#mywriting | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bellysoupset · 3 days

Note

I’d love a story with sick Angie (it doesn’t matter what it is) with the emphasis on Jonah as her caretaker. And I’d love it if you could write about what Jon said in that vertigo fic, were Luke was the only caretaker, about feeling like he doesn’t know Angie.

Hi there! I had a lot of fun typing this up, it's a bit more tender than my usual stuff, since Jonah's is slightly off his element!

------------------

There were things Jonah knew how to do: read Leo like a book, feel Wendy’s annoyance from across a room, suture a wound with an eye closed. And then there were things that he didn’t…

Currently the issue was understanding what was going through his little sister’s mind.

It hurt to say out loud, but Angie was half family, half stranger. She had been only ten when Jonah left for college, however during five of those ten years they supposedly shared, he had been away in boarding school, coming home only three times a year. In sum, he had truly known Angie only for five of her seventeen years.

It had been a pleasant surprise to learn she didn’t think of him as some stranger, but as her brother, and that she wanted them to be close. Or, as Leo had put, “Jon, she worships you.”

Since Christmas last year, they had been chatting much more frequently and she had come over to Welton at the end of January, staying over at Jonah and Leo’s place for three days.

This time around she was supposed to stay all week, which Jon was equally nervous and excited about.

“I’m the one who should be nervous,” Leo had joked as they drove to pick Angie up at the airport, “not you.”

However Jonah was nervous, because despite never wanting to say this out loud — and not needing to, Leo knew it already — he was terribly invested into making this new relationship work out.

Normally Angelina was a bubbly, chatty teenager, never quite managing to contain her excitement. During her last visit, she had pestered JD so much that the cat had all but vanished during her last day over, hiding in Leo’s side of the closet.

Tonight she was sullen and Jonah was nearly crawling up the wall trying to figure out what had changed.

After picking her up at the airport, they had opted for having dinner in Portland instead of doing the full one hour and a half drive back to Welton without eating. Dinner had gone smoothly, Angie was a little quieter than usual, but Jonah had jolted this as her giving Leo time to gush about the proposal, something she seemed very interested in. Her whole face had lit up as she saw the engagement ring and she had pushed her chair closer in order to inspect it, pulling Leo into a hug that had the blonde’s face turning beet red, much to Jon’s amusement.

The drive back had been even more quiet.

“Why don’t you connect your phone with the radio, Angie?” Leo asked, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He was mortified of getting carsick in front of his future sister-in-law, so he had insisted on driving both ways, “pick some music for the ride.”

“No, it’s fine…” Angelina answered, curling up on the backseat, “I think I’m just gonna nap, if you don’t mind…”

“No, that’s alright,” Jonah turned on the passenger seat, “there must be a neck pillow stuffed behind my seat, is it there?”

“Yeah,” she retrieved it and kicked off her sneakers, spreading out in the back, “thanks, Jon.”

He turned back to face the road. Something was off and he wasn’t sure what.

“Relax,” Leo poked his side, a couple minutes later, whispering, “chill.”

“I am chill,” Jonah lied, not putting any effort behind it and once again looking over his shoulder, to where his sister had curled up in the backseat.

They got home without a hitch, Leo had put on one of his ultra romantic songs and was drumming along with Michael Bolton’s Missing You Now, much to Jonah’s eternal amusement. His fiance couldn’t keep up with the beat if they paid him.

“Baby I just can't wait! Till I see your face,” Leo leaned in to sing to him, as they parked, a cheeky smile on his face, “chase awaaay this loneliness insideee!”

Jonah snorted, shutting him up with a kiss, “oh God, shut up, Leo,” his cheeks heated up as the song ended and the initial lyrics of the When A Man Loves a Woman started playing, Leo getting ready to serenade him, pointing at Jon’s chest as he said, “When a man loves a woman. Can't keep his mind on nothin'else-”

“Leeeeo,” Jonah groaned, pushing his door open, but not getting out. Instead he turned on his seat to shake Angelina awake. He half expected her to be awake and giggling at the whisper concert Leo was making, but no, she was still sleeping soundly, “Angie. Angie, we’re here.”

It took him shaking her once more, before she woke up, looking completely lost for a minute.

“Where-”

“Let’s go inside so you can sleep in a proper bed,” Jonah circled the car, helping her out and raised his eyebrows, letting out a surprised noise when Angie collapsed against him and made no movement to pull away. He hesitantly lowered his arms around her in a makeshift hug, unsure of what to do.

Leo grinned at him, getting out of the car as well and going to retrieve Angie’s bags.

She barely let go of him, putting only enough distance that they were able to walk to the elevator, but snuggled back once they were inside. Jonah felt like his face was tingling and he couldn’t bring himself to meet Leo’s eyes, extremely embarrassed.

This time around, Angelina paid no mind to JD. The cat came running to greet them at the door, only to stop once she saw the girl and sniffling her suspiciously, serpentining between Angie’s legs and settling for meowing at Leo’s feet as if asking who this was.

Jonah fully expected his sister to grab JD like she had done last time, but instead she only yawned and waited patiently as he guided her to the guest room.

“You know where’s everything, right?” Jonah hung awkwardly at the door, once Leo put the bag inside and Angie sat down on the bed. She yawned again, nodding.

“Yeah…”

“There’s extra towels in the bathroom if you feel like taking a shower,” Jonah grimaced at his inability to sound as warm as he was supposed to, “and you don’t have to ask to go through the fridge…”

“I’m fine, Jon, thank you,” Angelina dismissed him easily, “I think I’m just gonna sleep, though.”

“Okay…” he glanced at the television, “there’s Netflix and Prime and Max-”

“Jon,” Leo grabbed his elbow, chuckling, “let the girl sleep. Goodnight Ange.”

“Goodnight,” Angie smiled at them, clearly agreeing with Leo and Jonah sighed, relenting and allowing the blonde to pull him out of the guest bedroom.

“It’s only nine o’clock,” Jonah complained as they entered their own bedroom, Leo already ahead of him in the bathroom, stripping for a shower. They were both still in work clothes, “what type of teenager falls asleep at nine?”

“Your sister’s type,” Leo shrugged, getting under the shower stream, “relax Jon, she’s probably just tired after the flight.”

Jonah didn’t quite believe that.

They ended up going to bed around eleven, so Jon was surprised when he woke up at only 6 AM, an hour before his alarm. He wasn’t sure why he was up. It was a Thursday, which meant Leo had court and would start working later, but would also be held up until whatever hour. The blonde was passed out next to him, head buried in the pillow.

Jon’s shift only started at 9…

He yawned, rubbing a hand over his face and getting up to pee. He was getting back in bed, when a noise down the hall caught his attention. Something falling?

It wasn’t JD, because the cat was happily asleep on Leo’s side.

Jonah got out of the bed to investigate and wasn’t surprised when he found the guest bedroom door open, or the guest bathroom door closed. He knocked on it softly, “Angie, you alright? I heard something falling…”

“Urgh…” was the pitiful answer he got, “Jon…”

Well, shit.

“Can I come in?” he asked nervously, biting the skin of his thumb, “Angie?”

“Hmmm…yeah…”

Jonah didn’t wait for an answer and pushed the door open.

Angelina was really skinny with long limbs, like a model, and currently she was folded like an origami project in front of the toilet. Her rich, dark skin looked damn near ashen, and she had a trembling hand on the porcelain, the other pressing to her lips.

“Don’t… I don’t feel good…”

“Oh darling,” Jonah sighed, feeling a selfish wave of relief wash over him at finally being able to pinpoint what was wrong and that it wasn’t him. He crouched down, “have you been sick yet?”

Angie shook her head, gulping down, “soon…” she leaned in, squeezing her eyes shut, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- To-” she got interrupted by a hiccup and Jonah scoffed, scooting closer so he could rub her back.

“Don’t apologize, it’s all right,” he cringed as he realized her really long, curly hair was getting near her mouth. They didn’t have a single scrunchie in their place.

At Bella’s advice, or rather, order, they had stocked the guest bathroom with pads, just in case — that had been an interesting little grocery trip, given neither of them had any idea of what they were doing and Leo looked positively mortified —, but the ginger hadn’t said anything about hair ties.

“Jon-” Angie whined, oblivious to his thoughts and leaning further over the toilet. Another sick hiccup shook her entire frame, this one turning into a gag at the end and Jonah cringed as he saw clear saliva hit the water.

“You’re okay,” he carefully pulled his sister’s hair back with one hand, the other staying firmly on her back, “just get it up, don’t fight it-”

She retched once more, before getting up to her knees, and burying her head in the bowl as vomit gushed out. The movement was so sudden that Jonah had to move as well, so he wouldn’t pull on her hair.

He gagged as he heard the horrible noise of his sister bringing up last night’s dinner, his stomach souring considerably as she pulled back, clumsily trying to flush, with vomit clinging to her bottom lip still.

“God-” Jonah pulled back the hand that was on her back, slapping it over his lips and biting down a retch of his own. Angelina let out a little hurt noise, much like JD did when they accidentally tripped on her.

“I’m sorry-” his voice came out husky, “shit, Angie, I’m sorry-”

“You’re sick too?” she managed to flush and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, causing Jonah to gag once more. He shook his head, gulping convulsively to keep his stomach in check.

He was so used to Leo, that someone else puking around him was news to his body. The routine was different, the noises too. Worse.

“No, I just-” Jonah cleared his throat, “I get sympathy sick.”

“Oh,” Angie’s big chocolate eyes were dazed and he suspected she was burning up a fever, “I’m sor-”

“Are you done?”

“I dunno,” she rubbed her stomach, uneasily, “don’t wanna risk going to bed and- And getting sick…”

“We can sit on the couch and watch TV,” Jonah offered, getting up to grab her a glass of water and Angie took it with her hands shaking. Jon took advantage of the fact her hands were busy, in order to feel his sister’s forehead.

Surprisingly, she didn’t flinch or pull back at the sudden touch, leaning completely on it. She was really warm.

“Not a high fever, but a fever,” he pulled back after a second, as Angie gulped down the water and hung over the toilet once more, letting out a sickly burp, “you’ll be okay on your own for a second?”

“Uh-hu,” she nodded, gagging but not bringing up anything. Jonah rushed out before his stomach decided to join the party as well.

He put together a little nest in the living room, grabbing her a set of blankets and a pillow, a bowl, meds, water and thermometer. After a couple minutes he heard the bathroom flush and the tap running, Angelina brushing her teeth, then she stumbled in the living room.

“Come lie down,” he pulled her to the couch, unsure of what she liked when sick. To be left alone or dotted on? So far the dotting was proving successful, but Jon was scared at any minute she’d snap at him. Or worse, cry.

Instead of doing either, Angelina curled up on the little nest he had created for her, tugging on his arm so he’d sit alongside her and then scooting up, resting her pillow half on his leg, “I feel horrible, Jon…”

“I’m sorry, darling,” the nickname slipped out, as he stroked her hair back and Jonah froze for a second, but Angie didn’t seem bothered in the least. In fact, she cuddled up even more, turning on her side and shivering, “I need to take your temperature,” he said, leaning to grab the thermometer and passing it to her.

He was genuinely surprised by how easy of a patient Angie was, after dealing with Leo and their friends for years now. They were a crew of stubborn people, while his baby sister seemed to be the most docile person ever.

She took the thermometer without complaining and didn’t whine when he fed her medicine, barely paid any attention to the television, seeming content just cuddling and shivering like hell, no matter how many blankets she had.

“Jon,” Leo woke him up, pressing a kiss to his temple, and Jonah realized he had drifted back to sleep with Angie’s head resting on his lap. It was hard not to feel sleepy when she was a little furnace, “you okay?”

“Uhm?” he rubbed his eyes and frowned. Leo was almost finished dressing for the day, which meant it was nearly 9 already. His tie wasn’t done and Leo was holding a coffee mug.

“What happened…?” Leo gestured to their current situation and Jonah darted out a hand, so his fiance could help him slip from under Angie without waking her up. The young girl only stirred, grimacing and curling up even more.

“Woke up with her throwing up at 6 AM,” Jonah whispered, following Leo to the kitchen and sitting by the counter, while the blonde got the coffee maker working, “I’m gonna have to call in sick at work.”

He wasn’t happy about that, Jon was on a quest to not miss any more work days, since he’d take the month off for honeymoon, probably at the end of the year or as soon as they stopped to settle on a bloody date.

“I’ll do it for you,” Leo planted a mug of coffee in front of him, squeezing Jonah’s shoulder, “should I worry?”

“No,” Jonah yawned, leaning to rest his head on Leo’s shoulder, “she’s alright, it’s just a 24 hour bug.”

“I don’t like this,” Leo sighed, “I’m going to be offline all day, I have no way of knowing-”

“I’m the doctor,” Jonah said smugly, grabbing the blonde’s chin, “I can handle one sick teenager. Relax.”

