knows just how to scramble it. pairing: lee jihoon x reader au: established relationship type: one-shot (smut) word count: 5.2k rating: 18+ cw: reader is afab but no pronouns are used; reader has insomnia (unspecified re: prof. diagnosed or self-diagnosed); there’s a sentence about reader taking “an inadvisable amount of melatonin gummies” — don’t do this! — but they’re not impaired in any way; reader’s internal monologue is kind of angsty/self-deprecating at times; blonde!woozi has his hair in a bun, which is a warning in and of itself; completely unedited because my perfectionism has killed every wip i’ve attempted for months. ✰ minors do not have my consent to interact with me and/or my work. smut warnings: big dick lee jihoon™️, nipple stim, v fingering, unprotected p in v penetration, wee bit of aftercare. there are a total of six (6) orgasms in here because i believe in going big from home, incl. nipple stim & a-spot orgasms. a/n: i haven’t written anything in forever, due in large part to the fact that i’m exhausted but can never fucking sleep. i truly hope this isn’t incoherent garbage. 😵‍💫 dedicated to my fellow woozi-simping insomniac, @sailorrhansol. may we eventually rest in peace. multi permanent taglist. seventeen permanent taglist.

You should be asleep.

With the day you’ve had, you should’ve drifted off the second your body hit the sheets; and you should’ve stayed that way — unmoving, unconscious — for several hours, at minimum.

If the week’s worth of sleep debt wasn’t exhausting enough in and of itself, every single circumstance surrounding you begs you to give into the weight of your eyelids. To let yourself be lulled, just this once. Soothed.

From the vent in the corner, the gentle hum of the aircon goads you. It does its very best to convince you to curl up under the softness of your comforter, and to some extent, you’ve listened. You’re burrowed beneath your blankets with only the upper half of your face exposed, which should be more than enough to sway you. 

It’s not, though.

With no ability to keep your eyes closed, you stare dejectedly at the wall in front of you. Laying on your side, gazing straight ahead, you watch the faint echoes of the city lights as they wash over white paint. Not much bleeds through the blinds, leaving only hints of cobalt and red to blend into some sleepy shade of lilac. Whether or not you want to be awake to perceive it in the first place, you have to admit it: it’s beautiful.

But it’s not enough.

You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing down the groan building in your chest. With how closely he’s got you nestled against his body, Jihoon would feel it if you let that frustration manifest. You already ache from the sheer amount of time you’ve been policing your own posture; making any amount of noise now would interrupt the slow, delicate breaths he’s aiming into the back of your neck. Frankly, you’d rather die.

Taking his silence as a sign that you’ve remained off his radar, you let out a measured sigh, too worried that the full rise and fall of your chest will disturb him. 

Nothing.

But then, the arm draped over your waist shifts. 

“Fuck,” you mouth to no one.

It wouldn’t be out-of-character for Jihoon to feel the restless energy pouring out of you in waves, even in the depths of a sleep cycle. He senses every tiny change in your ecosystem long before you do. As unlikely as he is to ever admit it, it has to be exhausting to be attuned to someone so neurotic. He deserves every second of sleep he can manage to get.

You grit your teeth and demand yourself to calm down, all while refusing to acknowledge how completely your actions and commands conflict.  

Maybe, you attempt to bamboozle yourself, you can sleep vicariously through him. 

He’ll wake up rested, and when you look in the mirror later, the first thing you see won’t be the cartoonish bags under your eyes.

It’ll be fine. 

It’ll be fine.

If you go to sleep right now, you’ll get five hours and thirty —

“You haven’t unclenched a single muscle since you climbed into bed,” notes the world’s groggiest voice from over your shoulder.

Jihoon’s lips brush against the sensitive skin of your neck when he speaks. Without that tickling sensation, you might’ve deluded yourself into thinking that you were simply hearing things just now. That it was merely a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation and the inadvisable number of melatonin gummies you ate before brushing your teeth.

He shifts again. This time, there’s no mistaking his movements. The arm slung over your side pulls you closer. So close, in fact, that you can feel the contented sigh leave his body, like his isn’t separate from yours at all.

With the distance erased, his face — the cold tip of his nose and the sheet-creased warmth of his cheeks — can nuzzle properly into the crook of your neck. You swear you feel the hint of a smile there somewhere, too. If you had to guess, it matches the upward curve on your lips.

“What are we spinning our wheels over tonight?” He asks without a hint of judgment, as if your burdens are automatically his, too.

The fact that he can’t see your face doesn’t stop you from frowning. Yet again, you’ve managed to drag him into your insomnia. Jihoon may never fault you for it, but you don’t need him to. You’ll hold it against yourself — grudge by proxy. 

“I don’t even know,” you admit with a frustrated huff. “There’s nothing coherent going on up there.” You lift your hand and gesture vaguely in the dark. “Nothing articulable, just… blender brain.”

“Mmm.”

Jihoon sounds so fucking sleepy, so at peace next to you, that it makes your stomach hurt. You wish you could be like him. For as calm as his presence makes you, you’ve learned that you’re incapable of feeling fully relaxed. At least, not in the way he is when he’s got his arms around you. He deserves to have that effect on you.

A beat passes in silence, save for his soft breathing. For a minute, you’re convinced that he’s fallen back asleep; and you pray to whoever that he has. He deserves that, too.

“How do we unplug the blender?”

You have to bite back a smile for two reasons: the way his words sound slurred when delivered directly to your skin, and the distinctly Jihoon drive he has to fix a problem that isn’t his.

When the love sickness leaves you down bad, and you forget to respond with words, Jihoon prompts you softly. “Hmm?” 

He punctuates this reminder with a kiss to your shoulder, then lets his lips linger against your skin, musing, “I can think of two things that usually do the trick: getting you hotteok from that cart down the block, which is currently closed, and —”

The rest of that thought fades out. Leaving you on the edge of your seat, Jihoon continues to kiss a languid line along the perimeter of your shoulder, as if he’s conducting some meticulous, geographical survey. Like missing a single spot will have grave consequences. A perfectionist through and through, even half-asleep.

You feel yourself melting, bit by bit, into his torso; the warmth of his bare chest against your back only expedites the process. Nevertheless, you peep, “What’s the second thing?”

His answer comes with a slip of his hand, down down down along the slope of your waist to your hip, long before he verbalizes it. It’s simple, delivered in that rough, early-morning voice you love so much. It’s more than enough to make you shiver:

“Making you cum.”

But as crazy as that statement makes you, you can’t make yourself act on it.

At any other time, you’d jump on that opportunity — jump on him — in a heartbeat. All you’re able to do now is jump to the worst conclusion in a single bound. 

Somewhere, deep down, you know he wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t truly want it, want you; but that goddamned, sleep-deprived goblin taking up space in the far reaches of your mind is far louder than the voice of reason.

He’s only offering so you’ll stop keeping him awake.

He’s as exhausted as you are, if not more so for having to deal with your disorder again.

Burden.

Placing your hand on top of his, you slip your fingers into the spaces you find and squeeze once for emphasis. “I love you,” you start. He stills. “But, Jihoon, you’re so tired. I can hear it in your voice. Please, go back to sleep. It’s okay — I’m okay.”

Jihoon doesn’t push back. He stays within bounds, honors your shitty decision because, after all, it’s yours to make. With another kiss to your shoulder and a squeeze to your hand, he murmurs, “Love you,” before relaxing back against the pillows.

Minutes pass.

Maybe hours, for all you know. 

As the window of opportunity creaks shut, regret seeps through the gap. You know you’re wrong; you know he meant it; and you know that someone would have to be out of their fucking gourd to politely decline what he’s offering.

The unbearable heat licking up your neck is either embarrassment or the ghost of orgasms lost coming to haunt you.

Maybe you’d be better equipped to tell the difference if you could just — fucking — sleep.

Driven half mad, you try to keep from squirming.

You fail.

Maybe, since you can’t sleep, you and your wilted little brain should’ve let your perfect, empathetic boyfriend fu —

“That’s enough,” Jihoon grunts.

The hand underneath yours is suddenly above it, overtaking it and tugging carefully until your whole body moves. In the time it takes for you to roll from your side, Jihoon sits up and clears space for your frame to settle. You barely have time to blink dumbly up at him from your back before he cages you in with one hand on either side of your head, knees now on either side of your thighs.

Your breath seems to have gotten lost in the fray, but it’s not the sudden moves that shook it loose; it’s the sight of him looming over you, damn near scowling despite his lead-lidded eyes. It’s the disheveled bun of platinum hair at the crown of his head, which must’ve shifted in his sleep and spilled out the tendrils that now frame his set jaw.

The very best you can come up with is, “You’re awake.”

“So are you,” he retorts without missing a beat.

That face — god, that face — doesn’t budge. On the contrary, your stomach flips. This the most stern you’ve ever seen him. Confusingly, his tone isn’t even remotely harsh when he continues, “If those gears in your head grind any louder, the whole neighborhood will be, too.”

Grimacing, you open your mouth to apologize, but Jihoon’s eyes are searching your face with a distinct flicker of concern. You know that look. You also know that nothing you can think to say will make it disappear.

He speaks when you don’t, hard edges softening slightly. “I can fix it,” he insists, though you know him well enough to hear the plea hidden in there. 

Let me take care of you.

That little spark of desperation burns you up in a flash. You wonder if he can feel the fire spread when he lifts his right hand off the mattress just to swipe his thumb slowly over the edge of your cheekbone. Without thinking, you let go of the tension in your neck. Your head tilts automatically, seeking comfort you’ve only ever found in him, and rests against his palm.

“I have to admit it, though,” Jihoon confesses. “Yours isn’t the only mind that’s restless.”

He moves his hand away from your face but keeps his eyes trained on you. The incessant need you feel to apologize bubbles up yet again, uninvited. You swallow it. As you do, his fingertips trail down the length of your neck at a snail’s pace, effectively turning your thoughts to static.

“I’ve been holding you for hours now, and all that time —” 

He pauses just long enough to glance down at his hand, which hasn’t.

“— I’ve been wondering if I should have you channel that energy and tire yourself out on top of me —”

His touch whispers over your collarbone. It’s the only proof that you have any bones at all. Until now, you were sure that the rest of you had melted entirely, puddling uselessly on the sheets below. This time, when you bite your lips and swallow weakly, it’s not an apology that you’re keeping to yourself but a whimper.

“— or lay you back against the pillows —”

You don’t mean to directly contradict his statement the moment he makes it, but you can’t help it. The thin, cotton fabric of your top does nothing to dull the sensation of his hand on your left breast; leaves you with the unmitigated brush of his thumb tracing delicate swirls over your nipple. The breath you’ve been holding comes out shuddered, back arching off the mattress to chase his touch.

Emboldened by your reaction, Jihoon pulls his gaze off his own ministrations and directs it through his lashes back up at you. One eyebrow momentarily flexes in challenge. “— Take my time, and —”

Whatever desperate look you give him earns you some amount of mercy. He picks up where he left off in that dizzyingly deep voice of his, words molten, and drags the hem of your shirt up your torso. “Fuck you deep, until the only thing you can do is relax.”

Gobsmacked is too weak a word for the impact that suggestion has on you. The idea alone sparks a kind of relief so foreign and so sorely needed that it almost makes you cry. 

You don’t, thankfully. 

Instead, you stagger along the borderline of babbling. 

“I want that,” you announce on a shaky exhale. Then, with a shake of your head, you correct yourself, “No, it’s not even want. It’s —” Frustration over your inability to form a coherent thought drives you to scrub your hands over your face. “— need. I need you.”

You accompany that declaration by slapping your hands down at your sides, finishing off with a muted thump when your palms hit the mattress with enough force to bounce them upwards again. 

Even with your eyes screwed shut, you know Jihoon is sitting back on his knees, watching you with equal parts surprise and amusement. There’s no need to open them to confirm it, but you do anyway. His pupils have dilated widely enough to rival the moon floating over the skyline.

Though he’d be well within bounds to tell you to chill the fuck out, he doesn’t. He never has, as far as you can recall. In fact, Jihoon doesn’t say a thing. His hands speak for him, reaching for the shirt he so nearly got off your body before you lost whatever was left of your mind.