“Look who’s talking,” Leo smiled at him, rolling his eyes, “text me updates anyway, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Jon’s tone was sassy, but he meant it. He yawned in his fist, pulling Leo closer by his tie and starting to do the knot for him, “you’re gonna be back for dinner?”

“I’ll try to,” Leo wrinkled his nose, “but I doubt. You think she’d like balloons? Popsicles?”

“She’s seventeen, not five,” Jonah snorted, lifting himself up on his seat enough to kiss him, “bring us something yummy for dessert.”

Once Leo had left, promising he’d not forget to call the hospital to let them know of Jonah's absence, Jon had nothing but time to dedicate to his sister. It was so weird.

He took a shower to get ready for the day and fixed her up with some soup — well, ordered some soup —, then crouched down in front of the couch, pushing a curl away from her forehead, “Angie. Ange,” he shook her gently, “Angelina.”

“Uhhm?” She still had a fever, he could tell. The previous round of meds had lowered it, but not eradicated it, “what time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” he helped her sit up, “how’s your tum- stomach?” he was going to kill Leo.

Angie frowned, yawning, “sore. Kinda queasy,” she blushed, “did you say tummy?”

“No,” Jonah scoffed, sitting on the foot of the couch, “I got you some soup, think you can handle it?”

She hesitated, before nodding. Jonah eagerly shot up, he hadn’t been expecting a positive answer, and put everything on a tray, the soup, bread, some water and juice because he didn’t know what she preferred…

“I’m sorry, I don’t know your favorite flavor, so I just ordered mine,” Jon grimaced, settling the tray down on Angie’s lap.

She squinted at it, “is it pumpkin?”

“Yeah, and some chia seeds,” Jonah looked away, “Leo hates it, so we have plain tomato soup if you do too-”

“No,” Angelina shook her head, “I like it. My favorite is onion cream, just so you know,” she curled up her feet, in an invitation for him to sit closer and stirred the warm meal, “but I don’t think I could handle it right now.”

“I don’t think so either,” Jonah mentally stashed the information in his growing file of facts about his sister. So far he knew she really loved anything artsy, that she was attracted to Wendy’s colorful clothes and style like a butterfly to a flower, that she adored cats and that she got quiet and withdrawn when sick, “uh- Do you like popsicles…?”

Angie giggled, rolling her eyes, “doesn’t everyone?”

Well shit, he’d have to apologize to Leo.

“I don’t,” Jon shrugged and she frowned, starting to eat very slowly.

“Are you a robot?” Angelina inspected him up and down, “no type of popsicles?”

“I’m partial to gelato,” Jon shrugged, “or frozen yogurt.”

She shook her head in a tired manner, reaching for the juice instead of the water, “you’re so very weird, Jon…” then she frowned, blinking slowly as if trying to process some information, “don’t you have work today?”

Originally, Angie had planned to visit the museums and the university, that was the guise behind her visit. At least to Jonah it was, he was pretty sure she had openly told Leo she just wanted to visit them.

“I called in sick,” Jon pointed at her bowl, “staying down?”

“Yeah,” she yawned, “but it’s a lot.”

“You don’t have to eat all of it. Get as much as you want, then we can watch something or you can go back to sleep-”

“Can we go out to the park? With JD?”

He paused, “aren’t you sick?”

“I’m not dying,” Angie pouted, “and I already won’t be able to do everything I had planned so…”

“Yeah, uh- Sure. I don’t know where Leo keeps her leash, he’s the one who walks her, I just- I have to look…” He felt so incredibly out of place, “yeah, lemme go look-”

JD let out an indignant meow at being trapped in her leash and swatted at his hand with all little kitty force, trying to draw blood. Jonah sighed, scratching the kitten behind her ears, “I’m sorry, but you’re gonna take one for the team and be a good kitty.”

The cat didn't feel like being nice and once they got outside, walking to one of the benches since Angie got breathless not even five minutes after they left, JD simply crawled up Jon’s lap and tried to hide in his coat.

“She’s not outdoorsy at all, is she?” Angie grinned, leaning on his shoulder and trying to pet the animal, JD pointedly ignoring her. Jonah shrugged, leaning back and enjoying the fresh air.

“She’s a bit of a prick just like me,” he answered truthfully, hissing as he felt JD’s claws sink through his sweater, “she’ll get used to you.”

“I hope so,” Angie sighed, leaning against his side and resting her face on his shoulder, uninvited. She was so… Tactile. Clingy, even. Jonah pressed his cheek to the top of her head, “I hope she’ll grow to love having me around.”

He had the distinct feeling she was no longer talking about the cat. Jonah rolled his eyes, kissing the top of Angie’s head, “I’m certain she will, darling.”

#sickfic #fever #emeto #mywriting #angelina banks #LOTS of jon/leo in this one

26 notes · View notes

carlyraejepsans · 2 months

Text

so who's excited for the valentines day UTDR newsletter.

#undertale #sans #papyrus #undyne #mywriting #word of dog #utdr newsletter

4K notes · View notes

remuslupinslittleslut · 5 months

Text

Poly!Marauders x Reader - First time

Poly!Marauders x Reader, it's her first time and they're all helping out. Also, it's so On Brand for James Potter to come in his pants while eating pussy. I love this man.

“So, you’re saying you’ve never… done it?” Sirius asks, looking at Y/N questioningly.

“Nice way to put it, Pads”, scolded Remus, reaching out to touch the cheek of their girlfriend.

“Uh, yeah, I guess”, she starts, “I mean, I’ve done… some stuff? But not, like, all of it?”

The boys share a look of… something new. Soon, three sets of hands are touching her, rubbing her thighs, arms, and sides.

“Do you… want to? With us?” Asks James, rubbing circles with his thumbs on her arms.

She’s playing with her hands in her lap, feeling her heart racing. Excitement started to take over the nervousness that had previously filled her body. She did want it, badly, but she was unsure of how to initiate, not knowing what was okay or how to best go about it.

“Yeah” she says, looking into James’ eyes, “Yeah, I want to.”

***

Not long after, she’s sitting against the headboard, back pressed against Sirius’ chest, lips locked with Remus and James’ lips kissing down her legs. They had promised to take the best of care of her, and she really could feel it, the love that encompassed her in this position. The arms of Sirius, wrapped around her waist, started to sneak under the fabric of her shirt, as Remus’ hands teased her nipples through the shirt.

“Baby, can I unbutton this?” Sirius asks from behind her, lips trailing kisses down her neck, leading to Remus receiving a moan in his mouth before she nods, telling the man behind her that yes he can.

Hands are running up her legs, rubbing at her thighs, sending shivers down her spine as her shirt finally comes undone, baring her tits for her little audience.

“So pretty, love”, murmurs Remus, sitting back and taking in the view.

James, too, leans up on his elbows to look at her, basking in her beauty, “Yeah babe, so pretty,” making her shy away from all the attention, trying to hide her face in Sirius’ hair.

“How’re you feeling, pretty girl?” Sirius asks her, reaching to grab at her pretty tits, feeling her arch her back against his chest.

“Uh huh, so good”, Y/N whines, feeling James’ hands creeping up her thighs, followed by his mouth, kissing, biting and nibbling at the skin. Her moans rise an octave as his hands reach the very top of her legs, fingers nudging her underwear.

“May I?” His glasses are completely askew and he’s looking up at her with wide eyes, shiny with anticipation, and when she nods he reaches all the way, rubbing at her clit through her panties, “How’s that feel baby?”

“Good, so good”, she’s getting whiny, the feeling of all three of them becoming overwhelming, “Remmy please, wanna feel you, kiss me?” And how could he ever say no to that? Leaning back down, he places one hand on her cheek, angling her face to be able to kiss her.

James taps her hips, indicating for her to lift so that he can pull her undies down, “Oh she’s so pretty”, he says, “Pretty little pussy… Pads, help me keep her legs open.” His friend complies, using his own legs to keep hers open, hands still running up and down her waist, sometimes coming up to grab at her tits.

Sploshy sounds fill the room as James’s lips stay locked against her wet pussy, his hips moving to rub himself against the mattress. Remus pulls away, again, “Do you like that, pretty girl? You like James eating your sweet cunt?” He asks, rubbing a thumb against her red and swollen lips, “I think you should put this pretty mouth to good use as well, don’t you?”

The question makes her blush a deep red, but she does think that so she nods, feeling that nervousness creep up again, but before she can think any more of it, Remus’ trousers and pants are off and he’s placing his hard, pink tipped cock right in her face. “Open up, baby”, he says, poking her lips with the head.

The taste is a bit strange, she thinks, salty and tangy, but not bad. She starts by licking around the tip, before opening up more to let him further in her mouth. At the same time, James’s fingers are working tirelessly against her clit, while his tongue licks around her hole, making her moan and whimper around Remus’ cock.

Remus has a firm hold around her neck, not really squeezing, just holding her in place as he lightly thrusts his hips, careful not to choke her. “So good, baby, such a sweet little mouth, yeah?” Her eyes open, looking up at him, “Yeah, you’re just made to take cock like this.”

In between her legs, James switches position, fingers plunging into her leaking hole, tongue rubbing circles on her sensitive bud. Her legs try to close, but Sirius’ legs keep her open for his friend, letting him feast on their girlfriend, while their other boyfriend fills her mouth. He can feel her getting closer, noticing how she gets more twitchy in the legs and her mouth turns slack around Remus. “So good, love, you can let go now, yeah just like that, let go, come all over James’ face, just like that, good girl”, Sirius is telling her to let go, and that with the praise sends her straight over the edge, juices flooding, covering James. Remus pulls out of her mouth, letting her breathe, and takes Sirius hand, bringing it to his cock. Watching their girl come, one of his boyfriends jerking his cock, Remus can’t do much but come, covering her chest in hot, white liquid.

“Jamie, please stop”, her hands go to his hair, pulling him off, “‘s too much, please.” He pulls away, face wet with her slick, and he looks sheepishly up at his three partners as they all notice the wet patch on his legs.

“Can you take more?” Asks Remus, coming down from his own orgasm. She nods, whimpering a simple yeah, “Good girl, then I think it’s about time Padfoot gets his turn with you, yeah?” Her eyes widen, but soon she’s turning in the lap of the aforementioned boy.

“Hi baby”, he says, finally facing her. Arms around her waist, holding her close

“Hey…”, her head nuzzling into the crook of his neck, smelling his hair, breathing it in.

“Gonna fuck you now, yeah? Gonna make you feel so good”, his hands reach down, grabbing her ass, spreading her cheeks slightly, “up a lil for me” he commands, and she raises herself up on her thighs, hovering over his lap. He frees himself from his pants, tugging himself a few times, “Allright, baby, now come down for me.” One hand on himself, the other on her hips, he aligns himself with her hole, letting her down, filling her up. They both moan at the intrusion, his eyes raising to look over her shoulder at their two boyfriends, eagerly watching the pair.

Sirius moves down a bit, laying down, letting her face stay in the place where his neck meets his shoulder, folding his legs and thrusting up into her. He winces as she bites his shoulder, in a desperate try not to scream out loud.

“Is this okay, baby?” He asks, warm hands rubbing her backside.

“Yeah, ‘s good, so good.” She feels like she’s on fire, her hole being perfectly stretched, g-spot consistently hit. It’s a new sensation, different from James’ fingers. When Sirius starts thrusting faster, holding onto her arse, practically splitting her in two, she goes into a very different headspace. It’s so good, so, so good, but also so so much and soon she’s coming, again, walls clamping down on Sirius’ cock, moans slipping from her mouth, stuck to her throat.

“Fuck, babe, you’re so good, so tight, love this little hole”, he’s, once again, whispering very dirty words in her ear, chasing his own orgasm. “Ah, huh, Siri, fuck, ah, please”, she’s whiny, moaning and whimpering, small hands clamping down on his upper arms, holding on for dear life.

“Ah that’s it, love, gonna come now, gonna fill you up”, and he does, and it’s amazing, yet another completely new sensation, sending her over the edge for a third time.

“Good job baby, took us all so well” “Yeah love, you did so well for us, gonna let you rest now”

“‘M gonna clean you up a lil, you just lay here though, such a good girl”

#amathelia writes #mywriting #fanfic #james potter #remus lupin #sirius black #james potter smut #james potter x reader #marauders #marauders era #poly!marauders #poly!marauders x reader #sirius black x reader #sirius black smut #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin smut #smut #firts time

3K notes · View notes

just-somedude · 2 years

Text

CNC and Safewords

"No Daddy I don't want it"

"I don't care, you're mine and I'll use you how I want"

*safeword comes out*

"Oh baby I'm so sorry what's wrong? How can I help? Are you okay? I love you, you're safe, I'm here. I promise."

Since some people don't seem to know how CNC works

#mine #mywriting

25K notes · View notes

iiping · 10 months

Text

kaveh snapping at alhaitham for buying another ugly wood carving… except he forgot it was his birthday 👀

read my short fic on twitter here or see more below! 🫶

—

“This looks absolutely nothing like me!” Kaveh snaps at the rough-out Aranara carving that suddenly shows up one morning, looking so blonde and angry.

Alhaitham comes out of his room at this moment and walks over to their common shelf where the architect stands.

Kaveh has a meeting with a particularly frustrating client today and he’s feeling so anxious that he cannot help but snaps at Alhaitham too, “How many times do I have to tell you not to bring ugly wood carvings into our home!?”

Alhaitham looks at Kaveh, his lips tightens. Something unfathomable flashes across his eyes and disappears just as suddenly.

“Do whatever you want with it then,” Alhaitham says finally after an awkward silence. Then he grabs his key from the shelf and turns his back to walk towards the front door without saying another word.

Kaveh looks at him leaving the house in puzzlement. It is not a rare occasion to see the Scribe not bothering to argue with him but Alhaitham never walks away after saying only one sentence before. He looks as if he’s angry or even…pouting? Kaveh is not sure if that word can describe Alhaitham.

Maybe Kaveh did something wrong? He gasps at the thought.

Is it because the smell of the cream soup he made yesterday was too strong? Or maybe it was the fact that the house is now so messy because he’s in the middle of tidying up things? Or maybe he moved or touched some books he wasn’t supposed to?

Kaveh ends up thinking for the whole day. He even spaces out during the client’s meeting and almost drops the model when he tries to present his plan.

He thinks and thinks but nothing comes to his mind. They have been on unusually pretty good terms lately, so he cannot think of something recent that might have made Alhaitham upset.

Kaveh is so deep in thought he almost bumps into Collei on the way home.

“Ah! Sorry!” Kaveh exclaims then realizes who it is, “Collei! I didn’t know you were in town today!”

Somehow, the trainee Forest Ranger looks shocked to see him. She quickly picks up something that fell to the ground when they bumped into each other earlier. Kaveh catches a glimpse of a small green box with yellow ribbon before Collei swiftly hides it behind her back.

“It’s so good to see you! Wanna grab something to eat?” Kaveh asks, ignoring her suspicious behavior. He’s not ready to go home just yet, not when he still hasn’t figured out what he did wrong.

“Uh, sorry I have somewhere to be today,” Collei replies nervously, avoiding to meeting his eyes, “If you will excuse me, I really need to get going.”

Then she takes off before he can say another word.

Kaveh ruffles his hair in confusion. What is going on today?

After wandering around aimlessly for a while, he decides that he has no other place to go except the good old Lambad’s Tavern.

He sits down at a table and orders a drink even though it’s merely 5PM.

“Hey, Kaveh!” Lambad shouts his name from behind the counter, “That one’s on the house! Happy Birthday!”

Oh. Shit.

A realization strikes him like a bolt of lightning.

“How could I forget!” he cries, standing up abruptly, “It is my birthday!”

He tells Lambad that he’ll take a raincheck on that glass of wine before leaving the tavern. Kaveh rushes home as fast as he can and finds Alhaitham standing in front of the shelf with the Aranara carving on one hand and a bag on another.

Alhaitham raises his eyebrows when he sees Kaveh practically flying from the front door.

“No, wait—-“ Kaveh tries to catch his breath, “D-don’t throw that away!”

“Oh?” Alhaitham puts down the Aranara and turns to face the architect. “Seems like you finally remember something.”

“Sorry for what I said this morning,” Kaveh blurts out, “I know it sounds like an excuse but that client’s project kept me frustrated all night and I shouldn’t have taken it on you.”

Alhaitham looks at him silently.

“Alright, alright,” Kaveh puts two hands in the air, “I apologize for calling it ugly.”

The Scribe lets out a chuckle right this second. It is clear that he does not intend put up any fights with Kaveh on his birthday.

Alhaitham hands him the Aranara in question and asks, “Will you also stop calling my other wood carvings ugly?”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Kaveh replies with a beaming smile. His eyes light up as he takes the wooden figure in his hands.

Alhaitham gives him birthday presents every year but they are usually books or drafting tools. This is the first time Kaveh has received something custom-made. Well, from anyone, really.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me this morning,” he mumbles, feeling the rough wood under his fingers. “Sure, it looks a bit cruder than that one in your bedroom which I kind of like, but the more you look at it, the mor—- Hey!”

“I changed my mind,” Alhaitham announces with a straight face, the Aranara is now back to his hand. “I’m taking it back.”

Kaveh blinks.

“What did you just say!?” he raises his voice.

“I don’t see any reasons why it should be in the possession of someone who doesn’t appreciate it,” he replies simply while putting the wooden figure in the bag, then starts to walk to the entrance hall.

“How do you know I don’t appreciate it!?” Kaveh follows him, trying so hard not to yell at his back, “This is ridiculous! You just gave it to me literally a second ago!”

That does not make Alhaitham slow down one bit. In the heat of the moment, Kaveh charges at him without thinking.

Next thing he knows, they are both on the floor with Alhaitham being beneath him. He quickly snatches the bag from the Scribe’s hand and sits up.

“Ha!” Kaveh exclaims, raising it in the air in victory. “You cannot walk away from me this time! Don’t you know that it’s rude to take back what you have given!?”

When there isn’t any response, Kaveh glances down, only to see that Alhaitham is covering his face laughing.

Kaveh looks at this scene in disbelief.

“Were you just teasing me!?” he asks with a high-pitched voice, “Oh my god, who are you? What have you done to my Alhaitham?”

“I couldn’t help,” he is still laughing, “You should’ve seen your face.”

It’s extremely rare for Kaveh to see a silly side of Alhaitham, let alone seeing him laughing like this. Kaveh stares dazedly at him, completely forgetting why he was mad in the first place.

“You can have the Aranara,” Alhaitham says with a smile, “Will you get off me now? Although I don’t really mind—-”

Kaveh interrupts this sentence with a cough, just realizing what a dangerous position they are in. He shifts to move out of the way, but at this moment, a small piece of paper falls of the bag and lands on Alhaitham’s chest.

The Scribe’s eyes widen as he moves to reach for it, but Kaveh is quicker.

Seeing what’s on there, he is speechless.

Alhaitham covers his face again, but his ears are turning visibly red. The worse thing is, Kaveh can also feel his face burning too.

“You carved this,” he asks softly, “for me?”

After a while, Alhaitham admits with a sigh, “Yes.”

Kaveh is dumbfounded. He assumed that it was merely a commission. Never has he ever thought Alhaitham would go that far to do something like this for him.

“That’s why you’ve been coming home late for the past week!” Kaveh just remembers how unusual it was when he said that he needed to work overtime.

“You knowing this wasn’t part of the plan, I was too careless.” he says flatly and decides to pull himself up, unintentionally getting closer to Kaveh. “Now it’s good time for you to forget you have seen that workshop receipt.”

“Nuh-uh,” Kaveh pokes his chest, “This Aranara is now worth a million mora to me.”

“You have just burdened yourself with a new enormous debt then” Alhaitham teases.

“Hey!”

“I think wood craving has grown on me.” Alhaitham smiles, “So I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with these ugly figurines for now.”

“Come on, they are not that ugly,” Kaveh chuckles, “But we do need to set up a proper corner for them so they don’t disrupt the current aesthetic.”

The Scribe can’t help but roll his eyes at this comment.

“Seriously though, thank you” Kaveh softly touches his shoulder and looks directly into his eyes, “It’s the first time someone did something so special for me. I will always treasure it.”

The Scribe stares back at him and without a warning, Alhaitham pulls him into his arms and whispers to his hair, “Happy Birthday, Kaveh.”

After that, Collei, along with Cyno and Tighnari, burst open their front door right when they are still hugging in the hallway. Kaveh’s face turns as red as a tomato as Alhaitham helps him up on his feet.

The night cannot be more perfect. The house is filled with the smell of good food, laughers and joy. His most favorite dishes are laid out on the table and the gifts are waiting for him to open. Wine never tastes better and even Cyno’s jokes are funnier than usual.

Kaveh watches as everyone starts to eat and cheerfully discuss about what games they are going to play tonight. His heart aches a bit thinking of how much he does not want to ever lose this; his friends, his happiness, his home.

And when his eyes accidentally meet with Alhaitham’s, he cannot help but wonder, would things turn out differently if he hadn’t met the Scribe at the tavern that night where he had taken Kaveh in?

He tries harder now to stay happy, to actually listen to some of Alhaitham’s advice, the sensible ones at least.

“Don’t burden yourself with something unnecessary from the past and from the future”, he would say.

So instead of dwelling on the past regrets and unknown future, Kaveh thinks he is ready now to find comfort in the present happiness.

(END)

#happy birthday kave uwuwuwuwuw #the love of my life #genshin impact #kaveh #myart #alhaitham #kavetham #haikaveh fic #kavetham fic #mywriting #haikaveh #haikavetham #just realized i spelled kaveh wrong in the first tag like wat

6K notes · View notes

thedreamlessnights · 6 months

Text

Fervency

Non-Ascended Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW

Synopsis: After falling into mysterious spores in the Underdark, you start to experience some... strange side effects. Astarion is more than happy to assist.

Warnings and tags: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough), aphrodisiac/glorified sex pollen, established relationship, discussions of consent, fingering, oral sex (both giving and receiving), blood drinking, multiple orgasms. Takes place post-game and includes mild spoilers.

Word Count: 5.7k

There’s not much that surprises you anymore.

It’s true - being kidnapped by illithids, having a tadpole implanted behind your eyes, facing the gods themselves - all of that does make it difficult for mundane life to come anywhere close enough to truly shock you. Your days aren’t necessarily peaceful, but they never seem quite as exciting as that blind haze of companionship in the aftermath of the nautiloid, trekking through the wilderness and shadow-cursed lands and the city, finding yourself in the company of strangers but soon-to-be family.

Still, these days, there’s something every now and then that catches you off guard. The trouble is, you’re never quite left in a space to know how to handle it. Unlike your earlier adventures, things are rarely solved with a dagger in your hand or a dash of flattery in your words. No, the burdens of day-to-day life are much more complicated than that.

Falling into a patch of mysterious spores, for one.

The Underdark is full of various mushrooms. Poisonous. Explosive. Befuddling. You could go on and on. You’ve had your number of close calls with them, but the sensation coursing over your skin feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced - and it doesn’t help that you’ve never seen spores like this.

Hells. Of course this is where your day would end up.

Just a little stroll, you’d told yourself. It’ll be harmless. And it had been, for the most part. There’s an unearthly beauty to the Underdark that you’ve never encountered anywhere else, one you’ve come to appreciate just as much as the upper surface. But halfway through your usual route, your feet had snagged on a branch and you’d gone tumbling, and now - now you’re in a patch of glowing, red spores, feeling like…

Gods, what do you feel?

Hot. You feel very, very hot. Sweat trickles down your back. Warmth blooms like poppies in a number of strange places - your cheeks, your lips, your neck. The feeling is spreading fast, bleeding through your ribs as you get to your feet.

Alright, you think to yourself, ignoring the sharp, bleeding panic in your throat that’s threatening to take over. Situations like this call for a sense of rationality. You’re going to get out.

It takes much longer than it should for you to slowly stumble back to familiar ground. Your movements are jerky, as if you’re being puppeted around, and it’s getting harder to think straight when you’re feeling as if - whatever this is - is slowly consuming you. The heat is in your lungs, coursing fire near your pounding heart, raging with every inhale.

You need to get this off of you, and as quickly as possible. After that, maybe it will fade and maybe it won’t. You’ll… you’ll figure it out.

By the time you make it to the river, your knees are trembling so much that you nearly fall in. The water barely scratches the surface of the fire when you splash it over your skin, but the coolness of it is euphoric. You go as quickly as you can, covering area by area - your clothing, your arms, your face and neck - until most of the spores are off, but the feeling pulses and throbs in you all the same. Whatever it is, it isn’t killing you, but it certainly isn’t pleasant.

You could tell Astarion. He’d tease you a little, but he’d also be certain to search endlessly to find something to stop your discomfort. And you ache for him. His touch, his voice, the fondness in his eyes when he looks at you.

Had it really been just this morning when you’d last seen him? It seems like lifetimes away - lost to a very, very different type of ache in your veins that won’t seem to fade. You’ve just made up your mind to go find him, rising to your feet again, when the heat rushes to a very specific place between your legs and all thoughts of looking for Astarion are instantly cast out.

Oh, you think, somewhere between dizzy, needy, and utterly humiliated. So that’s what this is.

You’ve read about things like this - plants, pollen, potions - but most of them had been in bad romance novels, and none of them had ever come with any mention of an antidote. And, needless to say, you won’t be making your way to the Myconid Sovereign to learn more. It’ll have to be handled on your own.