Keeping his word, as always, Jihoon takes his time. He takes care in sliding that tank top up and over your head without snagging your earrings, then he wordlessly drops it off the side of the bed to be forgotten about.

With your chest bare, it’s obvious how rapid your breathing is. Noting the quick rise and fall, he traces the curve of your waist with the side of his right index finger and softly says the quiet part out loud: “Let me take care of you.”

And you do.

You let him maneuver your body so he can settle with one knee between your thighs, rather than straddle them. You let go of your death grip on the sheets and thread your fingers through his hair when he leans back down to kiss you; and when he licks into your mouth, you let him swallow the moan that builds under the delicious weight of his body on yours.

Already, you feel every shitty, stupid thought begin to dissolve. You should’ve known this would be the case. 

He said he’d fix it, didn't he? 

And here he is, proving to you that his touch is magic. All it takes to coax the tension out of your muscles is the tender pass of his hand.

Whatever effect Jihoon has on you seems to be mutual. When he pulls back, he’s equally as breathless, likely just as starry-eyed. Awash in that lilac glow peeking in from the outside, he’s downright celestial — almost too divine to look at directly without watering eyes.

Undeterred, you stare right back at him and sigh, “You’re beautiful.”

His nose scrunches for a split second, just like it always does when you make him suffer through a compliment. Your exposure therapy is working, though. For once, Jihoon doesn’t groan or tell you to keep your praise to yourself. The corner of his mouth curves upward — just barely — and he shakes his head.

“I mean it,” you quietly insist.

Smirking slightly, he extends the index finger on his right hand and holds it to his lips. “You’re relaxing, remember?”

Though you could double-down, any fight you might’ve had in you fizzles out the second he bows his head and connects his lips to the underside of your jaw. Your head tilts further back with every centimeter he trails down the length of your neck, granting him increased access to wreck you even further. You have to keep your hands on whatever you can grip of his biceps — which ultimately isn’t much at all — to keep from floating away.

“Bold of you to call me beautiful,” he murmurs against your body, “When you just exist like this.”

You don’t argue. You can’t argue with a man who sounds so fucking reverent. Not in good faith, anyway. He says it with the kind of sincerity that underlines an undisputed fact; and you know better than to debate an expert.

With nothing to say, all you have left is to keen and melt even further into the mattress.

Like everything else he does, the way Jihoon kisses you is rhythmic. Steady and thoughtful, each feather-light graze of his lips on your skin causes your eyelids to flutter until you eventually decide to keep them shut. To cut out the visual and hone in on the physical sensation; to be truly present in the body he can’t get enough of.

As it turns out, being present earns the gift of his tongue circling one of your nipples. Soon after, you get the plush heat of his mouth enveloping the sensitive bud; the slow, deep pull of the suction he creates.

Eloquent as always, you moan, “Fuuuuck.”

The hand not holding up his weight massages your other breast, too considerate to leave half of you lonely. Whatever gentle pressure he maintains there builds inside you, further down.

It’s incredible.

No, it’s fucking perfect.

Jihoon switches sides, grazes your other nipple carefully with his teeth, and it’s over for you. You shudder beneath his body, back arching and a breathy sigh floating out of your chest.

Apparently, he’s just as surprised by this turn of events as you are. Your eyes blink open and find him hovering over you with his jaw partially dropped, still smiling somehow.

Your questions overlap.

“Did you just —”

“— make me cum from this?”

His bemusement switches in an instant to something you can only describe as bewitched. Voice gravel-lined, Jihoon groans, “Oh, shit.” Adding immediately and twice as earnestly, “Goddamn.”

A flash of conflict makes him freeze. You know he’s facing the same internal debate that you are: he needs to be inside of you in the worst way, right now, but that’s not a conclusion the pair of you can just — leap to. 

There’s simply too much of him to take if he doesn’t fuck you open with his fingers first.

Jihoon shakes his head, as if he’s telling himself no. Like he’s reminding himself of what he promised — or threatened, more like — earlier, that he’s taking his time.

As much as you want to beg otherwise, you know you shouldn’t. So, you don’t. You reach out, encircle his wrist in your hand, and bring him back within reach. 

With undivided attention and darkening eyes, Jihoon watches you take his index and middle finger into your mouth, cheeks hollowing and tongue circling. He fights to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head, all the while professing, “You’re perfect.”

Not generally, no.

However, Jihoon has a habit of ending up correct, even if you disagree. This isn’t a battle worth picking. In this moment, you’re willing to entertain the possibility that you’re perfect for him.

A soft pop underscores your choice to release him. His mouth must’ve gotten jealous; it swiftly replaces his fingers, tongue reclaiming any territory he wrongfully assumes he’s lost.

You’d be content to stay this way forever — and likely could, if it came down to it — but Jihoon has an agenda. He sticks to it, to the letter, and in dropping his hand down your body, he lets his knuckles drag softly over the trail he blazes. The little sleep shorts you wear are moved aside, and your thighs part for him, too, offering unrestricted access.

Two fingers slip inside of you easily, no doubt aided by the orgasm that snuck up on you — the one you’re still thinking about; the one he’ll secretly hang his hat on forever, having brought it on without touching you here at all.

“Listen to you,” he smirks against your lips with a curl of his fingers. 

As if you weren’t already acutely aware of the way you’ve drenched him to the base knuckles, he rolls his wrist, stroking your g-spot while the heel of his hand nudges your clit. Even the dulcet hum of the aircon isn’t enough to mute the obscenity; you hear the slick rush with every slow thrust of his fingers.

You respond with some sort of whimper. The sound barely registers without any breath behind it. If Jihoon hears it, he doesn’t let it affect his pace — just the stretch. He scissors his middle and index on the way out, then returns with his ring finger, unearthing a proper moan from the very bottom of your lungs.

His head tilts to the side. Warm breath hits the shell of your ear, prompting a contradictory shiver. “I think you’ve got another one for me, don’t you?”

Buried in you, he taps his fingers against that same, spongy spot. Every neuron you have begins to buzz.

“In fact, I think you want to cum all over my fingers,” he whispers, goading you with his rough voice dropped low. “Think you wanna soak my fucking hand, so I can fill you properly.”

You think you’ll have to apologize later for the crescent-shaped indents your nails leave on his shoulders.

When your second orgasm overtakes you, you feel it tingling all the way up at the crown of your head. Just like the first, it’s not a clap of thunder but a roll — patient. The intensity only builds, the longer it lasts. Jihoon makes sure it does — makes no adjustment to the slow, steady tempo, as it pulls you fully apart.

Every muscle you tensed as you came goes limp. It’s anyone’s guess whether you have any bones left. You’re sure that the only thing keeping you from seeping like honey through the mattress, or pooling on the floor below, is Jihoon’s body caging you in.

“Don’t ask me what my name is.” Your head droops to the side, and you mumble, “I do not remember, and I do not care.”

He kisses the temple that isn’t smushed against his left forearm, which, coupled with his elbow, now holds both of your weight. “If you’re spent, I can sto—”

“Don’t you dare.”

The emphatic look you muster lacks energy, you’re sure, but the point still stands, even if your stamina doesn’t. Half-lidded, you stare at him with all the force you can find.

“I’ll stay awake for the rest of my life if you stop now. I swear to you, Lee Jihoon, I will die on this hill.”

“Easy, tiger,” he purrs. Out of the corner of your narrowed eyes, you clock the fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The whole point of this was for you to relax.”

To prove that you haven’t lost the plot entirely, you close your eyes, rather than roll them. Then, you cave completely. 

You whisper, leaving no question as to how badly you need him, “Jihoon… Please.”

“I’ve got you.” He nudges your temple with the tip of his nose. “But I can’t fuck you unless you give my arm back.”

Begrudgingly, you scoot your head several centimeters across the pillow, heaving a put-upon sigh as if he’s asked you to move a mountain instead. You give yourself a moment to mourn the loss of your headrest, then you open your eyes. As you do, any thought of pouting flies out the window.

Having crawled back to the end of your bed, Jihoon gets to his feet. Once there, he drops his hands and eyes to the loose knot cinching the waistband of his sweatpants. It’s a sight you’ve seen a thousand times — his naked chest so pale in contrast with his usual, all-black attire — yet it’s one you’ll never truly get over. Even harder to cope with is the fact that he’s never been in a hurry; not once in his goddamn life.

If you’re being honest, that’s one of the things you’ve always loved most about him. Envied, even. You fret endlessly about the process, whatever that may be; he trusts it. You scale the walls in anticipation; he’s never been caught sweating.

The best example of this comes the second he finishes addressing that knot. His sweatpants pool at his ankles; he kicks them aside; and you immediately set to wondering how in the motherfuck he managed to be so patient with you when he’s this incomprehensibly hard.

Really, you don’t deserve him.

Nevertheless, you get him anyway. 

Him pushing his flyways out of his face; him reaching out slowly to hook his fingers under the elastic band of your shorts; him cursing under his breath when he tosses those shorts over his shoulder and finds you wet and wanting.

In return, Jihoon gets you right where he wants you — trembling underneath him, with pliant legs opening wider at the request of his hands on your thighs. When his body fills the space between them, those same legs wrap around his back to keep him close, just like the arms you slink around his neck.

“Deep breath,” he reminds you as he lines himself up, only half-jokingly.

It’s good advice — something Jihoon probably should’ve heeded. 

He doesn’t. 

You keep your eyes on his when he slides inside of you, and you swear you see his mind blow in real time. Not that you have room to judge, however. In fact, that’s precisely what’s causing you to short-circuit: the perfect pressure of his length within your heat, sinking in slowly so as to not shock the system.

When he eventually bottoms out, low moan splintering from the depths of his chest, you have to blink quickly to keep tears within your waterline.

To check in, Jihoon runs his hand along the side of your thigh then back again. “Alright?”

Whatever you say in response comes out through a dreamy sigh, framed in quotation marks by fluttering lashes. Nonsense, most likely, or never better. In either case, he’ll understand; he always does.

Placing your hand on his, you slip your fingers over the top and pull him forward. He lets you, comes down carefully until the comfort of his weight against your frame makes you feel anchored. With every inch that’s erased between you, he fills you further, pushing out whatever air remains in your lungs through some needy little whine.

Among the million sensations you have to grapple with, the most hard-hitting, ironically, is comfort. Pure and unadulterated. You enveloping him, enveloping you.

To prove it to yourself that you’re not dreaming, you slip your fingers into his hair, nails scratching delicately over his scalp. In return, he rolls his hips forward, just like he promised — slow, steady, deep. You clench around him involuntarily, a reflex your body must’ve learned to keep him close.

“Love the way you grip me, but...” Jihoon exhales a sigh against your neck, head tilted to keep your face in his periphery. Pulling out further just to thrust in deeper, he warns, “You keep that up, and I’ll cum too soon.”

He’s one to talk.

Every time he grinds his hips languidly towards yours, you have to talk yourself off the ledge. 

If you let him wear you down again, you fear that there won’t be enough left of you to savor this; and you never want this moment to end. You want to live in it — to feel the delicious drag of his cock along your walls — to hear that obscene tide ebb and flow whenever he fucks himself further in you — to feel so fucking full —  for as long as he gives you. 

It was a valiant effort on your part, if you do say so yourself. Futile, though, because Jihoon pulls out all the stops. The next time he pulls himself from you just to roll back in, he swivels his hips as he thrusts, ensuring that you feel him everywhere.

“Oh.”

One syllable on a gasping breath, then you forget every single word in your vocabulary. Like warm molasses, bliss washes over you at half-speed, seeping in and sticking until the blender motor in your brain is fucked beyond repair.

At least you’re not the only one.

“Fuck, fuck —” 

Holding him as closely as you are, you feel each muscle in Jihoon’s body tense one-by-one, rippling as your third orgasm steals his first, going lax when his release floods. “— Fuck,” he groans, all the while twitching inside you.

Though he slows, he doesn’t stop. It’s not until he pants, “Kiss me,” that you realize it: Jihoon doesn’t intend to stop.

Neither, it seems, do you.

Maybe you’re greedy. Maybe you’re too obsessed with the brush of his tip against your cervix with every gentle, shallow thrust. Maybe, above all, it’s the way his cock doesn’t soften inside of you but his face does when he catches you looking at him from under a heavy curtain of lashes.