You could risk going home and pretending to be ill, but Astarion is far too perceptive for that. He’d see through your ruse immediately. Which leaves the only option: hiding in a cave and waiting this out, praying he won’t notice you’re gone and come searching for you before you’re back.

And really, how bad can it be?

Bad. It can be very, very bad.

You’ve been sitting in this cave for who knows how long, and your sanity is fading more and more by the minute.

It had been manageable at first. The heat spread through you like warm cider on a cold night - a slow, steady increase, the way a candle gradually burns down to the wick. You’d thought it would stop at a certain point (it had to, didn’t it?), but no. It just… kept going.

Now, every inch of your body feels like it’s on fire, and it’s not slow, or steady, or even remotely bearable. It’s a strange, pleasurable flame, but a flame nonetheless. You can’t even decide whether touching yourself would even help at this point. Even just grazing your hand along the length of your thigh sends the fire rising, and you’re not keen on experimenting at the moment.

Your hands have gone stiff from balling your fists. Your mouth keeps switching between being as dry as sand and overly salivating. Each breath ignites more warmth, and you’ve been trembling for so long that you don’t remember how it feels to be still.

Gods. If you trusted yourself to get to your feet, you’d go see the Sovereign - a lifetime’s worth of humiliation or not. You don’t have any clue what time it is. There’s no sun or moon down here to guide you, no mechanism to spell out the hour. Has Astarion noticed your absence? How long until he’s concerned?

You know enough to know that you should have been back by now - that it’ll be unusual for you to have been gone so long. At least this spot you’ve found for yourself is relatively private. A dark, dry little place with a stone floor; fluorescent ivy in shades of lavender and coral; remote enough that, if your willpower fails and you end up making some noise, no one will be around to hear.

You attempt to swallow, but the action dies on your tongue. You attempt to breathe, but you can’t seem to suck in any air. You’re just thinking you really might die in this painful, mortified state when the pad of footsteps on stone hits your ears, and your whole body pulls as taut as a rope.

Oh, gods. Please not him. Anyone else. The Sovereign. The Society of Brilliance. Anyone.

But it’s him, because of course it is. He slowly makes his way inside, pressing through the narrow entrance and around the corner, and when he sees you curled against the cave wall, his brows rise - alarm.

“Wait,” you blurt out, determined to speak before he can. “Don’t come any closer. Please.”

Astarion stays where he is, but his eyes start instinctively scanning you over, searching for ailment or injury. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, even though you’re anything but. You want to say more, but your thoughts trail off as another wave of heat flares inside of you. You’ve started trembling again. Your fingers accidentally graze against your thigh, and you let out a small, involuntary noise.

Astarion hesitates, then takes a step closer. “Darling,” he starts, raising a brow, “you make a terrible liar.”

Of course you can’t fool him. Not even a little. You let out a laugh, but the sound hitches into a strange, choked sob. You pull your knees to your chest and let out a long, shaking breath, trying to get a grip. “I know,” you say softly. “Gods. I’m sorry.”

He takes another step closer, and concern writes itself into his expression. “Gods below,” he exclaims. “Er - my sweet, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look...”

“Horrible?” you finish for him. “I know.”

“I… was going to say ill, actually,” Astarion replies, laughing a little. “This dark cave lighting looks beautiful on you, my dear.”

You can’t resist another laugh. It’s less burdened this time, but it fades away as you hesitate, very pointedly gazing down at your fingernails instead of meeting his eyes. “I may or may not have fallen into a patch of mysterious spores.”

“And?” Astarion says, lifting a hand into the air and giving a small, contemplative gesture. “Go on, darling. Seeing as you aren’t dead - I’m assuming they weren’t poisonous?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. How the hells are you going to phrase this? “No,” you answer. “I just feel… hot. Not like the explosive ones, just… hot.”

“Well,” Astarion says, “That’s… interesting. Alright - let me take a look at you.”

Half of you wants to protest, but what’s the point? He’ll find out the truth sooner or later. So, instead, you nod.

He steps closer, kneeling down at your side, and you have to ball your fists to keep from doing something stupid. You’re expecting more flame at his touch - a painful flare, like when you’d grazed your thigh - but when the back of his hand meets your forehead, his touch is like a salve. Soothing, cool, sweet. It mellows out the fire, makes you feel sane again.

You shut your eyes in relief, staying as still as you can, and when you open them, you find him giving you a look you know all too well. Smug. Affectionate. A glint in his eye that can only mean trouble.

“My, my,” he purrs. “Darling, I’m no healer, but… a racing pulse, dilated pupils, feverish to the touch? That, I know.” He leans in, his voice low in your ear. “And I can smell how much you want me.”

A shudder runs down your back, betraying you. Astarion leans in to kiss you, his lips brushing against yours - soft and gentle and perfect - and it takes everything in you to pull away.

“Wait,” you protest.

He instantly halts, pulling away from you and scanning over your expression. “What is it?” he asks. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine,” you say quickly. “But you don’t… I mean - I can manage this on my own, you know.”

His brows rise. “My dear, you do realize I am very capable of helping you in this situation?”

“Gods, Astarion,” you say, biting back a delirious sort of laughter. “Believe me, I’m well aware. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. I can manage this.”

A fondness enters his expression - the rare kind, reserved for the most meaningful of moments. He leans closer, placing a gentle kiss on your lips. “I know,” he says softly, the words tender and delicate. “Trust me. I want to do this.” He trails a finger along your thigh, and you shiver again. “I’ve missed you,” he murmurs. “And, unless I’m wrong, you’ve missed me, too.”

After searching his gaze and finding him entirely present, you let yourself relax into his touch. “I’ve missed you more than anything.”

“Good,” he says. “I was almost worried.”

He skims his knuckles over your jaw, leaning in to kiss you once more, and the flame in you seems to bend to his touch. It rages in you like a furnace, bellowing and cruel, but with every frigid brush of his fingers, the feeling subsides. Even the feel of his lips on yours seeps away the discomfort.

He’s slow with his actions, but he doesn’t tease, even though you can see the amusement in his eyes when he pulls away to look at you. He’s enjoying this, and if you’re honest with yourself, you are, too. If only it didn’t come at the price of your dignity - but if it’s going to fall away in front of anyone, it might as well be him.

His hands slide down to your thighs, and your whole body pulls tight, torn between wanting him to touch you now and not wanting him to stop what he’s doing.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting against your ear. “I’ve got you, darling.”

You let out a shaky breath and try to coax your body into cooperating, shutting your eyes and letting the feel of him drown out the path of your thoughts. The sensation of his mouth, trailing down your neck, ranging between feather-light kisses and the barely-there sting of his teeth against the skin, making every inch of you melt into his touch like clay. His hands, sliding to the front of your top, deftly unlacing it and pulling it away from your skin.

Thank the gods no one is anywhere around this area - if anyone were to interrupt you, you’re sure you’d die right here and now. The simmering need that lies under your skin is bordering on painful, a white-hot delirium of impatience that will not be ignored any longer.

Astarion’s fingers skim across your sternum, further soothing the burning inside your chest, and his lips soon follow downward. You let out a soft noise from the back of your throat, something choked and desperate, and he hums against your skin in response.

When your eyes flutter open again, you find that he’s staring up at you as he kisses down your abdomen, eyes dark and hands curled lightly around your ribs, ardor and affection both palpable in the heat of his gaze.

Your instinct is to shut your eyes again - to shut out the intimacy and vulnerability that comes from holding his stare - but you don’t. Instead, you move the stiff muscle of your arm and coax your hand into working again, gently tangling your fingers into the silky-smooth, silvery curls in your lap.

He gives you a roguish grin, tugging on your bottoms until they finally, mercifully, pull away from your skin, leaving you in nothing but your smallclothes.

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, the words dark and heavy on his tongue, but they feel more for him than for you. His brows crease together and his actions turn sure and firm and quickened - as if he can’t wait to have his mouth on you.

Beautiful. It’s the second time he’s called you that word tonight, but it doesn’t stop the heat from rising back into your cheeks, and that feeling of the warmth seems to spark a chain reaction.

It’s as if his voice is stoking the fire - more heat, all rushing to the very place his lips are heading to now, only to be soothed by his touch. He gently pulls at your thighs, coaxing you to lay on your back, and you’re so desperate that you nearly knock your head against the hard floor laid out beneath you in your effort to obey.

Your mind isn’t processing things the way it usually does: in an even, progressing line of events, every moment spread out from one to the next. Rather, everything comes in bursts of feeling, flashing between being a thousand miles away and all too close, all too present. You barely feel the graze of fabric when he removes your smallclothes and leaves you entirely bare, but the gentle, wet press of his tongue against you feels amplified a thousand times over.

“Astarion,” you gasp, your hand tightening in his hair.

He hums again, and the feeling of it has you shivering, muscles going slack in pleasure. Short, soft flicks of his tongue over your clit and you’re left a shuddering mess, not thinking to try to be quiet - not really thinking at all, anymore. He grips at one of your thighs, looping it over his shoulder as he pulls away for a moment, nipping at the tender flesh there. Soothing it with a gentle kiss, then returning to his work.

You’re a walking - or perhaps laying - contradiction. Your arousal is lava hot, but your pleasure is cold as ice. You can’t decide if you’re cold or hot or both or neither. You’re not in a place to think, not as blinding bursts of pleasure course up your spine, rendering you a lump of skin and bones and not much more. His mouth is nothing if not fervent.

You aren’t sure how long it lasts - your hand in his hair, his mouth against you, writhing in dizzying pleasure against the hard, stone floor and barely feeling the discomfort. It might not be very long at all - but it feels like hours before his fingers enter you.

You’re soaking wet. If you weren’t so focused on, well, everything else, it’d be humiliating. Still, when two fingers slip into you and meet no resistance whatsoever, Astarion groans. The pace he’s setting with both hand and tongue is torturous, slow and even, and it takes everything in you not to beg him for more.

But when he goes a little faster, a moan pulls from your throat, and you look down to find him grinning as he pulls away, fingers still at work. “Look at you,” he says, praise lilting the words as he curls his fingers - sending your hips rolling. “You’ll come for me, won’t you, darling?”

And as if he’s flicked a switch in your mind, you’re coming around his fingers, gasping and shuddering and clenching. Electricity seems to coarse through your veins, hot and sharp, flaming and radiant, and when it’s gone, there’s only the slickness between your thighs, a slight breathless laughter that escapes from you without a thought, and the fading warmth of the spores.

For a moment, it seems as though there might be relief. Your thoughts clear and the heat wanes, but after a sparse second or two of relief, it comes back as strong as ever.

You’d be disappointed at its reappearance, but then Astarion is crawling over you, using his knee to coax your legs apart for him, so how could you ever be disappointed? Everything else slips away except for him. His eyes, dark with want, his lips, molding against yours, his tongue, gently pressing into your mouth as he buries a hand in your hair.

He’s hard for you. You can feel it, and that realization has you grinding against him. He groans, cursing under his breath, then reaches down to undo his trousers. “Are you ready for me, love?” he asks, his voice half-broken with want.

You laugh, still trembling from your climax. “You know I am.”

“Mm,” he hums, his eyes glimmering in the dark. “But maybe I wanted to hear you say it for me, darling.”

Gods. He’s beautiful - always so beautiful - even here, in this dark, cold cave you’ve found. A work of art down to the dark circles under his eyes, the crow’s feet around his eyes, his smile lines.

You could spend a thousand years studying the art of him and never, ever get bored; not of his voice, and the way his confidence sometimes, ever so rarely, breaks into something real and raw. Not of his hands: nimble fingers and the calluses from his blade and soft skin - and not of his eyes, which seem both dark and light depending on his mood, and which can seem so sharp and severe at times, but sometimes soften into something soft and round. Sometimes. When they’re looking at you.

You could spend a thousand years admiring him and never, ever get tired of him, and never, ever deserve him. And he’d never believe it.

He’s noticed you staring, because of course he has, and he tilts his head. “What’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours?”

You can only smile, deliriously happy and wanting and both hot and cold - hot where the warmth burns uncontained, and cold everywhere his skin meets yours. “I love you.”

Your words must catch him by surprise, because it’s shock that meets his expression first. It fades away into affection, placing itself on his lips in a soft smile. “I - I love you too,” he answers, brushing a stray strand of your hair out of your face. “More than anything.”

He clears his throat and shifts, and as you feel his erection brush against you, only then do you remember the conversation you two had been having. Him between your legs. You, still needing him inside of you.

“I’m ready for you,” you breathe. “Please. I want you.”

“How could I say no?” he asks, leaning in and biting at the lobe of your ear.

He presses into you slowly, even though you don’t need it - not after the effects of the spores and your first climax still evident on your thighs. Only when he once again begins a slow, torturous pace do you realize that he’s doing it to tease you, and when you look up and find a certain amount of devious intent in his eyes, a shudder runs down your back.

He’s always seemed to enjoy watching you fall apart. How many times have you looked up in the middle of one of your late-night trysts to find his eyes on you, the darkened ruby gaze that seems as starved for you as his hunger for blood?

How many times has he eased your arm away from your face when you felt the need to hide yourself, and how many times has he gently pulled your hand away from your mouth so he could hear the noises you made for him?

There’s never really been a question about it; Astarion gets off on your pleasure, and the feeling is very, very mutual. Vulnerability aside, it does something beyond words to you to know how much he enjoys giving you pleasure. And, sure as the hells, you like to give it right back to him. So, keeping your gaze locked on his, you grind your hips down to meet him and let out a moan.

His jaw clenches and he swallows hard, his thrusts deepening as he props himself over you. You watch the lovely path of the action over the bob of his Adam’s apple, then flit your eyes back to his, letting out another noise.

“Gods,” he says, and his pace quickens. His hands wrap around your shoulders and he groans, panting as he rocks into you, his grip turning into something almost bruising.

Part of you desperately wants him to keep going - but the other part of you wants to give him something, and now seems the proper time for it. So you tilt your head to give him access to your neck and murmur a few, soft words, and he slowly comes to a halt: breathing heavily, nails digging into your skin as he tries to regain some semblance of composure.

He kisses down your jaw, slowly drags his teeth along the skin, then sinks his fangs into your neck. You’re used to the sharp pain of his bite, but it’s different today. Intensified. It’s as if his mouth on your skin, the barely-there pain, is salving through that fire and every single limb of yours goes slack with…

What is it? Pleasure? Affection? Relief? It’s something in between, something warm but not scorching, something sweet but not overly-saccharine. He starts moving his hips again and you’re instantly on the edge, planting your hands on his lower back underneath his scars and resisting the urge to dig your nails into the skin.

He’s drunk from you enough times since you met to know where the limit lies, even on the cusp of his climax. He drains you until you’re sufficiently lightheaded, but not enough to harm you, then pulls away, planting a messy kiss on your mouth.

Messy. It’s how you know he’s close. His actions are usually so graceful, his movements lithe and calculated. Only on the edge of orgasm do the pretenses fall away - his shaking thighs, soft moans into your lips, panting, blood smeared across his lips and almost certainly yours.

There’s a blinding moment of pleasure as he thrusts harder, deeper, neither of you caring about the level of noise you’re making, and your nails dig into his back. He lets out a groan of approval, then - gods, you’re climaxing again, your whole body trembling with the waves of pleasure that crash over you. Overwhelming at first, then receding into the brief moment of clarity that lasts a minute or two this time.

Then the spores start their work again.

The heat isn’t nearly as intense this time, but it’s still there. Part of you wonders if it’ll ever really fade. You lay still, gasping, as Astarion slowly pulls out of you. Then he brushes the damp hair out of your face and kisses you again.

“Darling,” he starts breathlessly, flashing a mischievous grin at you, “if this is where we’ll end up, you should fall into mysterious spores more often.”

You laugh, sending a playful, light hit toward his shoulder. He catches your hand mid-action, pressing a kiss to your palm, holding your gaze the entire time. “You’re not the one who feels like they’re on fire, Astarion.”

He hums, kissing back down your neck, cleaning up the remnants of blood from his bite. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, his voice gravelly with want.

That gives you pause. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says with some effort, propping himself above you, “whatever those spores were - they seem to have entered your bloodstream, my dear. It’s - an interesting sensation, I’ll admit.”

You’re searching his face for a tell that he’s not being serious, but instead you find wide, blown out pupils, flushed cheeks, and nothing beside his usual mischievousness. Any blood left in your face quickly exits. “Gods, I didn’t even think. I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” He presses another soft kiss to your lips, and you see a small smear of your blood on his lips. When you lick your lips, you can taste the iron of it on your tongue.

Astarion is watching you. His gaze darkens, and he lets out another thin, broken groan. “Darling. At this rate, we’ll be going the whole night.”

And, honestly? With the rate the heat is returning - you don’t doubt it.

Still, you gently ease him off of you to sit up, then make your way into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.

There’s something addictive about Astarion - there always has been. From the moment he’d had you against the dirt, a dagger to your neck, he’s been your fix.

In those first days when you’d had to hide your want for him - not even lust or sheer desire, but want; the ache to run your finger through silver curls, the warmth in your cheeks when he held your gaze just a moment too long, and the rare moments of vulnerability that came more and more as you’d gotten to know him - it had been torture.

And then he’d propositioned you. And all at once, you’d found yourself in a clearing under silver moonlight, alone with him, long before you ever knew the extent of what had been done to him - and after all this time, the craving for him, the need to lay beside him in the long nights and find him there come morning, has only ever gotten so much stronger.

The heat is somewhat bearable now. Enough to take a moment to admire him, head tilted as he gazes up at you, pure need simmering in his eyes. Dark, glinting rubies. His fangs, barely visible under parted lips. Flushed cheeks. That will fade before long; the rosiness of drinking never lasts more than a few minutes, but you admire it all the same.

“You’re beautiful.” The words are hushed. You hadn’t even meant to speak them, but your mind isn’t really yours at the moment, not wholly, not as firm as it should be. You feel half-drunk, half-needy.

The corners of his lips flick into a smile, and he raises a brow. “Oh?” he asks, clearly stealing for more flattery. “Do you think so?”

You lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You know I do.”

You gather a single, loose curl in your fingertips and gently roll it between your thumb and index finger, admiring the softness of it. You could use the same soaps, wash your hair with the same things he uses a thousand times over, and it’d never matter. It’d never be as soft as his.

“Anything in particular?” he asks. His voice is particularly airy; he’s battling between begging you for what he needs, and the compliments he likes so much.

You think back to when you’d first described him - that night beneath the stars, when he’d tossed the mirror aside and asked how you viewed him. Words hadn’t been enough then, and they still aren’t, but you’ll try.

“Your eyes,” you start, running your finger over his crow’s feet. “They change color in the light. Right now, they’re dark. Hungry. I can tell you want me, and I like that.”

His hands, which have strayed to the back of your thighs, tighten against your skin. “And? What else?”

The heat’s strength is back, clawing its way up your abdomen. “The way your hair curls around your ears,” you murmur.

He frowns, and you know you’ve gone too poetic. To distract him, you lean in and nip at the lobe of one, and any of his upset disintegrates.

“Gods,” he murmurs, bringing his hands up to your waist. “Darling, I can’t wait much longer-”

You’ve trailed down to his jaw, alternating between kisses and sharp little nips just like the ones he likes to give you, and the words die in his mouth in favor of a sharp inhale.

You won’t keep him waiting much longer. In fact, you have a plan. A plan that’d hatched from the moment you’d realized that the spores were in his system, too. Since you’d seen the hungry look in his eyes - every inch a predator circling around its prey.

Only, you’re not content to be the prey. You want to disarm him, and if any of the time you’ve spent together means anything, you’ve gotten very, very good at that.

His shirt is still on, so your hands are quick to remove it, tugging it away from cooling porcelain skin, silky under your fingers as you drag them down his sternum. He shudders, and you remember how it’d felt when he’d first touched you. If it’s anything like that, he’s probably dying to beg you for more.

Your lips soon follow the path your hands are sitting, taking your time with the softness of his abdomen before you pull his trousers away. He’s panting now, and a frenzied sort of desperation lies in his gaze when you look up at him.

And he’s hard again. Leaking.

You lightly trace your nails down his thighs, silently relishing in the way his breath hitches - the way his hips unconsciously buck toward you.

“Gods,” he says again, and though it isn’t a direct request, with the broken way it falls off his tongue, this time it is every bit a plea.

And you’re in a mood to please.

You take his cock in hand, swiping your thumb over the head, where precum is slowly leaking, and he lets out a long, breathy noise. You hum in response, taking his length between your lips, and the sound becomes strained, more needy. His hand gently makes its way into your hair, very lightly guiding you where he wants, but not forcefully.

You alternate between things: long, even movements of your mouth as you drag your tongue down the shaft, swirling your tongue around the head, then sucking him hard and slow. Eventually, simply following the guidance of his hand. His grip tightens in your hair - not painful, just encouraging - and his noises become more drawn out, less coherent.

When you pull away for a moment, using your hand to continue what your mouth had just been doing, you find him dangerously close. You press a kiss to the head and take him in again, increasing pace, accommodating him as you take him in as far as you possibly can, and he starts whimpering.

“Please,” he says, and if that isn’t a rare word to hear from him.

On another day, you might tease him, but you don’t want to. Not now, while he’s begging to have you. Instead, you take him as deep as you can again and suck harder. Astarion tugs at your hair and his thighs shudder and you know he’s close.

“Please,” he says again. “Gods, don’t stop.”

And you wouldn’t dream of it. What you can’t take into your mouth, you use your hand to stroke, and that’s it. He’s coming.

There’s something artful about it - the tremor that runs through him, the salty taste of him in your mouth, and those seeking, breathless sounds that come out of him as he spills onto your tongue. A long, shaky inhale as he pumps his hips, still chasing out his pleasure, then the trembling exhale as his mind starts to come back to him.

He doesn’t soften, and you don’t take your mouth off him. Not yet.

Usually, Astarion can be counted on for two orgasms, but if those spores are doing anything remotely like what they were doing to you, there’s certain to be much, much more than that.

“By the hells,” he murmurs airily, running a hand down your back. “You’re going to kill me, darling.”

You pull away for a moment, kissing at his abdomen, keeping his eyes locked on his as you do. “Does that mean you want me to stop?” you ask sweetly, trailing your nails along the skin of his thigh.

He swallows hard. “Gods, don’t,” he pleads.

And you don’t.

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion ancunin #astarion x you #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 x reader #mywriting

3K notes · View notes

cod-fishing · 4 months

Text

“Would you want to be buried with your family, Si?”

Simon looks over at Johnny, eyebrows raised at his lovers random interjection. He gives him a once over, eyes narrowing a little bit, trying to find what could have possibly brought that question on. Finding nothing, Simon turns back to his book.

Johnny watches him scan a few lines before replying. “Can’t.”

Johnny’s brows furrow. “Why not?”

“They thought I was dead,” he replies simply, almost absentmindedly as he flips a page. Johnny’s confusion only grows until,

“Washington got your spot,” he says with dawning horror.

Simon says nothing, just humming an assertion. Johnny finds himself in a position he is in far, far too often as Simon’s closest confidant- utterly horrified, while Simon shrugs, already having worked through it with a therapist years ago, and numb to the sheer tragedy.

Simon turns another page, and Johnny breathes through the instinct to start screaming. A man who betrayed him, tortured him, and killed his entire family. Buried in his families plot, where Simon deserves to be someday. Where Simon was supposed to be able to fucking rest, someday.

Eventually, when he’s more in control, Johnny opens his mouth again, and it only comes out a little bit grated.

“So if you die, what would you like?”

Simon snorts at the ‘if’, and finally looks back at Johnny, considering him.

“What do you want?” Simon asks simply.

Johnny just looks at him for a second. Blinks, licks his lips. Opens his mouth to tell the truth, but pussies out at the last second.

He cracks a smile, but Simon can see the way it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Ah, I dunno. Just curious.”

Ghost considers the obviously bullshit answer, but decides to allow the out, turning back to his book. They lapse into a comfortable silence, Johnny going through his gear for their mission tomorrow, Simon flipping through his novel.

“What made you ask, anyways?”

Johnny stops in his movements, and looks over to Simon. The room is technically his, as the commanding officer, but it's strewn with evidence of Johnny’s place in his life. Clothes, notebooks, weapons. His shave kit in Simon’s bathroom, cause the lighting is better, and because its pretty nice to have Simon walk up behind him with a soft touch to his back while he cuts his hair, making sure he hasn't missed anything and leaving him with a kiss pressed to his shoulder.

"I'm thinking about retiring," he blurts out.

Simon looks over, and blinks.

"And…and I want my ashes scattered in the highlands. Unless you want to be buried next to me," he says, feeling out of breath at his confession. "That would…that would be good too,” he near-whispers.

Simon puts down his book.

“But if you wanted to be with you family, I could probably rob the grave and get Washington out of there, and put you back in. I’ve done crazier stuff.”

Simon’s mouth curls just a bit. “Come here, Johnny.”

He hesitates, for just a moment, feeling raw and vulnerable. But Simon pats his thigh, and Johnny could never resist that call. Curling up on Simon’s lap, he hides his nose in his neck, wrapping his arms around the broad shoulders of his best friend, his lover.

Simon embraced him back, pulling him close against his chest. They stay there for a moment, tension slowly draining from Johnny, and eventually Simon whispers.

“I’ve had it in my will that burial rights go to you for a year already. And as for retirement…”

He pulls back, and Johnny does to, looking into his warm eyes, shockingly open in this moment.