You catch him by the mouth, just like he asked. It’s indulgent — messy, echoing the other point where the two of you connect. Licking into him while he fucks himself into you, ragged breaths barely loud enough to overpower the explicit, sodden sound below.

“Can you still speak in sentences?” He pants in a rare moment when his lips break from yours.

Can feel you in my stomach, you want to say. 

“I’m — you’re gonna make me —”

You can’t choke out the words, though you suspect Jihoon gets the point. This far in, his touch reaches a detonator you didn’t even know existed; there’s no way he misses the explosion of pleasure throughout your entire goddamn body.

He’s caught in your blast radius, your walls pulsing and spasming to such an insane degree that he can barely move. Mind blown to fucking smithereens, your ears ring too loudly to hear whatever he says to you when he cums again — hard — and the arms bearing his weight buckle.

Jihoon’s flushed cheek winds up pressed to your shoulder. He stays there while your joint trembling subsides, then any muscle that could make him move is too spent to do so.

“What just happened?” He sounds as delirious as you feel. “That was… shit. What did your body just do?”

You have no idea. 

You have no capacity to form any.

All you have is the weight of his frame on yours and that of your eyelids, which flutter as you try and fail to keep them open. The best you can give is a non-responsive, utterly fucked-out sound — not enough shape to be a word, not enough breath to be a sigh.

Eventually, although you can’t imagine how, Jihoon finds enough strength to shift himself off of you. You don’t see anything that happens next, but you feel it all — the kiss to your temple; the hollowness when he pulls out and the sticky rush that chases him when he leaves.

“I’m coming back to clean you up,” he promises in a hushed tone from a million miles away. Chuckling despite his own sleepiness, he adds, “Don’t move.”

I won’t, you think but don’t say.

And you don’t move.

At least, not until the smell of hotteok reaches you eight hours later.

svt taglist: @ashonheavenscloud @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @rasparagus @bouclesdefeu @ourkivee @sourkimchi @gyuguys

multi taglist: @bahng-chrizz @jihopesjoint @notevenheretbh1 @borabitsch @bubbly-moon

also paging the cap gang: @daechwitatamic @yoongukie-ff

[euseokz]

@ anton — i've never felt this way before . . i hope it never ends ! . cws : virginity loss . oral (f) . wc : 0.6k+ . genre : smut + fluff

a/n : happy (belated) anton day !! decided to finish up this wip for our sweet boy’s day hehe 🫶🏻🫶🏻

FIRST LOVE! ANTON who is in complete awe of you, so enamored he can barely hold it in.

he has never felt this way for someone, how he always wants to be close to you, how he always seems to smile more around you, how your touch always is so warm and comforting, how being away from you leaves him with a weird feeling of longing. he can’t quite describe it, but he wonders if this what love feels like, if it is this giddy feeling he feels bubbling inside his chest whenever your name is mentioned or when he sees you. maybe he does love you, and thankfully, you love him too, feeling everything he feels perfectly the same, your first time experiencing all of this too.

maybe what led you two to take so long to fully find your ways to each other was the fact you were so inexperienced in this department, but regardless, eventually, you found yourselves in each other’s arms, every kiss leaving you filled with more glee than the last, perky smiles always making their way to your lips whenever you were together. all you needed was to take the next step, completely devote yourselves to one another, wanting more than just the make out sessions and daring touches. you wanted each other badly, drawn to one another like a moth to a flame — and anton hoped it would always be like this, that he’d always want you like he did the first time.

his touches were soft, tender, each layer of clothing getting peeled off of you with a sort of gentleness only anton could give you. he gazed at your naked body with wonder, already imagining all the things he wanted to do with you — and the feeling was mutual, as soon as he too was completely bare your eyes gluing themselves to his wide frame, looking curiously, expectantly waiting for what would come next.

anton left small kisses down your neck, each one fleeting but hotter than any other one he had ever given you, making you squirm under him, a sort of fire burning in your middle, begging to be put out by anton’s plump lips. he left his last pecks on your inner thigh, then moving to press them over your folds, anxiously gulping before peeking his tongue out, licking a strip up your pussy, attentive to your reaction. you whined, arching your back ever so slightly, already desperate for more, anton’s arms wrapping around your upper thighs while your hands held them, trying to find solace in touching him. experimentally, and almost curiously, anton continued, trying to flick over your clit, the swollen bud twitching at his touch, your unintentional reactions to him something that made anton smile, only adding fuel to make him want to keep going.

he sucked on your clit, continued pressing his tongue over it, kissed your pussy and even tried pushing his tongue into your hole. anton did anything he could think of that’d possibly make you feel good, all of his guesses right enough because sooner than later you were cumming against him, your walls clenching around nothing as he continued stimulating your sensitive clit, slowing down when you started whining that it was too much, until he eventually stopped, coming up from between your legs with a satisfied grin, his lips and chin glistening with a mixture of his saliva and your slick. anton’s eyes shined, glossy arousal covering them — much like your own, so without wasting more time he moved up to kiss you again, ready to keep going with you, his first love.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All In 14

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)

based on the winning option for this poll

Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes

Note: The week is almost done.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“You alright, doll?” Bucky has his arm hooked through yours as you make another round of the black and white room.  

The evening has seen you through parts of the casino you couldn’t even imagine. Private rooms along a hall on the upper floor, past the double wide entries to the grand halls meant for shows and concerts, several sprawling rooms set with tables and machines for the task of gambling, drinking, and general fervour. All splendid and sparkling, but each entirely overwhelming. 

“Yes,” you look at your glass, the same you’ve been nursing for a while. Maybe only the second after that confrontation. The night’s swept by you like shadow. “Erm,” you don’t want for him to think you’re disappointed. You’re not, you just don’t belong. “My feet... the shoes... I’m not used to them.” 

He looks down, his eyes scaling your body slowly as he brings you to face him. He stops at the heels and tilts his head. 

“Mm, I don’t know how you girls do it,” he chuckles and his eyes flick back up, burning into yours, “you done with that, doll?” 

He taps the glass and you nod. You don’t think you’ll finish; it’s all water from the melted ice. He takes it swiftly and searches around, gesturing until one of the bottle girls in their sleek leather pants appears to claim it. You wait sheepishly, embarrassed to have her cleaning up after you. 

“Well,” Bucky faces you with a devilish smirk, “let’s get you off your feet then.” 

Before you can react, he scoops you up. You let out a whoop of surprise and cling to him as the world disappears from under your feet. He holds you firmly against his chest, your legs bent over one of his arms as you hook your arm over his shoulder and place your other hand against his chest. 

“Bucky,” you squeal. 

“I got you, doll,” he struts forward without pause, “you trust me, don’t ya?” 

You look up at him and gulp. What can you say? 

“Yes,” you murmur and hide your face, aware of those around you and their attention. How could they not gawk at this man, especially as he carries you away. 

“Good, doll,” he purrs and strides on, set on his path, unwavering as he leaves the ringing and buzzing of the casino. 

He doesn’t stop until he reaches the elevator, even then, the doors seem to open at his very presence. As he bids you to push the button, the doors slide apart, and he steps on. You fold your arms in and lean into him as it starts to rise. You’re even more uneasy with its building height as he has you off the ground. 

“Doll?” He intones as you shiver. You stare at the transparent walls with wide eyes. He hums and puts a kiss on the top of your head. “Told you, I got you.” 

You close your eyes. The ascent makes you dizzy. Instinctively you wrap your hand around the lapel of his jacket. You feel him take a deep breath. Finally, the doors ding and release you into the hotel hallway. 

He once more advances and your chest begins to knot. Oh. Oh. He’s taking you back to the room. You pop your head up and open your eyes. What... what does he expect? Can you give it to him? 

He stops in front of the same door you’d hidden behind earlier. He asks you to unlock it and you untangle the thin strap of your purse to find the card. He moves with you so you can reach and you slide the plastic in the slot. You’re shaking uncontrollably but you’re not brave enough to ask any of the questions rushing through your head. 

He enters and you lock up. Your whole body goes rigid. He kicks the door shut as he swiftly passes through and he’s unstopping as he breezes by the sofa and the plush armchairs. He enters the bedroom of the suite and your vision turns to a tunnel. 

“Doll,” he goes to the bed and lays you down. You’re jittering as if you’re on ice, “what’sa matter?” 

He lifts your legs and sits beneath them, his feet on the floor as he perches sideways on the edge. You watch him, paralysed with uncertainty. He wiggles the shoes from your feet and your gaze holds onto his hands. He covers your foot with one and his warmth seeps into your skin. The curl of his fingertips into your sole make you moan unwittingly. 

You cover your mouth and giggle as he tickles your arch. 

“You said your feet hurt,” he pushes his thumb against the ball of your foot. 

“I... did,” you utter breathlessly as you rest against the fluffy pillows, “but you...” 

“I’ll take any damn excuse to touch you, doll,” he grins as he works his knuckle into your foot and forces another mewl from you. No one’s ever rubbed your feet before. You never would ask for it. Any sort of touch is scary, even only in your mind. “And to get ya alone.” 

His dark hair falls forward as he focuses on your foot, rubbing, kneading, squeezing, working it expertly. You dig your elbows into the mattress to keep from melting entirely. You can feel the tension retreating. It’s a release you never realised you needed. 

“You keep making all that noise,” he lets one hand crawl up your leg, “and I might not be able to control myself.” 

You squeak and he snickers, glancing over from behind his brown locks. He grins as he looks your over. He bites his lower lips and his chest rises and falls. 

“You are absolutely gorgeous, you know that?” He switches feet and you babble. “You have a good night?” 

You teethe your lip as you weigh your answer. You can’t help the way your cheeks tug and your brow wrinkles as you think of the evening behind you. The faces, the noises, that man, the way Bucky turned fiery and angry. 

“You didn’t?” He prompts thinly. 

“No, it was... nice. A lot. I... so much going on, I’m not used to it.” You try to sit up and he gently tugs so you fall back onto the pillow. “I...” you lift your head to look at him, “that... when you... I don’t like anger.” 

He’s quiet and puts his head straight. He dips his chin, massaging your arch silently. He huffs. 

“I know, doll, but I can’t help myself. The way that man knocked into you. I thought... I thought he hit you at first and it doesn’t matter if it was an accident, he shouldn’t be bumping into pretty ladies like that. He shouldn’t be drinking to the point of idiocy,” he snarls, his grip growing heavier around your foot, “if he’d hurt you, I’d have ripped his goddamn throat out. I won’t apologise for protecting you, doll.” 

“I-- know, Bucky, I know. I appreciate you sticking up for me,” you make yourself sit up and he hangs onto your foot. You wiggle it until he lets go and you push yourself closer as you drop a leg over the edge, “Bucky, no one’s ever defended me like that.” 

He looks at you and tilts his head, “how’s that? Girl like you, you’re a real prize. You deserve to be protected. To be... Spoiled,” he smirks and reaches to touch your hand, “to be admired,” he lifts your hand and admires it, playing with your fingers before he places a kiss on your knuckles, “adored...” he continues to brush his lips against your skin, sending goosebumps up your back, “pampered... tasted...” 

His eyes flit up to meet yours and, in an instant, he has you. His hand snakes around the back of your neck as he forces you onto your back, pushing you down as he brings himself over you. He crushes his lips against yours as you wriggle, your hands trapped against his chest. 

He suffocates you. His beard scratches around your lips as he growls into you, his tongue delving into your mouth without permission. You’re powerless against him. His need is enthralling and overwhelming. His desire is corded into his body and into his grip. His hand moves to cradle the back of your head as he drags his lips down your cheek. 

You puff out, heart racing, as he continues his path along your jaw. You giggle at the ticklishness in your neck as his lips graze your skin. It’s more than just the sensation of his touch, it’s fear, bubbling in your stomach like acid. There’s a truth blaring in your mind; you can’t stop him. 

He nips at your throat and snarls. His fingers trail along your neck and shoulder and hook under the strap of your chest. Your panic surges beneath the delight of his tending. You wiggle your arm free of his weight and put your hand over his as he inches the strap down. His mouth continues its quick advance down to your cleavage. 

You arch your back, not as much in want as in terror. Your writhe and squeeze his hand tighter. You feel his strength and your lack of. You whimper and shove of on his head desperately. 

“Slow... slow down,” you gasp, “please...” 

He doesn’t listen or he doesn’t hear you. He nuzzles just above the swell in your chest, his breath puffing into your cleavage. You latch onto a hank of his hair and yank. You cry out as you bounce helplessly beneath him. 

“Bucky! Stop! Stop!” You beg, “please--” 

He winces and you let go of his hair as he retracts his hand, planting it on the mattress as he pushes himself up. He holds himself over you, his blue eyes blazing hotly down at you. Your lashes flutter and you pout. 

“I’m sorry,” you wilt beneath him, “I was just... scared. It’s... too fast.” 

He stares at you. He doesn’t say a word. That’s it. You’ve blown it. It’s over. You should be thankful that it’s happening so early. You’d hate to waste any more of his time or efforts. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologise once more, “I understand if--” you look away as your eyes tinge, “I’m not that girl, Bucky. I’m not what you want. I can’t...” 

“Don’t tell me what I want,” he snips as he grabs your chin and forces your head straight. He lowers himself until his forehead meets yours. You whine as you flatten yourself to the bed, “I want you...” he growls, “I can wait...” he lifts his head slightly and brushes his nose against yours, “can I kiss you? Just kissing,” he fixes the strap of your chest, “promise I’ll be a good boy, doll.” 

Your lip trembles. You can’t say no. Something inside you tells you that if you did, it wouldn’t be good. Yet why should you think that? He stopped when you told him to slow down. He’s compromising in that very moment. It’s your own stupid self-doubt getting in the way. 

“Okay,” you gently touch his cheek, feeling the texture of his thick beard. He winces but not in a fearful way. He hums and leans into your palm. 

“You like my beard?” He smirks as you feel his weight ease into you.  

“Um, yeah, I guess,” you murmur. 

“You guess?” He challenges. 

“Well, I never... never thought of it,” you give an antsy smile, afraid of saying the wrong thing. You pet the short hair as his gaze sears back at you, “it’s soft.” 

“Soft?” He muses and leans in. You ready yourself but he doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he brushes his beard along your cheek and sends a ripple through you. “Like that?” He purrs and nuzzles along your neck, his beard grazing the crook of it. You giggle, “that tickle?” 

“Yes,” you squeal as the sensation intensifies, “ooh, it tickles!” 

He chuckles and keeps on, his hand creeping up your side to tickle you through the dress. You spasm and nearly choke. You can’t handle it. You push on his shoulders and quake with laughter. He buries his face deeper and his fingers move more methodically. 

“Bucky!” You cry out. 

He hums and snickers again, “mm, I love it when you say my name.” 

“Eeek,” you squirm as he keeps on, trapped under him but so frightened as before.  

You reach around him, trying to find him under the thick jacket. You push your hands underneath and feel along the pressed shirt. You flutter up his sides and feel his muscle clench. You get under his arms and he snorts and crushes your hands under his biceps to stop you. He rips his head up and gives a strained look. 

“Now you really want to torture me,” he accuses with a snarl in his lip, “it’s on, doll.” 

[spncvr]

worries | s. reid

summary: you worry for spencer, it's human

pairing: spencer reid x reader

warnings: TENDING WOUNDS TROPE HELLO, hurt/comfort, mentions of death, blood (in a metaphorical way ???) ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE PLS BEAR WITH ME, lowkey kinda sappy, reader kinda cries, like, alot, lmk if i missed anytihg !

a/n: tryying desperately to force myself out of my writers block so here's a WIP i forcedmyself to finish (its 1 am rn bye). send me requests??for??ideas?? i beg.

THE SMALL LIGHT BULB that dangles from the ceiling casts a soft glow on everything it touches. The light, never quite bright enough for your liking (you never got around to changing it) bathes the room in a gentle hue, softening the edges of the couch, carpet and shelves. That akin to the way it bleeds against his skin, with this kind of grace that seems to make scars on his face look kind and soft. 

“Hold still,” you chide, trying to clean the wound on his eyebrow; a harsh reminder of the day’s chaos. And when he does you mumble, “You’re such an idiot.”

His response is a small smile that sits against his lips, warm and understanding. His hands gently find their place on your thighs, grounding you as you straddle him “Yeah, I know,” he says.

“You shouldn’t’ve just … lunged at him like that.” It’s a plea wrapped in a scold. 

You duck your head down to avoid his careful eyes. You think, if he can’t see you, he can’t properly read you; a futile attempt, really. But still,  you think, if he can’t see the worry within your eyes he’d just let it go; that he wouldn’t know that you couldn’t help but think, what if, the unsub had gotten the upper hand, and what if it was much worse than just a measly cut on his eyebrow. These thoughts, the feelings, seem to constantly plague your mind in your darkest moments; ones that would make you feel like your heart is pouring out your chest, like rose thorns poking at your ribcage, that’ll bleed you dry with worry.

“What’s wrong?”His voice is soft, laced with concern, and it breaks through your defenses. The fingers that were on your thigh are now under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him, a silent entreaty for your honesty. His gaze is now on yours, stagnant and unwavering—and your lips start to quiver, and tears threaten to spill. Quickly, you hide your face into his shoulder.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your words are barely a whisper.

“Of what?” 

“I’m terrified for you.” your words are muffled in his shirt “What if—” you say, helpless, “What if it was more than just a cut on your eyebrow Spence, what if I— when—” you can’t finish your sentence. Not when he’s rubbing your back and kissing your head so softly and so kindly it makes the tears from your eyes spill and paint soft patches on his shirt. 

“You won’t,” he tells you with a conviction, that he wears so effortlessly like his own skin, “I won’t. I’m not leaving you.”

“You can’t say that,” you protest weakly, “you can’t know that. Look at Stephen he— God, Spence. You of all people know that you can’t possibly know that—”

“Hey, no,” he scolds quietly. 

But you're already looking at him, your face off from his shoulder. “Don’t tell me not to worry. Don’t tell me I can’t talk like that. You’re my boyfriend. It’s apart of caring. I should worry for you, so let me worry. It wouldn’t be human not to.”

“I know,” he says, soothingly, then, “I’m sorry.”

You wipe your tears frantically with your arm before continuing to tend his cut. “I wish the FBI had force fields around their agents.” you say, through a small smile, “Wish they could wrap you up with thick blankets.” It’s a childish thought.

His laughter is kind and genuine, it fills the space between the two of you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you nod with a smile that finds its way through your tears.

“You take such good care of me,” he says, eyes never leaving yours.

Maybe it was his words or the way it had slipped from his tongue; maybe it was how his fingers, rough and calloused,  had grazed against your delicate ones. But here, as he sits with a smile on his lips, (a lopsided lazy thing), all scarred and bruised, did you know that you love him. But love was a concept you had cared for and attended to. You loved your mother, your friends. You loved books and their characters. You loved the darkness, the night. You loved your job, and its challenges. You loved music and movies. You loved home, and it's all too familiar feeling against your skin. And suddenly this concept —love— seems too small, too narrow to encompass what you feel for him. There isn’t a word or phrase made —nor did you think there ever would be— to describe just how much you had felt for him.

But in short, you do love him, very much.

[fayes-fics]

Aflame

Pariing: Benedict Brigerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Sequel to Waking Up. Benedict turns the tables...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, dirty talk, female orgasm.

Word Count: 2.1k

Author's Note: This picks up IMMEDIATELY from the last line of Waking Up. Please read that fic before you read this one! Dedicated to the wonderful @queen-of-the-misfit-toys and betaed by the fabulous @colettebronte. After sitting in my WIPs for 16 months, this fic finally worked itself out in my brain. Enjoy! <3

The warm glow of late summer out on a hillside near Aubrey Hall is no match for the words Benedict whispers hotly into your ear.

“After all, you’ll need all that food after I’m done keeping you up all night.” 

You can’t help the noise that escapes your lips from that line, so turned on from pleasuring him that you’re actually vibrating with need, your thighs rubbing together subconsciously.

“Ben, I… fuck… I want you so much I’m shaking,” you stumble out quietly.

Suddenly, you are on your back, him surging over you. He pins your wrists to the picnic blanket and holds you there.

“Tell me everything,” his voice is desperate, “I want to hear it. Tell me how much you want me.”

“I….” You’ve lost the ability to speak under the intensity of his gaze. Your body is thrumming, but your mind is blank. “I don’t have the words. I can’t think straight. I just need you so much,” you admit, almost ashamed. “I’ve never been this turned on in my life.”

“Show me,” he urges, breathing heavily, releasing your arms but still hovering over you.

You scramble to open your jeans, your knuckles brushing his thighs as you fight your clothing. You push them down your hips, shuffling around under him.

“Fucking hell,” he exhales as he sits up slightly.

His gaze is trained between your legs; you can feel your light blue underwear soaked through. He rears up and tugs your jeans off your shins in one swift, rough motion. Then he collapses onto you, his face buried right into your cotton knickers.

“You smell amazing,” he breathes and suckles the material; the heat of his mouth through the thin layer makes you gasp loudly, sending shockwaves all over your body. “You taste it, too.”

“I need to come. Please, please help me…”

He doesn’t say anything to your mindless plea; he just pulls your underwear aside, questing his tongue through your folds. You shout a curse, and your whole upper body rises at the sudden rush of sensation. A large hand lands between your clothed breasts and pushes you back down, firm but not rough, a hold that grounds you. 

Then he lashes against your clit.

“Ben, oh my fucking god!” You exclaim, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the blanket.

“I have this overwhelming need to make you scream,” he rumbles, muffled into your flesh before turning his head and lightly biting the meat of your inner thigh. 

“Please…” you stutter, staring down at him, still slightly shocked this is happening.

He wears a secret, crooked smile as he pulls your underwear down your legs, disposing of them over his shoulder without paying heed to where they land. 

For some reason, the idea that your best friend would be this person never occurred to you. But as his hands band behind the back of your knees and force your legs wide apart, you are floored by how raw this is. In idle moments when you’d thought about it in the past, you’d always figured he would be one of those sweet, perhaps timid lovers, but he’s not. It’s much better than that—an edginess that has metallic want blooming in your mouth.

“Look at me,” he demands, and you do, gazing down your body to his handsome face framed by your thighs dappled in the shade of the mighty oak. 

You watch him sink between your legs again, and you hold his gaze as he swipes his tongue all the way from your pussy to your clit, lingering there, rolling around, sealing his mouth around the whole area. You curse again, your gaze locked onto his eyes. Fiery and challenging, with endless blown pupils. You are certain yours are the same, so achingly aroused.

The initial frantic pace slows to something more languid, more a match to the lazy midsummer late afternoon as he slowly maps your landscape, his movements slow and deliberate as he hums his approval.

“Tell me exactly what you want,” he pulls away an inch just to speak, and you feel his breath on your labia. “Grab my head, direct me. I want to learn exactly what you need.” 

When you hesitate, he reaches for your hand and places it on the back of his head, luscious, thick, short chestnut waves there, his scalp warm under your fingertips.

“Just keep doing what you are doing,” you reply, perhaps a touch evasive, slightly embarrassed to talk in detail, tugging lightly on the strands of his hair.

“Don't be shy,” he entices, his voice resonant as he licks a delicate circle around your labia. “If you tell me, I will do it.”

That beguiling offer makes your stomach flutter. 

“I… I like lots of suction,” you remark quietly, almost hesitant to state what you truly want.

“Where?” he goads, and you know he knows; it seems he just wants you to talk explicitly.

“I like lots of suction on my clit,” you elaborate, screwing your eyes shut self-consciously. 

You moan loudly as he does just that—seals his hot, wet mouth over your clit hood and pulls it into his mouth, making all your nerve endings fire.

“God, yes, like that,” you rush out, as he gets more insistent, your eyes flying open and staring up into the tree branches. “Oh fuck, flick with your tongue too, please, please…” 

He does precisely what you want, flicking your swelling nub with an enthusiasm no one has taken with you before. You moan his name, undulating under him, that hand snaking back up to your sternum, holding you down in a way that just makes you want to squirm more. He is able to read you like a book—the transmutation of close friendship and the knowledge it provides a thrilling, potent weapon.

“Fuckkkk…..” the word is a prolonged exhale.