“You let me know when, and I’ll follow.”

#AND THEN THEY DO THAT AND DIE OLD AND CONTENT IN THE CONTRYSIDE AND THEIR FRIENDS AND FAMILY SCATTER THEIR ASHES IN THE HIGHLANDS TOGETHER #soap mwii #cod mwii #soapghost #ghostsoap #cod mw2 #ghoap #simon ghost riley #tf141 #john soap mactavish #codmw2 #mywriting

1K notes · View notes

hogwartsfirebolt · 1 month

Text

the game’s the game

“What was going through your mind when you spotted the Snitch?”

Two camera shutters go off like lighting, but Draco doesn’t blink. It’s almost the end of the season, and he’s done a press conference every week. He’s used to them.

“Fucking finally,” he answers, and the journalists all laugh. They think he’s joking, and he can already imagine the articles they’ll publish tomorrow pronouncing him cheeky and funny, but he means it wholeheartedly. Six hours in the sky, drenched all the way through his pants in rainwater, and facing the very best player in the league? He had half a mind to jump off his broom if only to have the game end somehow.

“This is the second time you face PU and well, Harry Potter, this season,” says another reporter, a young, pretty woman with her hair pinned up and a reverent tone when she speaks Potter’s name. Like everyone. “Are you expecting to encounter him at this year’s Cup? And if so, how does that make you feel?”

Draco breathes out hard through his nose. Across the room from him, sitting at his own table against the wall opposite, Potter’s doing his own press conference. He’s wearing a hat backwards, the light blue of his team hoodie contrasting with his golden-warm skin tone. He has a hand to his chin, rubbing his short beard in thought at some question he’s being asked. Probably about just how sweet it had been to snatch that Snitch right from under Draco’s nose. He’s earnest and so gorgeous Draco can’t stand the sight of him.

“The game is the game,” Harry’s voice carries, clear and chesty, deeply masculine as he says his favorite little quote that means absolutely nothing and that fans have been yelling and tattooing on their bodies the whole season. “We don’t take any victory for granted. Coach has been running us to the ground, she won’t stop until we have that trophy in Puddlemere, and we’re doing our best to make her proud.”

“Oh, I’m certain we’ll face them at the Cup,” is what Draco answers at last. “Honestly? I think no other team comes even close. We’ll face them, and then we’ll bring the Cup home to Appleby. As Potter himself likes to say, the game is the game.”

All the cameras around him go off, the sound of Quick-Quills scrabbling and the reporters’ scandalized gasps at his use of Potter’s quote. He grins, puts his olive green Arrows cap on and stands to leave. He needs a fucking shower.

Later on, he’s sprawled on his hotel room couch, drying his hair with a towel and watching a replay of the game on the enormous television, making mental notes about his own flying, his mistakes, the times he dove too soon or hovered too low. When the screen follows the blue jersey with POTTER 7 emblazoned across the back, he looks closely, trying to spot mistakes but knowing he won’t find any. Potter’s probably the best flier of the century, and Draco loves Quidditch too much to lie to himself about that.

He’s admiring one of Potter’s physics-defying feints when there’s a knock on his door. Immediately, his heart takes up a gallop, and he has to press a hand to the center of his chest with a frown.

“Calm the fuck down, Malfoy,” he mutters. It’s a disproportionate reaction and he’s irritated with himself for it. It’s not as though it’s the first time. Or the tenth.

He pauses the game with a flick of his wand and makes his way to the door, through the archway that separates the TV room from the kitchenette. A quick look at the archway across the suite to make sure the bedroom is as he left it, and he’s at the door, taking a deep breath.

Potter’s grin is huge when Draco opens. He’s foregone all his team outwear, and is now in a familiar, worn leather jacket and a black sweater. His hair is wet, as though he rushed after his shower so he could get here quicker. Draco opens his mouth to say something, but before he figures out what, Harry pushes inside, turns around and presses him against the door, big hands gentle on Draco’s waist. Draco’s heart hasn’t gotten the “this isn’t the first or tenth time this happens,” memo, and is still running a marathon inside his chest, so he says nothing.

There’s a plastic bag in Potter’s hands. Dinner, probably, he usually brings dinner when they meet after a game. His wide smile reveals white teeth, a crooked canine that Draco knows is a baby tooth that never loosened. Round, stylish glasses cover the most intoxicating green eyes Draco has ever seen, and they’re shining with tonight’s victory. And Draco might be — definitely is — the world’s sorest loser, but he’s also the world’s biggest slut for Quidditch excellence, and he has it right here, holding him against his hotel room door.

“The game is the game?” Harry asks, amused, already leaning in, the hand on Draco’s waist moving to wrap the whole way around him and pull him close.

“Just some stupid phrase I’ve heard from a dickhead,” Draco answers, but the words hold the shape of a smile and are uttered right into a kiss there at the end.

It’s always a race at the start. They're both high from the game, still in that mindset, and it’s a competition to see who can undress quicker, who can make the other harder, who can earn the first moan and coax the first orgasm of the night. But after that first one, after Draco’s jaw aches dully and Potter is softening between his legs, everything slows down a little. Potter helps him up and they share the tacos Potter brought, watching the last minutes of the game they played earlier with Draco’s legs up on Potter’s lap, where he’s massaging his knees, his quads, making sure he’s not achy from kneeling for him.

“I really fucked that one up,” Potter comments. His tiny self on the screen just pulled out of an impossible dive at what looks like a 90 degree angle. He sounds earnest, which is the only reason Draco isn’t kicking him right in his beautiful face.

“I hate you so much. Only you would call that a fuck up.”

Potter hums, his massaging hands moving from Draco’s calf to his heel, his thumb pressing into his sole. On the screen, tiny Draco swerves a Bludger aimed to his head, and his teammate Owen is flying to him to make sure he’s alright.

“That guy is so into you,” Potter points out.

“I know. We fucked all through rookie year.”

Potter turns to look at him so fast it must hurt his neck. Draco raises an eyebrow, confused at the strong reaction.

“What?”

“I — I don’t know,” Potter says, suddenly sheepish. His hands haven’t stopped moving over Draco’s foot. Potter’s skin is dark, but Draco can still make out the blush spreading across his cheekbones. “Isn’t it weird? He’s a teammate.”

There’s something he’s not saying. It’s evident in the way he bites his bottom lip, in the way he obviously wants to look away but is too ridiculously brave to actually do it. Draco’s heart thumps inside his chest, so hard he’s sure it must be audible to Harry too.

They’ve never named this thing between them. The first time they did it, after the quarter finals one year before, with Potter’s ill advised kiss that ended with them fucking in the showers of the stadium after Potter had wiped the damn dust with Draco on the pitch, they agreed to keep it quiet, and that was the last they discussed of it. It’s going on fourteen months since then, and they’ve done it at least once a month, when the league brings them to nearby towns, and sometimes when it doesn’t and they take a quick midnight Portkey to each other to blow off some steam.

Draco had never in his life been as well-fucked as he’s been this past year, and he definitely doesn’t want to lose it. Potter’s always been honest and open with him, vocal in bed about how much he wants him, filthy in his occasional text messages when they’re apart, but he’s never given any indication that he wants anything other than exactly what they have.

“It’s not weird,” Draco says slowly, unsure of what to think of this exchange. “We stopped a while ago. I was clear that I didn’t want — that I’d rather we stayed friends and teammates, without any complications.”

“Right,” Potter says. He sounds relieved, and Draco feels like he’s three steps behind the conversation they’re having. He’s about to ask, but Potter’s fingers on his calf smooth over an old knot and he groans instead, letting his head fall back onto the couch cushion.

“That feels great,” he says, and Potter repeats the motion.

“Yeah. I think you pulled it when you made that X turn.”

The turn he made to try to beat him to the Snitch, he doesn’t say. How he had enough awareness to know Draco attempted it while diving for the Snitch himself is beyond comprehension, but Draco has long accepted that Potter is simply insane about the game. He notices everything, considers everything, takes every risk. If he weren’t a player himself, Draco knows he would be following Puddlemere and Harry wherever they played for the entire season, wearing a pale blue jersey with the number 7 on it.

“Probably,” Draco says, closing his eyes and groaning again when Harry keeps pressing the same point. After a moment, he feels something softer brushing his calf, and opens his eyes to find Harry bent over his leg, kissing a path up towards his knee. He can’t help the embarrassing little sound he makes, and Harry’s laugh is a puff against his skin as he keeps moving up, breath warm on the wet trail of his kisses up Draco’s thigh. In the background, the presenters are going crazy over a feint Harry pulled, the sound of the audience carrying all through the stadium and out of the TV speakers.

Harry has made his way high up and is kissing Draco’s birthmark, a brown, apple-sized beauty mark an inch below his groin when he lifts his head to ask, “Why didn’t you want to?”

Draco can’t believe he’s using his mouth to speak at that moment. He licks his lips, trying to make sense of the question.

“What? What are you even — ?” He tries to sit up a little, but Harry moves over him instead so they’re eye-level without Draco having to move at all.

“With Caddell. Why didn’t you want to keep seeing him?”

“Owen? Why the fuck are we talking about —,” Draco lets his head drop down onto the cushions again, a sigh punched out of him. Harry takes pity and leans forward to kiss him, lips soft over Draco’s, knowing exactly how to coax his kisses out of him the way he likes best.

“I just want to know,” Harry whispers against his lips. He’s breathless just from touching Draco, from rubbing his legs, from kissing him. Fuck, this is insane.

“I like him, but it wasn’t very exciting.” Draco says. He closes his eyes as Harry begins to kiss down his neck, and tries to really think about it, because he’s not even sure himself. “I wasn’t willing to risk our teamwork when what we had wasn’t even that … electric. I don’t know. This sounds insane.”

Harry shakes his head, his beard rubbing against Draco’s collarbone. “It doesn’t. I get it.” He bites on the delicate skin connecting neck and shoulder, licks a path down his chest. “I get electric.”

“Fuck yes you do,” Draco says, nonsensical, but he feels he can’t be blamed when Harry is brushing his lips over his nipples, broad hands moving around Draco’s body to secure a grip over his ass.

“Is this?” Harry asks, mouth nearing the V of Draco’s hips, the edge of the trail of hair leading to his crotch. “Electric?”

Draco swears, fingers running through Harry’s hair and finding a grip, hard. “If you don’t put your mouth on me right now I swear I — yes.”

He spreads his thighs to accommodate Harry between them, one hand gripping Harry’s hair and the other curled around the cushion over his head. It is electric, the way Harry knows exactly which buttons to push, sliding a finger inside him while keeping him on his tongue. He’s a prodigy in this too, the star player who knows every move in the playbook that is Draco’s body.

It feels like no time at all, no effort at all before Harry is pulling back, dragging Draco closer by the waist and working himself inside. The feel of it, the sound of them together, the look into Harry’s open gaze, his sweat dripping onto Draco’s chest and his hands underneath Draco’s back, holding him, pulling him onto him, have Draco nearing release almost too fast for his liking, but the night is young and it’s been so long that he lets himself go, a cord snapping in his core, eyes open as he watches Harry watch him come apart.

“Come on,” he says once he’s come down, lifting his hips, shifting his weight onto his shoulders. “Show me what you got, Potter.”

Harry groans and leans forward, kisses Draco’s jaw and his neck, and drives his hips faster. Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s back, moves with him as much as he can in the tight embrace, and remains close as Harry meets his own peak and tumbles down the edge.

They lie together for a couple minutes afterwards, panting into each other’s skins, basking in the afterglow.

“Some pro-athletes. We have the stamina of two eighteen year old virgins,” Draco mutters into Harry’s hair after a while, and feels Harry’s chest rumble with his laughter. The room is cast in the warm glow of the foot-lamp that stands beside the sofa they just fucked in, exactly like two eighteen year old virgins having the chance to touch for the first time in their lives.

Harry always goes boneless and slow after a good lay, so Draco eases him off his body with tenderness, a gentle hand to Harry’s chest, followed by a kiss.

“Let's go to bed, yeah?” He whispers.

Harry groans. “I don’t want to move.”

“That’s too bad, because I’m exhausted and I’m going to bed. Some idiot drove me to the ground on the pitch today.”

He stands up and shakes out his legs, testing the soreness of his muscles. There’ll be an ache tomorrow, but nothing he can’t handle.

Despite his complaint, Harry is already standing up too, coming up behind Draco, a hand finding its way to the flat of his belly, his forehead on Draco’s shoulder as though he can’t bear not to touch him for even a second.

“Bed it is,” he declares against the skin of Draco’s shoulder, sounding halfway asleep already. Draco huffs a laugh and pulls him towards the bedroom, pausing at the kitchenette to grab two glasses of water that he watches Harry drink in three gulps, a couple drops sliding down the sides of his mouth, into his beard and down his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“What?” He asks when he catches Draco watching him, and Draco shakes his head and pulls him to bed. He’s so handsome it’s genuinely upsetting sometimes. Draco thinks he’d throw a tantrum about it daily if it weren’t for the fact that he gets to touch him.