There is a triumphant chuckle, and he surges higher, pushing your legs up so your knees bend deeply, placing your feet on his shoulders, really diving into your body. You can feel your clit engorged now, your pussy dripping onto the ticklish graze of nascent afternoon stubble on his chin. He feasts on you, tugging your labia gently with his teeth, then going back up to your clit and sucking so hard it has you keening, an urge to clamp your thighs close, but he holds you too open, a ripple of denied movement heightening your desire. But, just as you feel yourself beginning to truly spiral, he backs off, kissing around your inner thighs in a soft tease that makes you whine.

“Good things come to those who wait,” he purrs.

Shuffling lower, he begins to lap gently at your leaking pussy, the bridge of his nose pressing into your pulsing clit. The change of pace makes your skin feel like it's shimmering like the hazy horizon. Unable to keep your eyes open anymore, your head falls flat on the picnic blanket, your lids fluttering closed. You whine his name, fingers twirling into the strands under your hand, and again, he laughs richly, the feel of it vibrating up your walls where he licks shallowly into you unhurriedly.

“I need you to fuck me….” falls from your lips unbidden, your voice breathy, wanton.

“I will; I promise you,” he answers huskily, the hand wrapped around your hip stretching out to pet the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs, a motion that is soothing over your pubic bone. “But first, I need you to come for me….”

His tongue licks under the hood of your clit, and suddenly, a bolt of fire zips up your spine, making you gasp loudly. And then you cry out as he stabs it again, the tip like a muscled spear. The grip on your hip releases, but you yell a curse as he plunges two fingertips into your pussy, an almost indecent wet noise as he does so, a stream trickling down between your cheeks as he starts to push deeper, his tongue now a rolling wave on your nub, syncopated with his finger strokes.

“God, I love how soaked you are…” he groans, pulling up a fraction to glance at your face, contorted with pleasure in a way you are sure looks ridiculous. “Fuck, you are so beautiful like this….” he adds as if intuiting your momentary insecurity and disputing it.

All the while, he is rocking those fingers far into you, the swell of his knuckles pressing into your walls in a way that has your pussy contract around him reflexively. He growls at the constriction, holding still for a moment and burying his nose into your folds.

“I could do this forever….” he asserts, his voice like velvet; the words felt as much as heard.

“I need that…” you sigh shudderingly, nails flexing on his head. 

The drowsy intoxication of the summer’s day and the earlier Pimms seems to be loosening both of your tongues and lends an ethereal quality. You look down at him, scarcely believing the lushness of the experience and are taken aback by the unbridled passion in his stare, entranced by the glaze on his face from your arousal. 

Something wordless passes between you, a mutual understanding that things will never be the same in your friendship, but both excited for it. That you can invoke this in each other, that he can make you as untamed as you made him. An infinite loop of possible pleasures laid out before you, that you both cannot wait to explore.

“Ben, I….” you begin, mouth feeling cotton dry from your ragged breaths.

He hushes you, nodding, acknowledging what you need without you having to trip over more words. His fingers buried inside you, stroking slowly, almost a comforting gesture, a leisurely pace that has you simmering. A featherlight brush of his luscious lower lip over your clit, not enough sensation to do anything but keep you plateaued in a state of almost mindless need, yearning for release while revelling in the sustained tease.

A light breeze rustles through the thick tree above and raises tiny goosebumps over your thighs, making your nipples pucker inside your bra; hair-trigger reactions to any stimuli in this elevated state. A sudden realisation your top half is still fully clothed, much as he was earlier. Somehow, it feels more illicit, an aspect to explore later, seeing each other fully naked.

“Kiss me, please…” the appeal sounding needy to your own ears.

But there is a shift in the atmosphere as he rears up and captures your lips with his, your scent and taste strong on his face and in his mouth. Something about it flipping the switch again towards primal, your fingernails raking down the back of his t-shirt, the sturdy rope of muscle underneath a solid mass to dig into as his tongue lathes yours, little delicious noises in the back of his throat.

His fingers are pumping into you now as he greedily swallows your moans, his thumb flicking mercilessly on your sensitive clit. He breaks the kiss to stare into your eyes, so close up, so intense, but impossible to look away from.

“You are so close…” he gusts, wringing obscene noises from you, his breath hot and botanic from the cocktail.

You can only nod and grasp onto his torso tighter, begging him not to stop, mouth slack, panting with each other. He is not gentle with you, taking you somewhere at once both utterly carnal and wholly transcendent—circling that wondrous abyss now.

He senses you are teetering on the edge. With a guttural groan, he dives back down between your legs, you screaming to the fading blue sky as he tugs your thrumming clit between his lips and flicks his tongue over it, again strong hands holding you down, the cotton blanket abrading your shoulder blades as you writhe, your body a live wire. Your pussy convulses forcefully, clenching around his fingers, attempting to push them out, gushing onto his face as he moans approvingly. Aflame as the illusory cord holding your whole body taunt snaps, a pulse of euphoria crashing over and blotting out everything.

The first thing you hear again is beautiful birdsong, and then you feel the warmth of his lips, soft words being hummed into your lower belly as you come back around, your top rucked up over your ribs.

“Magnificient,” he attests as he crawls over you. But you are utterly unable to speak, hoping your eyes convey your gratitude and utter bliss, the late afternoon sun almost blinding as it slips towards the hillside opposite.

Wordlessly, you pull him down into a kiss, this time slow, sensual, licking yourself from his lips. Sucking on his cupid’s bow until he rolls his hips on instinct, the rough seam of his jeans catching on your swollen bare clit and making you gasp. There is a nascent, solid mass there that has your need roaring back to life, silently impressed at his refractory period, a little glow behind your ribs that you have inspired that in him.

“I want to ride you staring into the sunset…” you confess, breathless again.

His responding noise is like poetry.

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[bxlladxnnabxtch]

Eternally Elusive

Rhysand x Reader

❀​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​❀

Summary: A pestering passerby drags up an unexpected guest that almost blows your cover.

Read pt. 1 of Eternally Elusive - HERE

Read pt. 7 - HERE (currently wip)

Warnings: Harassment, injury.

In your pain riddled haste, you hadn’t realized how worked up you had made Azriel’s shadow. It seemed to be fretting at any slip up in fear of you damaging your already broken wing, it’s movement jagged and sharp as it circled you. But alas, you paid it no heed- couldn’t as you stumbled your way over the border and onto Dawn Court soil in the most pain you’ve been in since you’d left your homeland. The feeling buzzed in your head, and you just knew that you’d be in pain for months just waiting for this to heal up, but that’s only if you get the proper care for it, which you were certainly not.

Even being courts apart, Rhys still seemed to find a way to make your life difficult.

You wondered idly if he knew how badly his slip up had fucked you over as you splinted your injury, enchanting the wooden block to stay in place with a wave of your hand. Your wing still throbbed, the pain thrumming through you like a steady stream. It was the slightest bit more bearable with the splint in place, the appendage no longer visibly deformed, and it put you at ease to see it no longer sticking at an odd angle.

The glamour you held over yourself swallowed you like a comforting blanket, the weight of it putting you at ease as you looked out on the bustling streets of the Dawn Court. The last thing you needed right now was someone noticing who you were, the whispers would no doubt make their way back to the inner circle and you didn’t need another guest appearance as of right now. You dragged a hand down your face, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension that had built up along your trek into town.

A brush along your wing had you jumping and scrambling to recoil away from the touch. Your head whipped around, swiveling frantically in search of the source. Your eyes landed on a short, brunette fae. His eyes were a piercing gold, shimmering in the setting sun. You’d almost say they were beautiful if they hadn’t been holding a tinge of disgust, staring at you as if he was floored by your very presence. Azriel’s shadow stilled when you locked eyes with him, the darkness settling at your side.

It's slight coolness as it brushed against you offered you some solace from your peaked anxiety as you stared at the fae. “An Illyrian?” He scoffed, looking down on your form perched on a wooden bench. His upper lip curled into a scowl as his eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.” He sneered. Your eyes darted around, a few people nearby eyed you both, a few previous strollers slowing down to watch the interaction. Your pulse spiked, and the fae seemed to pick up on it as he huffed a snort. “Are you a spy? Come to feed information back to your whore of a High Lord?”

The comment hit you like a brick to the face, the insult causing a slice of hurt to bloom in your chest despite your current status with said male. Your features downturned, a kaleidoscope of memories flooding into you from Under the Mountain- both yours and his. You didn’t have time to fully react to anything the fae had said- to what your body had forced you to remember.

A sharp, commanding voice sounded from behind the Dawn Court native, and he bristled at the sound, a visible tremor running through him. “Are we now in the business of disturbing travelers?”

You watched as the golden eyed fae slowly turned around, almost as if he were dreading what he would see. He moved to the side, and your eyes landed on a black haired woman, the girl coated in glittering armor from head to toe. The Dawn Court insignia sat proud on her chest plate, her dark hair sprawling well past the emblem and stopping just before her waist. She held the same shimmering golden eyes as the male- but these were sharper somehow, and they seemed to swirl with power. White wings stood proud behind her, so big that the ivory feathers brushed the ground where she stood.

A Peregryn, you realized.

A member of the elite aerial legion the Dawn Court proudly harbored. You were stunned, as were most passerby at her presence, only attracting more attention to your already uncomfortable situation. Her eyes landed on you, and they widened slightly in recognition.

It dawned on you in that second, and you stiffened into an immovable force.

Glamour didn’t work on Peregryns.

You stared at each other wide eyed, a silent acknowledgement of what was taking place. A runaway monarch- and a soldier of another court. She had all the power here- a cruel switch that was bound to be flipped at some point; you just didn’t expect it to be so soon. She could report this back to Thesan, have you sent back without so much as a thought. Azriels shadow circled you, and you waited with bated breath to see what she’d do.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Her eyes fell back onto the brown-haired male still staring at her in thinly veiled horror. “Get moving.” She said coldly, jerking her head in the direction of another bustling street. The male sputtered for a second, eyes darting back to you before stuttering out a “yes, ma’am.” You watched him disappear into the crowd of people making their way down the busy street, the few people that had stopped to watch the interaction dispersing with him.

Your eyes fell back on the woman, the Peregryn now making her way towards you as if she were on a mission. The look in her eyes had you leaping to your feet, hopping off the bench as if the wooden structure had scorched you through your clothes. You got up in time to meet her face to face, her golden armor glinting in the setting sun.

You swallowed thickly, your pulse racing as you locked eyes. Her face seemed to hold a certain kind of awe you’d compare to a child receiving a new toy. Her eyes slipped over to your injured wing, the glance lingering for a second longer than you’d anticipated before it flickered back to your face. The fae bristled, a realization seeming to dawn on her as she floundered. “M-my Lady.” Her legs bent to steep into a kneel, and your heart rate spiked so violently the Peregryn flinched, your arm shooting out to stop her from completing her bow. Your nails dug into her armor, creating a soft creaking noise as your voice fought its way out of you. Commanding. Desperate. Almost a plea as you spoke.

“Don’t.” You said lowly, eyes darting around as she slowly eased out of her half completed kneel. She managed to take in your frantic movements in her confused state, eyes searching the streets in hopes no one had saw what she had just attempted to do. A fae with light brown hair seemed to eye you as she walked by, and that was all it took to have you hauling the Peregryn into a nearby ally.

“Are you trying to get me in shit!?” You hissed, casting a glance to the street you were just standing in, the shadows of the ally helping you to remain hidden. “No- no, my lad-“ You cut her off. “Don’t call me that, I’m not Your Lady.” You let go of her armor, confusion staining the woman’s face, only becoming more saturated with each passing second. “I may serve the Dawn Court, but I was born of the Night, you are as much My Lady as Thesan is My Lord.” Your eyes darted to her dark sprawling locks, and it clicked for you. She may have been a Peregryn, that much was obvious, but she held prominent features of the Night Court.

It was possible, much like your own lineage. A union between a Peregryn and a member of the Night Court. You saw it. A reflection of yourself stared back, the pride that swirled in her eyes when she talked about her heritage. You remember being like that, once. So proud of being from both the Winter, and the Night Court.

It was long gone though, that pride.

One of those homes was ripped away from you.

You hope she doesn’t suffer the same fate.

“I’m glamoured right now.” You said, tone much softer. A crease formed between her brows, face falling. “Oh.” She paused, looking you over before she spoke again. “I thought you were here for the Fall Solstice.”

That’s right. The Solstice.

Where the three Solar Courts came together in celebration. Where the day and night fall together in equal harmony, each as long as the other. You had completely forgotten in your haste to make it back to Winter. Your mouth fell open, eyebrows raising as an expression of surprise overtook your features. It was clear Rhys wouldn’t be attending any festivals after Under the Mountain, and now with you missing, you’d be surprised if he left the house. Especially with… her to attend to.

“I’m guessing that’s a no?” She asked. Your eyes fell back on her. She really didn’t know? Did Rhys not alert the other Courts to your disappearance? Or is it just so early he didn’t have a chance yet? You swallowed nervously, wringing your hands together anxiously. “Well, since you’re in town you’re still welcome to come.” The Peregryn said softly, sensing your unease. “Pardon my bluntness, but you don’t look to be feeling too well, you should get some rest. I should probably get back to my post regardless.”

You realized just how long you’d been standing in the ally, and you nodded your head in acknowledgement. She inclined her head slightly, almost a bow but casual enough to be brushed off. “It was an honor.” She said sincerely, turning to make her way out of the overhang. You watched her exit the ally, ivory wings brushing the ground as they followed behind her.

Hauling yourself up the stairs of the inn, you used the wall to support most of your weight. Azriels shadow was swirling around you, fretting as it always did when you were in a less than favorable state. The groan you let out when you reached the top was almost guttural, and you had to muster up the very last bit of your energy reserves to scuffle the last bit to your room.

You fiddled around with the key, leaning your forehead against the door and attempted not to wince as your arm knocked into your wing. Getting the key into the lock was an accomplishment in itself, and you pushed the door open, ready to clean yourself up and have a short nap. The door swung open, and you threw the key onto the dresser on your right side, swinging the door closed behind you.

The door swung closed, revealing the bed and a battered Azriel sitting atop it.

[penny00dreadful]

Can't start another WIP she said, bitch she fuckin LIED. Personal Assistant Steve to Rockstar Eddie snippet. Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 AO3

Smoke curled lazily above them in the slightly chilly night air. Neither of them had bothered to put any clothes back on but they were still warm enough from previous activities so it didn’t really matter.

The guy, Jake? John? James? J- Julian! That was it. Julian was standing next to him just out of arms reach now that the horny haze between the two of them had worn off.

Eddie supposed that was to be expected.

The poor guy probably had no idea if he was about to be booted unceremoniously out of a rockstars luxury hotel room after crashing together under a fog of uppers and thumping music at the after party before they both had quickly fumbled their way into Eddie's bed for the night.

He had no idea if fuckin' security or some shit was going to burst through the door and drag him out half or fully naked now that Eddie was done with him.

And it probably hadn't helped that they had been walked in on, they'd barely been in the room a minute before Steve came looking for him, talking a mile a minute about tour schedules and pre-approved interview questions before he'd realised he was looking at Eddie practically humping the guy against a wall.

They'd stopped when Steve walked in obviously but it had been pretty clear what they were doing and Steve, ever the professional had just rolled his eyes and told Eddie he'd be back in the morning.

Julian clearly had no idea if he was safe here now that the deed was done but Eddie wasn't an asshole. He could be a bit callous all right but he wasn't opposed to his hook-ups hanging around for a little bit if they seemed like cool enough people. And the guy seemed nice enough so he didn’t mind letting him stick around.

Julian sighed a little heavily and ran a hand through his muddy blonde hair. “I feel kinda bad now.”

Eddie turned his eyes over to him. “About what? The sex?” He pulled in a drag from his cigarette.

“No!” Julian answered quickly. “No, the sex was great, really. I mean about your... Your assistant? Probably not the easiest thing for him to see.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Eddie shook his head. “Steve’s seen much worse, believe me. The stories that man could tell.” He laughed. “It's not the first time he's walked in and it probably won’t be the last but he’s practically immune to it at this stage. He’s dragged me by the hair out of celebrity drug dens, parties… he’s pulled me out of more orgy piles than I can count so you know… no skin off his back. ”

“That’s not really what I meant.”

“What then?”

Julian grimaced and glanced down with a look somewhere between guilty and sad. “You really don’t see it?”

Eddie ashed out his cigarette, shrugging and headed back inside. He wanted to get back into bed, his feet were cold and his body was aching from the show he’d just performed. Honestly he could do with as much sleep as humanly possible but he hadn't any idea what the guy was talking about. He'd meant what he'd said, Steve had seen him in just about every position it was possible for a person to be in pre-sex, mid-sex and post-sex. This was nothing new to him.

Julian followed him back inside and hovered awkwardly at the end of the bed, trying to pick his words and unsure if he should be picking his clothes back up from the floor or getting back into bed.

Eddie pulled the corner of the covers back. “I’m not going to kick you out, you can stay if you want or you can go. Up to you.”

Julian bit his lip but crawled in regardless, lying down to face Eddie. The darkness of the room and the way the two of them were lying facing towards each other felt like some kind of confessional.

“He’s clearly in love with you, dude.”

Eddie couldn’t help the full on belly laugh that came out of his mouth. “Steve?!” He asked incredulously. “No way, man. He’s my P.A. and one of my closest friends. Plus the guy is straight as an arrow. Your gaydar must be off or something.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well… I mean… look at him!”

Steve was… he was the straightest looking man around. All business suits, perfectly styled hair, slightly out of date glasses and ex-jock charisma and physique.

Julian didn’t answer, just cocked an eyebrow at him.

Eddie huffed. “Yeah, okay, I’m stereotyping but like… he fucks women.”

“You fuck women.”

“Rarely.”

“But you still do.”

“Okay… but… he… listen I know Steve, alright? The guy isn’t in love with me.”

Julian shrugged. “I dunno, man. I’m not trying to be an ass, I swear but it was very obvious… to me I guess.” He sighed again then muttered “Maybe I’m just very familiar with that look.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah." He tucked his hands under his head. "See it every time I look in the mirror.”

“Oh. Well shit. Who’re you breaking your heart over?”

“My best friend. Danny.”

Eddie hummed, rolling onto his stomach and shoving his arms under his pillow, rubbing his cheek against the fabric. “Tell me about him.”

Julian broke into a wide but bashful smile, so bright it was practically lighting up the dark room though it was sharply undercut with just a hint of melancholy.

“He’s the most loving, giving person I’ve ever met. He’d only just turned eighteen when both his parents died and out of nowhere he’s got three younger siblings that are now in his care and the guy barely knew how to look out for himself, you know? He once tried to microwave an egg to cook it. But he really stepped up. He grew up. Like, can you imagine being eighteen and having to go to parent-teacher meetings when you’d only just left school yourself and trying to teach his kid brother how to shave or talk his sisters through puberty… he’s just so… you know?”

Eddie wasn’t really sure he did know. This Danny person made him think of Steve, serial adopter of anyone even remotely younger than him. Sometimes older than him, if Eddie was to count himself. The kind of person who seemed to make it their life's mission to take care of others. He could see the appeal of Best-Friend-Danny, honestly. Steve probably had better hair though. He always had better hair.

“And Danny’s straight?”

“No.” Julian frowned. “He’s not. And I don’t know if that makes things worse. Because he could choose me. But he never has. Over and over and over again, he hasn’t chosen me. He probably never will. And I need him in my life. So I’ve learned to deal with just friends. It’ll... It'll be good enough.”

“Fuck, that’s heavy. I’m sorry man, sounds like it sucks.”

“It does suck. Sucks dick and balls, actually.”

Eddie allowed himself a little giggle at that but the whole situation had wound itself around his brain. Not for the first time he was forced to remember that there are other people out there, other people like him and other people nothing like him who use music, use sex, use drugs and drink and anything else they can get their hands on just to alter their minds for a few hours. Just to forget and get away from it all. Unfortunately this poor guy seemed stuck in the kind of tragedy poets have been writing about for hundreds of years.

They didn’t share any more words, both dropping off to sleep fairly quickly, lost in their own thoughts.

The next morning they shuffled around each other, lazy and easy now that any post-sex awkwardness had left, grumbling and sore from the show, the various substances they’d ingested, the after party and the sex from the night before.

They took turns in the hotel room's quite frankly obscenely fancy shower.

Julian slowly pulled his clothes back on, wincing whenever he had to bend his back while Eddie made it easy on himself, just throwing on his usual ancient and ratty lounging clothes.

The things Julian had said to him the night before were all but forgotten. Because it wasn't even something that was worth considering in Eddie's mind.

Steve? In love with him?

It was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard in his life. Steve was like some kind of clean cut poster boy for straightness.

Even if he wasn't straight they'd just be downright incompatible in every other sense of the word. He was punctual, a morning person, he exercised for fun, he watched sports, he was a bitch and he was always so put together.

Eddie... Eddie was none of those things.

Maybe he could be a bit of a bitch.

Sometimes.

Plus, even if it was true and that was a big if, Eddie wasn't in love with him back, so like...

Nothing would ever come of it anyway.

Just before Julian left, Eddie beckoned him back over.

The kiss wasn’t romantic, or heated. If anything it was downright platonic, like closing the book on their short story together.

“For luck.” Eddie smiled and patted him lightly on the chest, watching as Julian turned and left the room, his own small smile on his face.

It was nearly a half an hour later and Eddie was really getting into whatever episode of Real Housewives he’d stumbled upon, he wasn't sure, when Steve walked through the door, carrying a large and violently pink strawberry frappuccino with him.

Eddie made greedy, grabby hands at it from his lounged position on the bed. “You’re a saint.” He said, snatching it up.

“I’m aware.” Steve replied with a dry tone, hands on his hips.

Eddie gulped back two bitingly cold mouthfuls. “No, seriously, you’re the best thing to ever happen to me I swear to god." He gulped down another mouthful, ignoring the sharp throb in his teeth. "You gonna watch?” He gestured to the tv. “I think we’re a few episodes behind.”

Steve scoffed. “While I’d love nothing more than to sit on your dirty sex sheets, I have an actual job to do. Y’know, I have to organise your whole damn life-”

“Excuse you, I have an actual job too!”

“Drugs are not an actual job, Eds.”

“Tell that to a pharmacist.”

“Whatever. Drink your disgusting sugar and cream concoction and try not to get into too much trouble today. We're back on the tour bus at 6am sharp!” Steve started slowly backing towards the door, pointing at him. “And do not watch ahead from the last episode we saw together. We’re catching up on it over the weekend.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

Steve’s hands were back on his hips again and Eddie smiled around his straw.

“You’re the bane of my fucking existence, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved his hand. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

Something flashed across Steve’s face, there and gone before it ever settled. A tightening of his mouth, a clench in his jaw, a pinch in his brows, there and gone. Maybe if Julian had never said anything, Eddie wouldn’t have noticed. Maybe if the thought hadn’t been primed he wouldn’t have seen it.

How many times had he not seen it before?

Steve rolled his eyes, as bitchy as ever. “I’ll be back with the car in an hour. Try to look somewhat human by then, please?” He didn’t wait for an answer, turning on his heel and slamming the door behind him.

Well…

It was probably nothing…

Right?

Part 2 out now! Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 AO3

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Cheshire behind the cut; Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and then strokes his TTK along the other’s ribs and thighs again and just–tries not to get, like, too far ahead of himself here. 

Or, uh–get his own version of “carried away”, or anything like that. 

“Jesus,” Bernard says with a still-breathless laugh, and Kon thinks about sucking his dick again. Or he could wrap his TTK around it, maybe, and see if Bernard really would like that. Tim snaps another few pictures as Kon mouths and nuzzles at Bernard’s neck and Bernard presses up into his mouth and flexes in the grip of his powers, and Kon tries so fucking hard to just–behave, and not be too much or anything. Not be– 

Kon really doesn’t want to be too much and accidentally cross that invisible line and make Tim have to tell him–tell him that he’s done that. That he’s too much and too needy and just fucking weird and– 

He just–doesn’t wanna push it like that. That’s all. Doesn’t want . . . 

Kon buries his mouth in Bernard’s throat and mouths down it carefully, and strokes his hips and chest with his TTK and his ribs with his hands and does not get carried away or “too much” about it, and Bernard hums contentedly and wraps his arms around his neck to squeeze tight–or, like, the human version of “tight”, he means. Obviously. 