They try their best, but they don’t manage a second round before their eyes fall shut, tucked into each other like two hands cupped under a stream of water, tumbling into a satisfied, exhausted sleep.

Harry wakes him with a kiss before daybreak, the last of the night chilling the room and puckering Draco’s skin.

“Do you have to go already?” Draco asks, one eye still closed and a hand curled possessively around Harry’s bicep, not entirely on purpose.

Harry shakes his head, kisses him again with a gentleness that is meant to go nowhere but extend this kiss, warm and sweet.

“I thought we could talk.”

Draco is nodding before fully grasping the meaning, but even once he does he’s not tempted to back away. Must be the night, still cocooning them, must be Harry’s arms around him that are making him brave, but he’s not nervous anymore, not now that he’s remembered what they’re like, together.

“It is electric,” he says, suspecting that’s what Harry wants to talk about. “It’s always electric with you.”

The smile blooms slowly, lighting up Harry’s face from within, his beautiful eyes, unhidden this early in the morning, his glasses still on the bedside table. Harry sits up a little, clears his throat. It seems like he’s been gearing up for this, he’s squaring his shoulders the way he does before trying a dangerous feint, before performing a play that will have Draco biting dust. This insane, wonder of an athlete. Draco forces himself to shake the last of the sleep away, to focus on him, on what he wants to say.

“I know that … so many of us want you,” Harry starts. “On your team, on mine, the whole league, actually. But I —”

He looks like he’s stating an absolute truth, like he has irrefutable proof, and Draco is taken aback. He knows some of the guys find him attractive, but that’s not the same as being wanted. He shakes his head. “What? Where did you get that?”

“I’ve talked about it with the guys, but that’s not the point,” he adds hurriedly when he sees his eyes widen. Draco hasn’t said a word to anyone, not out of shame, but out of sureness that they were sneaking around, that they were making it a point to hide. Apparently, he was wrong. Harry continues, “What I want to say is … I know we’ve not agreed on anything, that you’re free to want others, be with whoever you want to be with. I thought that you knew where I stood, that if you weren’t saying anything it was because you didn’t want the same thing I did, but it’s been brought to my attention that if I’ve not made an honest offer, I can’t assume you’re saying no.”

Draco’s heart is hammering inside his chest, inside his throat. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but if he’s right, it seems Harry is saying …

“I don’t want this to be a once a month thing. I want to bring you home, I want you to meet my family, and I want the guys to know that I’m saying no to all the people they set me up with because I’m taken and completely uninterested in anyone else. Are you … is that something you want, too? I know you might have better offers, but I – ”

The covers crinkle under Draco’s knees as he sits up, throws a leg over Harry’s body so he can fully sit on his lap and brings him forward by the neck.

“You beautiful idiot. What could be a better offer? Why would I care about any other offers when I have the best one right here?”

They’re kissing, and Harry’s gasping, and Draco’s frenzied heart pounds against his sternum. He nods into the kiss, feels dizzy with how much he wants what’s being offered. Fuck. There’s nothing he wants more.

Harry pulls back a little, whispers: “Does this mean we’re — ?”

“Yes, fuck. It’s — The game’s the game.”

“What — That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Shut up. It’s your quote.”

Then they’re laughing into a new kiss, and it’s not the first, or even the tenth time they’re together like this, but Draco’s heart still goes crazy for this man, for his unlimited talent, his openness, his electric company. Quarter finals are coming up, then semis, then they might meet again on the pitch and Draco might lose and throw a strop and want to tear the hair out of his head over the beautiful Quidditch Harry plays, and then they’ll get to go home and celebrate a victory. No matter who takes the trophy. That’ll be the game.

Read On Ao3

#quidditch rivals but ohh they’re secret lovers bet NOBODY saw that coming #kinda unsure about the tone shift at the end but ITS LATE I’m sorry ok #I just wanted earnest Harry which is MY FAVORITW THING #drarry #drarry fic #Draco Malfoy #Harry Potter #my writing #mywriting

591 notes · View notes

steventhusiast · 3 days

Text

STWG prompt 17/4/24

prompt: "oops, that wasn't the plan"

pairing/character(s): steddie

. . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Steve's in the middle of squinting as he scans a library shelf for the textbook he needs when he gets rudely interrupted. A body crashes into him with nearly enough force to knock him over, and he only just manages to catch himself on the library shelves in front of him (with only a few casualties in the form of fallen books).

"Oops!" He hears from right behind him, way too loud for where they are. Sure, they're not in the silent study area, but it's still a library. Sudden noises are pretty noticeable.

Once he's recovered, he looks around the university library to see a few people's unimpressed eyes looking in his direction from their study desks. He feels heat rise from his chest to his cheeks at their attention, and suddenly flustered anger is coursing through him, because-

"What the hell?" He whisper yells, spinning around to face whoever had bumped into him.

He's about to start whisper yelling some more at whoever caused this, but then he sees who's stood in front of him, and- shit. He's hot.

Bright red, and with black curly hair up in a messy ponytail stands a guy around his height, with an expression Steve can only describe as mortification on his face. He's dressed in the student go-to late-night library session attire (university branded hoodie, sweatpants and shoes that are somewhere between slippers and clogs), and he's clutching something in one hand as he stares wide-eyed at Steve.

They stare at each other for a moment, and just as Steve's starting to get a little uncomfortable with it and opens his mouth to, once again, ask what the hell, the guy opens his own mouth and rushes out some hushed words.

"That wasn't the plan, I swear." He says nonsensically, and Steve just frowns at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm doing this all wrong." The guy mutters to himself, and suddenly crouches down to pick up the books that had fallen off the shelf.

He seems to use the time facing the ground to collect himself, because once he's stood upright again with the pile of books held in front of him he offers Steve a shy smile.

"My name's Eddie, and you are, just... so attractive and I've been wanting to come and talk to you for, like, an hour, and maybe give you my number? But then, I'm a total clutz, so- so I tripped and almost knocked you over instead. I am so sorry about that, by the way." His nerves seem to come back as he talks, because Steve notices his fingers tap anxiously at the bottom of the book-pile.

Steve's a little stunned by the onslaught of words, and must take too long to respond because Eddie winces after a moment and shakes his head as he averts his eyes.

"This was stupid. I'm so sorry for interrupting your night, you're probably cramming for a test or something." Eddie offers him a wounded smile this time, glancing at his face again, and then makes to turn and walk away.

"Wait- no. You can- um. I would love your number. Sorry, you caught me off guard." Steve says quietly, and Eddie stops moving, eyes going wide again. God, his eyes remind Steve of Bambi.

Steve takes a deep breath and tries to find the charisma he swears he usually has when he's not ambushed with an unexpected hot man.

"I mean, how else will I know how to contact you when I sue you for damages?"

He says it with a smile and a teasing eyebrow raise, but Eddie looks panicked at the words, like that's somehow something he's genuinely worried about, so Steve raises the hand he'd caught himself on the shelves with to show off the slightly reddened base of his palm.

"I'm mortally injured over here, I hope you have good insurance."

Finally, Eddie huffs out a surprised laugh, and the smile stays on his face once he quietens. It's a very pretty smile, much better than the nervous one he was wearing before.

"Right. Well, luckily for you I have my contact details ready to go for situations like this." He says, and (with a little fumbling to reposition the books he's holding) offers Steve an incredibly crumpled up piece of paper.

Steve unfolds it to find a phone number scrawled out, with a ridiculous drawing of a stick figure holding a landline and a speech bubble saying 'call me!'. He carefully folds up the piece of paper, pointedly pockets it, and offers Eddie another smile.

"Thanks, I will for sure be calling later. I just- I am cramming for a test, you were right. So..." He trails off, a little unsure and awkward again.

Eddie just nods, still grinning, and makes to turn around again.

"I'm looking forward to it." He says, and then walks off, ridiculous tower of books still in his hands. Steve watches him go, and then takes a deep breath and looks back at the shelf.

How the fuck is he going to focus on studying now?

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie drabble #steddie ficlet #they're both cringefail losers in this #affectionately #stwgdailyprompt #dailydrabble #mywriting

116 notes · View notes

multireese · 7 months

Text

Exposed On Stream

streamer stepbrother x male reader

"MMM, please finish before our parents come home." y/n whined. His stepbrother sat in his gaming chair holding him by the waist and guiding the moaning boy up and down his shaft. Y/N's stepbrother was also twenty years old, They went to the local university but never crossed paths. That was until a few weeks ago when Y/N's dad married his new stepbrother's mother.

"What's that little bro? You want me to fill your ass with cum?"

"Mmhmm don't be gross. Please...finish...fast," Y/n's hole stretched around his stepbrother's girth. Both men's moans filled the room accompanied by the soft sucking sounds of stepbrother fucking into y/n's tight wet hole. Stepbrother spent the last few weeks training y/n's hole, starting with a finger. then two. Eventually, Y/n could take his stepbrother's girthy tip finally graduating to cockwarming his veiny 9-inch dick.

Stepbrother grabbed Y/n behind the knees and pushed them into the smaller man's chest.

"I know what my boy needs," Stepbrother holds y/n's body up and begins to aggressively fuck up into him. The moans and squelching noises crescendo. In a few moments, Y/n had spurts of cum shooting from his dick. "Oh, that's so fucking hot! I bet stream loved that," his stepbrother pressed a button on his keyboard. The monitors flashed on. Brightening the room and the stars y/n was currently seeing. In a moment Stepbrother continued to fuck y/n for his subscribers to see.

"i ship this"

"how can THAT fit???"

"ruin him"

"did he say brother?"

"who's the bottom"

The comments rolled in fast. Stepbrother planned to force the two of their parents to break up because of the embarrassment that would come from this scandal. He knew his Mother did not love Y/n's dad the way stepbrother loved y/n. "Y/n will understand when we don't have to sneak around," he thought. Y/n still moaning and riding his sneaky stepbrother's throbbing cock.

"Let's hit our goal Gang, and I'll creampie my sexy stepbrother." Hundreds of dollars worth of tips flooded in, subscriber count doubled in minutes. Y/n and his stepbrother might have made themselves famous.

#x male reader #mywriting #stepbro x male reader

1K notes · View notes

sarenhale · 22 days

Text

Happy Stardew Valley update, everyone!!

I've been playing this game for years, and it has a very special place in my heart... I also started my Stardew fanfic, Supernova, almost 5 years ago, when I was studying in the US. It's still a story that's very dear to my heart <3

#just felt like celebrating <3 #stardew valley #sdv #sdv art #stardew valley fanfic #sdv fic #sdv fanfic #sebastian x farmer #stardew valley farmer #stardew valley sebastian #myart #myoc #myocs #elijah #mywriting #mine

427 notes · View notes

remuslupinslittleslut · 6 months

Text

Poly!Marauders x Needy!Reader

“Daddy”, Y/N whines, “Need you.”

James chuckles, the feeling of her mumbling against his neck is tickling him. His hands are rubbing at her sides, trying to comfort her.

“Please daddy, want you, inside”, she’s mumbling against his neck, fingers pulling the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“You’re all worn out baby, you’ll be too sore”, he reasons.

“Yeah baby”, Sirius, sitting next to James and their girl says, rubbing her side, “you have to wait, at least until tomorrow, or it’s gonna hurt.”

She huffs, not liking the answers. She needs it. Needs to be filled up again, won’t calm down without it. James is still rubbing soothingly above her shirt, not wanting to excite her too much.

As Remus walks in, her head piques up,

“Daddy! Please daddy, they’re being so mean”, she groans, arms reaching up around his neck.

“Are they being mean to you, baby? Huh?” He asks, arms wrapping around her smaller frame, eyebrows raised as he looks at the other boys.

Y/N nods against his chest.

“Moony, she’s obviously out of it, we can’t fuck her now”, James says.

Remus tsks, lifting Y/N up using his grip around her waist,

“Oh baby, they’re right, we can’t fuck you again”

She looks as if she’s about to cry, eyes welling up with tears and bottom lip jutting out,

“But Daddy, ‘m so empty”, the first few tears run down her cheeks.

Remus sits down on the couch, placing her in his lap, her legs straddling his. One of his hands coming up to her cheek, thumb rubbing her tears away.

“There’s still a way to make you feel full”, he says, hands reaching down in between them to unbuckle his belt, “you’re gonna take my cock in your pretty pussy, and you’re gonna sit very still.”

She nods, drying her tears. Next to them, the other boys share a look. Remus takes his half hard cock out of his pants,

“Baby you have to make daddy hard first”, he coos.

Her hands reach down, wrapping around him, he’s big and her hands are small so she needs both of them as she jerks him off, watching as his cock grows in her hands.