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” Bernard says, and Kon bites his tongue because he does not trust himself to bite Bernard right now. Especially not in the damn neck, of all places. 

Bernard’s body feels different from Tim’s. Different from–like, different from most people’s that Kon knows, really. The lines of his muscles are softer and more relaxed, no buzz of hypervigilant attention behind or inside them, and he’s got barely any scars or old breaks at all or anything that feels like a stress injury or even really all that much in the way of callouses, even. Like–he’s in shape, obviously, and in a practical way over an ornamental one, but even Ma and Pa have more old breaks and scars and signs of hard physical labor on their bodies. Bernard’s just feels . . . really soft, Kon guesses. Soft and easy and comfortable and . . . 

He bites his tongue harder, and puts his hands on the bed to curl into the fresh sheets and wraps his TTK up Bernard’s thighs and cups and squeezes his ass with it and presses a kiss he hopes won’t bruise against the other’s pulse. Bernard groans over it, sounding pleased, so–so Kon thinks it was fine. Wasn’t too much. 

The other’s so soft and easy and relaxed, and his body feels really good underneath him and inside his TTK, and Kon wants to touch him just about every fucking place he can think of. 

Kon hears Tim take a few more pictures, and hears Bernard sighing happily and feels him pressing into the grip of his powers again, and compared to the kind of pace he’s used to in bed it feels lazy and languid and luxurious, and Kon feels a little bit overwhelmed by it even without really getting touched all that deliberately himself. Bernard seems pretty pleased about things either way, and Tim’s still taking pictures and hasn’t corrected or redirected him, so Tim must like what he’s doing too, Kon thinks. 

He really wants Tim to like what he’s doing too. 

Which . . . Tim probably would like to watch, yeah. That seems like a thing he’d be into, Kon’s pretty sure. 

So–yeah. He’s doing what Tim wants him to be doing, he reminds himself, and pushes a hand up Bernard’s chest as the other catches his mouth in a kiss and digs curled fingers in against the back of his neck and on his upper arm, and Kon feels warm and his gut twists with heat, with eager anxiety and lustful cravings, and Bernard bites his mouth gently and he doesn’t trust himself to bite back with his teeth, but uses his TTK in imitation of it. And also uses it to stroke up the insides of Bernard’s thighs and weigh down heavy on his chest and stomach and hips and curl just a little bit tighter than that around the other’s cock under his clothes, and Bernard groans. 

“Oh, okay, the TTK’s, like–transitive, right,” he manages with a shaky, heated laugh, digging his fingers in a little harder against Kon’s neck and bicep. “Think I read that in a teen ‘zine once.” 

Definitely that magazine un-exists now, but that twist of heat in Kon’s gut twists hotter at hearing the comment–at hearing the memory. He–doesn’t really know what people do and don’t remember about him, usually. Like, ones he hasn’t talked to about it, he means, obviously. And even some of them, really, and–

But Bernard remembers a silly, stupid little article from some random magazine from a reality or two ago, and Kon feels very weird and a little bit fucked up about that, and wraps his TTK around the other’s body tight, just for–just for a second, just–not too much, not so he’ll be too much, just–just so–

“Fuck,” Bernard chokes, and Kon immediately feels like he just fucked up and is a fucking idiot and–“Nnn, fuck, harder.” 

The twist of heat in Kon’s gut lights up like a fucking fire and bleeds out like lava in his veins, and he tightens his TTK around Bernard just a little bit more–around every part of him that he can, just about–and Bernard shudders roughly in his grip and digs his fingers as much into Kon’s skin as he can, and squeezes his sides with his thighs, and knocks his head back hard against the bed. 

“Jesus, that is so–” Bernard breaks off into a strangled noise, trying to shove up tighter against him, and Kon can’t help trying to kiss it out of his mouth; can’t help letting his actual physical body pin him down harder into the mattress along with the press of his TTK. Bernard said he liked weight; liked pressure.

And Kon can definitely, definitely give him that, if he does.

[akindofmagictoo]

last line tag

i have a lot of old ones kicking around, but i also just wrote a bunch for my class (Secret Third WIP)

we shall count this as a tag from: @zmwrites @diphthongsfordays @talesofsorrowandofruin @memento-morri-writes

here is the new opening, still involving Nyx being a snarky teenager

Sundown marked approximately four hours that Nyx had been lying on the floor of a prison cell. Said floor was hardly comfortable and her head ached, and to add insult to injury, she hadn’t even had the chance to commit a crime first. The severe-looking Upperworlders who’d thrown her in here had said she’d been arrested for the attempted murder of their queen, but that was bullshit. She hadn’t been anywhere near the queen. But she was an Underworlder in the exact wrong place, and that was probably the real reason they’d arrested her. It was definitely the reason for the bruise under her eye and the scabbing cut on her lip. At least now it was nighttime, so it wasn’t blindingly bright anymore, which meant she could think.

tagging @ashen-crest @isherwoodj and anyone else who wants to play!

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

wip preview 📝

small thing i've been trying to finish 🙃

Four to Tango (poly!Mates Bat Boys)

"All three of you in this bed?" It had been done before when you wanted to cuddle with all three of your mates. Rhys' bed nearly broke, not large enough to support two extra heavy frames.

"More than that." Rhysand's thumb brushes a stray hair out of your face. The depth of his tone had a warmth shooting down to your core. Thighs press together, you melt under his attention. "All three of us feasting upon you. At the same time." A growling undertone hits your ears. Your breathing becomes shallow as he holds your gaze.

You gulp, mind already racing when you whimper out "A-All of you?"

Rhys reads each and every one of your dirty thoughts, his lips curling sinisterly. "Can I take that as a 'yes', love?"

A furious blush overheats your cheeks and the tips of your ears. "I-I. . . How would that even work out?"

He leans in and nips at your already burning shell of your ear "You leave that to us."

Ever loving to tease you, he leaves with that promise hanging in the air. Claiming he had work to do but that he'd see you for lunch. For a while you lay in bed, thinking of the dark glint in your mate's eyes.

Surely, all three of them would be way too much for you to handle. Each of them were terrifyingly well-endowed. Especially Azriel. It took several tries to get more than the head of his cock inside of you. In the end he had to ease it in slowly over several dates until you could fully sheath him.

It became your hyperfixation throughout the day. As you went about the House of Wind to when you were out in the town market.

When you bump into Mor back at the townhouse, she manages to make you squeal on what Rhys had brought up earlier that morning.

Mor lets out a low, impressed whistle. "You have got to be the luckiest female in all of Prythian. What are you sweating about?"

"I can barely handle one of them at a time, Mor. I fear they'll kill me. Death by cock. I don't want that on my tombstone."

"Death by cock doesn't sound too bad." she hums but it turns into a snort when she catches your distressed expression. "Quit fretting. They'll take good care of you."

Chewing on your bottom lilp you knew you probably came off as silly to her.

Mor's hand caresses your upper arm. In a short amount of time, Mor had become the big sister you never knew you needed. She became your confidant and would keep all of your secrets; take them to the grave if required. "They're dumb males but they love you. Never in a million years would they ever dream of doing anything to hurt you."

That was clear to you since day one. The Cauldron destined all three of them to be your mates for a reason.

And it could be fun.

Who were you kidding, you knew it would be fun. Having sex with them individually always reduced your bones to pure pudding. They were overly generous lovers. Always making sure you climaxed first. Treating you not like a queen but a divine entity to be worshipped. Their faces, your thrones.

[ladykailitha]

The Hellfire Exotic Club Part 3

Just a head's up, I'll be moving this story's posting date to Fridays to give time to breathe instead of languishing under the wave of WIP Wednesday asks like it was last week

This week we get a taste of most of the other Sins and a tease at why Steve and Robin needed jobs ASAP. It's going to be sooo juicy guys. I can't wait for you guys to see that for real!

Part 1 Part 2

~

Moloch didn’t bring the numbers as much as the rest of Eddie and his friends did, but his Sloth liked it that way. He like the smaller crowds, the slow music, the hour long tantalizing reveal of one of the dancers who did strip all the way down.

But it was the gradual sensual removal of clothes as he got “lazier” in his dance. By the end, Moloch would draped dramatically over a settee, bumping and grinding first with his hand and then by the end of the last song, weakly thrusting against the air.

It was one of the hottest things Steve had ever seen. It really played up to the sloth aspect of it and he definitely had to rearrange himself more than once.

He knew that he would get over it eventually, seeing it every Monday for weeks, but that first time? Steve was pissed more people didn’t come out.

Even though Steve didn’t work the next day, Eddie suggested he come and watch Mammon, too. So he could see the different styles of strip that they had, to allay his fears a bit about how far the Sins were willing to go when it came to undressing for strangers.

So he showed up about an hour before show time to try out of some of the drinks and get a feel of the vibe.

Steve would say that of the dances he’d seen so far, Lust, Pride, and Sloth, Greed’s more fit the club’s original roots as a 1920s speakeasy. The place was decked out in old timey opulence. And gold. So much fucking gold.

Then the lights went out and he could hear the dancers scurrying to get into position. A single spot light lit up a singular dancer. He was broad shouldered and deep-chested, his curly hair slicked to his head. Which he raised when the music started. He was dressed smartly in a period accurate three-piece black suit with a red button down shirt.

Mammon’s movements were far more graceful than anything Steve had ever seen in any symphony or dance hall. He used his bulk to make his movements work with his body and not against it.

Then all through the night he didn’t get undressed so much as he pulled clothes off others. But without Steve realizing it, his clothes were coming off, but they were being...not replaced exactly, but the clothes he was taking off the other dancers were covering him a la the Dance of the Seven Veils.

Then in the last song, he throws the clothes in the air, leaving him in just his pants and suspenders. As the clothes flutter to the floor you realize that all the other dancers were naked, all around him, laying on the floor. The red pieces of silk landing on them like blood.

Fuck. Social commentary wrapped in the sexiest dance Steve had ever seen. He could see why the club was packed every Tuesday night. Mammon wasn’t a demon, he was a fucking god.

Eddie slid up next to him at the bar. “So what did you think?”

“I think that anytime someone tells me that big people can’t dance,” Steve said breathlessly, “that I will send them here on a Tuesday night.”

“Isn’t he amazing?” Eddie asked giddily. “Him, Jeff, and Gareth are all my mates from high school. We even had a band together before I started dancing for my Uncle Wayne. I brought them on when we first changed over to Hellfire.”

“I know you play guitar,” Steve said with a smile, “I didn’t realize the other guys did, too.”

Eddie licked his upper lip slowly. “Would you be surprised to know that so does Rosier?” he asked, leaning into Steve’s space like he was sharing a secret.

Steve thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “Not really. He seems the type if I’m honest.”

“What about Moloch playing the drums?” Eddie asked, leaning even closer.

“Now that is surprising,” Steve said, “and at the same time makes sense now that you say it.”

Eddie threw his head back and laughed. “Yeah, I do too, now that I say it out loud like that.” He rubbed his chin. “Any guesses on what Mammon plays. Especially now that everyone else has been named and shamed.”

Steve laughed too. “What band would be complete without a kickass bassist.” Eddie blinked at him for a moment. “Unless he’s something weird like a keyboard, or violin or some shit like that.”

“Nope!” Eddie said, popping the ‘P’, “you had it right, I was just a little surprised as all. But, yes Mammon was our kickass bassist.”

“Have you guys thought about playing again?” Steve asked, leaning in. “Like here at the club. I know every night is themed, but Chrissy is already working on fairy tale themed night. So why not have a night where you guys play. Maybe even just as the music for whoever’s dancing that night or even just night of you guys rocking out.” He stopped for breath, wide-eyed at what he just said.

“That was certainly something else,” Eddie said a little stunned. He hadn’t really thought about it. Sure, he played the guitar as part of his tease, playing up into the pride aspect of it. Proud he could play and sing, proud of this club, proud of his ability to dance. But to play with his band again? A part of his dream he put back on the shelf when he was made owner? “What would we even play?”

Steve shrugged. He hadn’t thought that far. But he saw how wistful Eddie got when he talked about them being in a band. “What did you guys play before?”

“Mostly metal,” Eddie said, returning Steve’s shrug. “Some hard rock. A little grunge thrown in there for variety.”

“So perfect for the club then,” Steve replied with a smile.

Eddie blushed and shoved his hair in front of his face. “I’ll think about it.”

Steve bumped their shoulders together. They kept talking even after the club closed and the money was counted and divvied out by Rosier. Having decided to let Eddie and Steve continue talking. It wasn’t until the cleaners came in that they even realized that the club was close.

Eddie would harass his friend later about letting have the night off, but in that moment he was grateful for the respite.

He walked Steve to his car and waited for him to pull out of the parking lot before cursing up a blue streak. The guy hadn’t even been hired for a full week yet and already he was making cow eyes at him. Fuck, he was in so much trouble.

~

Steve’s impression of Lilith’s gluttony dance was that it was messy and outrageous, but somehow Chrissy made it work.

She wasn’t so much as dressed as she was covered in whip cream, with two cherries strategically placed over her nipples. She would lick and suck on her fingers covered in the stuff. Then she was dowsed in chocolate syrup as she writhed and slithered across the stage.

It was a sticky, gooey nightmare as far as Steve was concerned, but the way she stroked and touched herself as she was fed by the backup dancers. Then just as there wasn’t any way that she could possibly be fed anymore, a large bucket of water dumped it’s entire contents on Lilith as she moaned as if she had just orgasmed.

He was grateful that other Sins didn’t have to perform with her during her hour, because he didn’t think he could stand the thought of that stuff anywhere near his hair.

She did a great job, Steve wasn’t going to deny that. He could see the appeal, but the thought of getting sticky after all that? He shrugged off a shiver of disgust that ran down his back.

Once Robin and he had picked up their tips from the night, they walked out to the car.

“I take it back,” Robin huffed, yanking open the passenger side door, “We can’t work here, Steve. I thought I was going to combust when I saw the two of dancing like angels, but this was pure torture. I wanted to lick her.”

Steve cackled, sliding into the driver’s side and closing it tightly behind him. “Better you than me.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Robin said rolling her eyes as she slid into the car. When she was in and the door was close she said, “Gay!”

Steve snorted, “Lesbian.”

“Bitch.”

“Tease.”

“Slut.”

Steve put his hand over his heart and gasped. “How dare you imply I am anything but virtuous! I am the paragon of respectability! I am a tart!”

Robin cackled as Steve pulled into traffic.

“I’ve noticed you’ve looking disrespectfully, don’t think I haven’t.”

Steve shrugged but didn’t say anything.

“Oh come on there’s got to be someone revving those engines of yours,” Robin pressed. “So are we talking Lust, maybe a little Sloth...ooohhhh! I know, it’s Mammon that gets you going. You were there an awfully long time last night.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Look they’re all professionals who are very good at their jobs, and I while I might lust after all or none of them, I’m not going to fuck any of them because we need this job and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.”

Robin sighed. “I know. You know I was joking about not being able to work there, right?”

Steve nodded, lips pursed together.

“You’re my hero,” she said softly. “I hope you know that.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped. “Of course I do. Let’s go home. I think we both need ice cream tonight.”

“You’ve got it babe.”

~

Steve hadn’t gotten to see Wrath even though he had been hired last Thursday because they had to do all the boring employment shit first and so his first show had been Lust. So he wasn’t sure what to expect. Wrath made sense as woman. After all the saying “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” was famous for a reason.

But for some reason, Steve had still pictured a man.

But Lamia was vengeance personified. Dressed in red silks with black painted scales to look like she was part snake. Her dark piercing eyes and long black braided hair with her dusky skin made for an exotic marvel. She was curvy but still athletic, soft but clearly defined strength. Steve had learned from Choronzon that she was a mix of Indian and Egyptian and it gave her an unearthly aura to her.

She danced with a pair of curved swords and she felt dangerous. Her swords whirled and sliced through the air as the female dancers ripped and tore at her clothes until she was completely naked. But unlike Gluttony, who kept her g-string on, nothing remained but her jewelry.

Then her swords were taken and she was bathed in red ‘blood’. She continued her dance bathed in the blood of her enemies, not stopping until the last song end and she dropped to the ground.

The lights went out and the crowd roared. That was the part Steve found unsettling. The way they seemed to cheer her ‘demise’.

He asked Eddie about it afterward.

“It’s something she started actually,” Eddie explained. “She wanted Wrath to be defeated in the end.”

“Even though none of the other Sins are?”

“Yep!” Eddie said. “I think because of all the Sins Wrath’s effects are most widely seen. War. Abuse. Murder.”

Steve nodded. Greed probably killed more people, but it was in a hidden insidious way.

He wanted to see Lust again, but since it was his day off, he had things he needed to do. Especially with Robin working. So with much regret he was forced to miss it. Not like it mattered, when Robin got home that night, it was all she could talk about.

“Holy shit,” she said flopping on the sofa. “I thought your opening night was busy, but fuck, Steve. There were more people packed into that room then all the previous nights combined.”

Steve nodded. Robin was still in training and her trainer, Joe didn’t want to throw her to the wolves after just two days on the job, so her first day was on Sunday and Joe spent the whole week apologizing to her because he thought it would be slow for her. But it turned out to be the best thing as she learned faster in the hectic fury of Steve’s first night.

“He’s good,” he said, getting food out of their fridge to reheat for her.

“Look I can’t say I see the appeal,” she agreed, “but yeah. The way he makes it all about him and still make you feel like his attention is all on you.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. He brought her a bowl of mac and cheese and a fork.

Robin dived into it with gusto. “So...with the money I made tonight will get us caught up on the rest of our bills.”

He breathed out a sigh of relief. “That’s good news. I thought we’d be eating mac and cheese for the rest of our lives.”

“Well thanks to you getting a job as a lead dancer,” she said around a bite of food, “we were able to catch up in a week.”

“So when can we get our phones turned back on?” he asked, picking at the skin around his nails.

Robin swatted his hands. “Stop that! It’s bad for your nails.” He sat on his hands and stuck his tongue at her. “Anyway, it should be tomorrow. So we can swing by the shop and get them turned back on.”

“That’s good,” Steve replied. “I can finally get rid of this burner phone we got in the mean time.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered poking at her food. “It’s all my fault.”

He dug into her bowl and tossed a bit of mac and cheese at her.

“Hey!” Robin protested, picking noodles out of her hair and tossing it back at him.

“If I can’t pick at my nails,” Steve huffed, “you can’t say that shit.”

She ducked her head and nodded. “I’m still sorry it happened.”

“That’s acceptable,” Steve said after eyeing her suspiciously for a moment. “But you didn’t do anything wrong, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He kissed her cheek and turned on the TV. He put on her favorite baking show and settled in for a quiet night in.

~

Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

Tag List: ONE SLOT REMAINING

1-@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @dreamercec @sadisticaltarts @too-much-tma-stuff

[beamiesbuddies]

Part 2: A Dream of an Autumn Garden

A few more photos of Mr. Morpheus, continuing from my post here!

As I said on the other photoset, I'm very happy & proud of him! I'm happy I decided to take my time to get him just how I wanted & edit the photos I took nicely. I hope you all love him too. Sweet dreams~

I have included a bunch of Cool Facts about how I made him under the cut if you are so inclined!

Started: Late Jan 2022 / Finished: Dec 30 2022

Approx work hours- 273 hours (worked on average every 3rd day out of 274 days; averaged 3h/session)

Times I remade something because I messed it up/wasn't happy with it: Hands- 2; Feet- 2; Head- 2.5; Body- 1; Clothes: 3

Pattern: trial, error & determination

Height: 3ft tall

Materials:

stretch jersey knit (body)

polyfill (stuffing)

brushed out acrylic yarn (hair)

star sapphire x2 (eyes)

pipe cleaner (hand armature)

wooden dowels/18 gauge wire (elbow/arm skeleton that keeps snapping I may add)

acrylic paint/pastels (shading & details)

acrylic thread (body sculpting & upper eyelashes)

stretch velvet/velvet burnout, cotton (clothes)

Fun facts:

his look was inspired by his overall appearance in the comics; I particularily like the depictions done by Jill Thompson, Mike Dringenberg & Marc Hempel!

his arms and legs are jointed in the same way as many teddy bears are: you use a washer, nut & bolt to butt-up the limb against the body internally and it gives the limbs full rotation. First time I have tried the method and it's definitely something I'll try again!

I had no idea how I was going to do the inset eyes, but I was determined to have them as some sort of stone. I had to redo his first head completely because I cut too far in! Eventually I got it to work by creating a "backcushion" with clay for the stones, and then closed and sculpted the eyelids overtop to secure them in.

You can't see in most of my photos but his eyes are star sapphire: when light hits them correctly, it causes a ✨to appear just like his eyes in the comics~!

making his hand & feet were a challenge, especially thinking about where to put the needle through to sculpt tendons, nails, etc (and also deciding how detailed to get without looking strange). I think I learned a lot tho and I'm very proud of the hands

my favorite sculpted parts are the collar bone/chest, the right hand & the nose~

because the skin is white, he gets very dirty with his black clothes, so I had to line all of them in white. He also has to soak in bleach once in a while to maintain his complexion (LOL)

A signature somehwere on his person xD

Thank you all again for your nice tags & comments so far on my work. If you guys would like for me to share some behind the scenes photos of this photoshoot, or WIP photos of me making him, let me know and if there's enough interest maybe I'll make a post down the road!

[calinaannehart]

wip - cw for cancer

Five months after the breakup Buck gets a text message from Lucy.

If you have any plans today cancel them.

Why?

I need you to go somewhere.

Again, why?

Just do it Buckley. Call it a favour.

How do I know there’s not gonna be a man with an axe waiting to try and murder me. If that happens I’m haunting you of the rest of your life.

No axe. Scout’s honour.

Fine. Where?

Presbyterian.

Buck hits the call button. “Why are you sending me to the hospital? Wait, are you sick?”

Lucy doesn’t answer straight away. “I’m not sick.”

The inflection on the I’m tells Buck what he needs to know. “But someone is?”

Lucy sighs. “Third floor. Preferably before two.”

“But who—”

“Please, Buck?” The desperation in her voice is enough to sway him. Lucy never sounds desperate.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go. Who am I—”

“Thanks, Buckley. Third floor. Before two.”

She repeats then hangs up.

Stepping out of the elevator Buck blinks when he realises he’s on the oncology floor. He looks around, mind reeling with who could possibly be getting treatment on this floor out of every possible department. It can’t be one of the 118, he would know.

He texts lucy and she leaves him on read. She ignores his call, too.

“Hey, excuse me,” Buck says to the nurse behind the desk. “Um, I’m not sure who I’m—”

The words die in his throat as his eyes land on a familiar form in a large wingback chair, the leg rest raised so he’s reclined with his head tipped back and eyes closed.

He’s thinner than he was when Buck last saw him, deep shadows sit under his eyes and his hair, patchy in places, has been shaved short. There’s a port-a-cath in his upper arm and hanging on the drip stand above is a bag of fluid, the bright red chemotherapy label visible even at this distance.

“Sir?” The nurse says, but Buck can’t look away from the man.

“Tommy.”

“Are you a relative of Mr. Kinard?” She asks.

“Uh, I-I’m a…friend,” Buck manages to utter through his shock. “Can I…?” He points in Tommy’s direction, hoping she won’t send him away.

“Sure, he has a little longer left but go ahead.”

Buck moves as though through sludge, mind still trying to comprehend what he’s seeing, and he comes to a stop in the doorway into the treatment room, more of the wingback chairs spaced evenly throughout.

A handful of them are occupied, other patients also hooked up to chemo bags, but his sight is fixed on his ex. With Tommy’s eyes closed it gives Buck a chance to take him in up close. He looks the same and yet completely different all at once. He’s a shadow of the man that broke up with him all those months ago. He looks tired, worn. Sick.

Tommy coughs, a rattle deep in his chest audible, and he opens his eyes as he adjusts his position in his chair. Then Tommy’s eyes land on him. They widen in shock before turning soft, the way they always did when he looked at Buck, but the look only lasts a second before it morphs into one of resigned understanding.

“Lucy told you.”

Buck’s mouth is dry and it takes considerable force to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“Yeah,” He breathes. “I-I mean, no. I mean, she told me to come to the hospital but she didn’t…she didn’t tell me. But you should have.”