“That’s enough, love, gonna fill you up now, yeah?”

He grips her hips, throwing his head back as her warm, wet walls swallow him.

“So, how was quidditch practice?” He asks, turning to his other two partners.

#fanfic #mywriting #amathelia writes #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #sirius black x reader #sirius black #remus lupin smut #sirius black smut #james potter #james potter x reader #james potter smut #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders #smut #marauders era #marauders

3K notes · View notes

gguksgalaxy · 11 months

Text

The Smart Thing | JWW

You come home ready to sleep your stress off in the arms of your boyfriend, he seems to have other plans in mind. Ones that don't quite include rest.

›› Genre: Smut (legit just filth) ›› Rating: 18+ (explicit s-x) ›› Pairing: Wonwoo x f.Reader ›› Wordcount: 2.4k ›› Warnings: Fingering (f.rec), unprotected s-x (in a relationship, be safe) while half asleep, manhandling and holding her in place, Wonwoo's a bit of a tease, bit of crying, one (1) spank, petnames, praise, begging, cr-ampie, probably missed something. Ik it sounds similar to Mingyu's but trust it isn't fjdlsk ›› Mingyu ver. ›› This one was a bit of a struggle but I hope you guys like this as well. If you do, let me know!! <3 And again thanks to the lovely @homerunhansol for proofing this and giving me confidence

No matter how deep his slumber, Wonwoo always wakes at the feeling of your body hitting the bed. His hands cradle you better than the sheets, body providing warmth that soothes the exhaustion in your bones. Perhaps you don’t need sleep, just the feeling of him slotting his body against your back. The rumble in his chest when he hums against your neck, kisses down your shoulder. His presence provides the last thing you need to relax, to become pliant to his touch. Your eyes fall shut, sleep creeping up the edges of your consciousness. The same way his fingers inch under the fabric of your shirt.

“You’re late,” Wonwoo breathes, voice roughened with sleep.

You let out a breathy chuckle. “T’was busy.” You’re barely audible, halfway to dreamland when you notice where his hands are going. Nimble fingers dancing along the crease of your breast, tongue darting out to taste your skin over your pulsepoint. “Wonwoo,” you warn.

He shushes you, lets his teeth sink into your earlobe. It has you swimming, the warm touch of his palm over your tits, nails teasing along your nipples. Quick sparks of pleasure keep you on the edge of sleep. The sleep that you very much needed and were craving for the past hours. And now that you’re here, comfortable between the sheets and your lover, you’re tempted to stay awake a bit longer. Just to see how far he’s willing to take this to jeopardise his own rest.

You let out a soft moan when he tweaks your nipple, eyes fluttering shut, head sinking further into the pillow. He’s gentle with it—gentle with you. Any protest to go to sleep dies on your tongue. The way he’s playing you isn’t about him. He’s all over you. Kneads at your chest like he could mould you to his hands. You already are though.

Moulded to the shape of him that is. The way you crane your head back to give him more space to kiss you. The perfect fit of your tits in his hands. The press of his leg between yours. He takes you apart so easily, wetness gathering against the cotton of your underwear. But none of it is enough to jolt you, barely enough to keep you awake. Awake enough to tell that he’s growing hard behind you, but not awake enough to do much about it. You’re in the most beautifully warm place. Swimming in arousal and cushioned by the precipice of sweet sleep.

“You’re so sexy like this,” he mumbles into your skin, hand sneaking down to feel how wet you are. It has him groaning, hot breath puffing against your skin. “So pliant for me.”

His words have your stomach clenching, a gush of wetness between your thighs. “Wonwoo,” you mumble, reaching a hand behind you to find the short hair at the nape of his neck. He turns into it, running his nose up your arm. “The smart thing to do would be to go to sleep.”

“I believe,” he starts, thumb pressing down over your clit over the fabric of your underwear, “the smart thing to do would be me.”

The words of rebuttal to his awful joke die on the back of your tongue when he grabs you tighter. He slides an arm under your neck, twisting it over your chest to pull you to him. You know this position, twist into him just as he wants with a leg spread over his hips. Give him full access to your body without as much of a word. You know what he wants, and you wouldn’t deny him. Because you’re well aware that it’ll be worth the time and lack of sleep.

Wonwoo wastes no time to slide his hand into your panties, fingers slipping between your wet folds and moaning at the feeling. Your entire body shivers, goosebumps from your neck to your fingers at his sounds. Your stomach clenches when his fingers circle your clit, then dip lower to slide into you. He knows you needed it, knew it better than you did, because you relax so easily at the feeling. Your eyes once again fall shut, head tilting back over his shoulder. His mouth skims over your jaw, fingers still.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he whispers, breathy, on the cusp between a chuckle and a moan.

You smile. “‘Could.”

He hums, nuzzling into your cheek before pulling his fingers out. Then he slides them back in slowly, makes you feel every single knuckle that enters you. He repeats this over and over and over. Provides no additional stimulation but the achingly slow drag of his fingers inside your cunt and it’s so good it almost does lull you to sleep. Your breathing evening out, chest heavy under his palm, legs lax. Just him around you, warm breaths and gentle fingers.

A sharp slap to your thigh wakes you up instantly. It stings, blooms warm over your skin when he palms over it. No words follow, but the message is clear. Don’t fall asleep.

You tilt your hips with a whine, empty, aching. He smiles into your skin, knows that you need him now that he’s given you a taste. Crave him more than the heavy pull of sleep. Soon, he fills you again, fingers more firm in their presses now. Less teasing, more pleasure, sending warmth coiling up your spine. Sweet little moans fall from your lips. He eats it up, lips on the corner of your mouth. All while he strokes your insides just right, palm brushing your clit with every pass.

Your lover moans when you twist, pressing your ass into his now very hard crotch. “Baby,” you whine, tilting your head towards him even more. He doesn’t respond, merely nudges your head back with his, hand tightening on your tit where he holds it. “Baby, please.” You know Wonwoo won’t give you anything if he doesn’t deem you ready, but perhaps sleep clouds him enough to give in to you. “Need you.”

His fingers sound slick inside of you, your wetness gushing out when he presses in deep, palm flat to your body. He’s so deep, you swear you can feel him in your stomach and it’s not even his cock inside of you yet. He presses right where you need him, right where he knows you’ll fall apart for him. Rubbing hard, having you moan loud, clenching hard as if to suck his fingers in even deeper. His name falls from your lips, barely audible, barely coherent. Dumb from the battle between pleasure and exhaustion.

“You want to cum?” Wonwoo asks, whispers it into your ear with a graze of his tongue to your skin. You’re not close yet, but he can have you fall over that edge in a matter of seconds if he so pleases.

You nod and grab his wrist, pressing your cunt close to him. “Woo.” The words escape you. A hiccup breaking from your throat because you’re too far gone to tell him you need to cum on his cock. He twists his fingers in a way that is just a little mean. Your toes curl when he does it again, and again, “Wonwoo!” you cry out, grabbing his wrist harder yet rutting closer. Your whole body is thrumming.

“What is it?” He says it so sweetly, follows you as you curl onto your side, spoons you. Your legs close on his hand, trap him in your heat. “You know what,” Wonwoo trails his words off, wrestling his hand out from between your thighs. “I’ll be nice.”

You huff, but comply and wait. He grabs his pillow and rolls you onto it, hips propped up just enough for him to position himself between your legs from behind. There’s a rustle of fabric, the tantalising feeling of his palm smoothing down your back, and then the familiar feeling of him dragging the head of his cock through your soaked folds.

It has your entire body on edge, trying to lift your hips to his, anything to feel him. He shushes you again, presses your back down to the sheets. Mumbles something about how he’s got you, will take care of you, loves you, as he teases you.

When he finally presses in, you whine. Your walls stretch to accommodate him, and he blankets his body with yours as he sinks deeper. Bottoms out, hips to your ass, hands beside your head searching for yours. Like he needs you for purchase too, fingers finding a home between yours while you grab at the sheets. Shaking under him.

He groans your name into your ear when you clench down hard at the first thrust. The press of him inside of you is so delicious, so familiar—but this angle has always been so much more intense. You barely feel conscious at this point, swimming. Wonwoo doesn’t seem to be doing any better, a deep curse falling from his lips when he pulls out and pushes back in all the way. Hips pressing so close to you to try and get that last inch in. To get so deep you’ll feel him for days. Again, like he’s moulding you to the shape of him.

You’d stay like this forever if you could. Hidden between your lover and the sheets. Slick sounds of your cunt sucking him in, him panting into your shoulder. He holds himself to you, the weight of him on top of you just right. As is everything. As he always is with you. And if he holds himself still for too long you will fall asleep to this. The warm pleasure of him filling you, the feeling of his heart beating against your back. You find yourself drifting, breaths evening out.

“Stay with me, love.” Wonwoo doesn’t drag himself out of you, too lost in the feeling of being surrounded by your heat. Instead, he ruts himself against your body, providing friction that makes you whine sleepily. “I’m here,” he breathes, voice shaky with it all. Shaky like your body under his trying to process the pleasure coursing through you.

Trying to find a way to get more—more of him. But he’s got you pinned. Body snug under his, hands intertwined, legs feeling like jello. He controls the pace, the depth, and thus how long this will go on for. How far he’s going to take this spiel, whether he’ll fuck you so slowly you can’t help but fall asleep, or he flips it and fucks you so hard you pass out. Both thoughts have your stomach coiling with arousal.

One particularly hard thrust has your body jolting up the bed. His cock hitting you just right, just once. One warning until he’s back to slow grinding and heavy breathing. He kisses up and down your neck and shoulder while he enjoys your body laid out for him.

You need more.

“Woo,” you whine, high, high pitched and small. The pleasure bubbles up, his cock dragging along your walls, every inch of him torturously good. You’re dripping onto the pillow below you. But there is no way you’ll cum from just this. It’s divine, toe-curling, perfect, but you need more. Something other than this gentle assault on your senses.

He hears you, always does. Slides a hand under you to where your body meets the pillow and parts your slick folds. Two fingers find your clit and rest there. Then, he lifts himself just a bit, enough to gain purchase and start really fucking you. Dragging his cock out and pressing back in. One smooth motion, a delicious back and forth that has you purring almost. Enough to push you back and forth over his fingers. Exactly what you’d needed.

You’re on edge in seconds. The feeling of him inside of you, hitting that one spot he knows so well, and his rough-padded fingers over your clit send you hurtling towards your orgasm faster than you’d expected. Suddenly, you’re wide awake. Eyes pressed shut, hand tightening to his, moaning his name loudly, just once.

“Almost there, love,” he answers. You have to bite into the pillow to hold back. Knowing the overstimulation would be too much. Knowing he wants to finish together. He’s close too, from the feeling of it. Thrusts a little shaky, breath a little ragged. The sound rumbles in his chest, followed by a whine. A sound you’ve only heard when he’s got it bad—bad for you. When he’s so lost in you that all control flies out the window.

You want to see him like that. Want to watch his brows furrow, lip pulled between his teeth. Sweat lining his temples, flush on his cheeks. He always looks so heavenly when he’s taking you fully. No bells or whistles, just bare in the sheets in your home. Like right now—spare for your shirts. He groans your name again, and again, and sinks his teeth into your shoulder. His thrusts growing even harder.

Hard enough to push you up the bed. To have you hiccuping and holding a hand against the headboard to stop yourself from moving too much. But fuck does it feel good. Pleasure courses through you, you hold your breath to not lose it right then and there. He can’t keep asking you to wait. Not when you’re this close. Not when you feel this good.

Suddenly, his fingers slip—accidentally or on purpose—squeezing your clit between two digits. It sends you hurtling over the edge so hard. Tears well up in your eyes while you shake under him. Run down your cheeks when he slams into you and stills, his own body spasming with his own orgasm. You whine, followed by a sob ripping from your throat. He cums deep inside of you, but with how your ears are ringing and your limbs are shaking, you can barely tell.

Can’t react when he slips out of you and fusses over your trembling form. Brushes your hair from your face, kisses your cheek where the tears left a trail. Tells you how good you did for him. It’s all a blur. One big fuzzy image of him everywhere and anywhere around you. That was probably one of the best orgasms he’s ever given you.

He soothes a hand over your back. “Go to sleep, love. I’ll clean you off,” are the last words you hear before sleep pulls you in.

taggins: @gyuswhore @chansgyu @hyunsunni

Thanks for reading and feel free to let me know your thoughts in the comments, tags, or my inbox!! <3

#Wonwoo smut #wonwoo fic #wonwoo x reader #svt smut #svt x reader #svt fix #woonwoo x y/n #wonwoo x you #svt x y/n #svt x you #seventeen smut #svt fic #jeon wonwoo smut #wonwoo fanfiction #boyfriend wonwoo #mywriting

2K notes · View notes