#*reqs

[chanrizard]

Bang Chan // "Baby" for anon

[hanjlsung-archive]

#soft for @leenaur143 ♡

[hwanswerland]

@grapejoong asked: ↳ last year’s kcon wonderland hwa OR this year’s kcon wonderland hwa

[firstkhao]

pat + purple | bad buddy, episode one

[kohakhearts]

#3 for ihantcest (hope I spelled that right)

#3: "i don't want your pity, i want your absence." wc: 1 935 read on ao3 here

Hubert should’ve known his brother would find him out here.

Of course, even when they were young Asbel was never really the sensitive, thoughtful type. But his penchant for getting involved in things he shouldn’t has always been more than enough to pull him into people’s orbits at the worst of times. Perhaps this is why he was always so successful at pissing off their father, whom more and more Hubert suspects he has taken after in all matters of, at the very least, emotion.

Not Asbel, though, who spots him from the steps leading away from the inn and doesn’t stop even for one moment to consider Hubert might be outside, alone, because he does not want company.

All Hubert can do is sigh and accept his fate as Asbel settles down on the bench beside him. Above their heads, the arch of one of Yu Liberté’s famous fountains chills the air; Hubert tries very hard not to let himself appreciate the way his brother’s body heat chases it away.

“Can’t sleep, huh?”

Hubert resolutely does not look at him. “Obviously,” he says.

“Is it because of that girl? The gem polisher?”

Hubert starts. His resolve fails immediately as he turns to fix a baffled look on his brother, whose head is tilted to the side in a show of his curiosity. There is no judgement to it; he really does just want to know.

“Marian? Why in the world would you think that?”

“Well, I don’t know. You’ve been acting kind of weird ever since we helped her out. Cheria said we shouldn’t say anything, but if you’re losing sleep over her…”

Of course, Cheria must have all kinds of ideas about his history with a woman he took enough interest in to gift her something as personal as a set of tools. But not unlike Cheria herself, Marian was always something of an open book; and if Hubert had no choice but to stay on the path they were walking together when they met, the least he could have done in the moment was help someone else realize her dreams were not quite so unattainable. It worked out for them all in the end, so he doesn’t see much point in dwelling on the fact that he was paying close enough attention to her to let himself care what she wanted in the first place.

Realizing his silence is likely only reinforcing whatever ridiculous notions about him Cheria has planted in Asbel’s head, he says, stiffly, “Even if I had had any interest in her, we have long since gone our separate ways. As far as I’m concerned, we may as well be strangers now.”

“But being apart from someone for a long time doesn’t mean you don’t care for them anymore, does it?”

Hubert tenses. He did not want to have this conversation when they reunited in Lhant, and he does not want to have it now.

Asbel doesn’t really give him a choice, though.

“I mean, I feel the same about you as I ever did,” he goes on. “And Cheria, and Richard, and even Sophie. I think it’s okay to admit when you missed someone, Hubert.”

“You are completely missing the point, as usual.”

Asbel blinks. “I am?”

“I have no special feelings for her,” Hubert says. “And I don’t see what you would have to do with it if I did, in any case.”

“If not her, then was there anybody?”

Hubert bites back another sigh. Asbel’s well-meaning probing is landing far too close for comfort, in spite of his misguided aim.

“No,” Hubert says. “I have never had the time to bother with such…frivolous affairs.”

Asbel looks aghast. “Didn’t you have any friends, Hubert?”

That’s what he meant? Hubert shouldn’t even be surprised; his brother wouldn’t know romance if it slapped him directly across the face…and Hubert wouldn’t put that past Cheria, though that thought unsettles him, too, for reasons he wishes sorely it would not.

“Hubert?”

He turns a glare on his brother. “What difference does it make whether or not I did? Obviously, I had greater priorities than socializing for the sake of socializing.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Asbel frowns at him. “But you must’ve been lonely. Right?”

“Enough of this.” Hubert stands, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks at a spot just above Asbel’s head rather than his eyes as he says, “I don’t want your pity, brother. I want your absence.”

The flower behind the bench he has locked his gaze on is not enough to keep him from seeing the flash of hurt across his brother’s face.

But just when he expects—hopes?—Asbel will argue, he does not. He rises from the bench. His voice is very soft: “It’s okay. I know things are different than they used to be. Good night, Hubert.”

Hubert’s damned, traitorous heart leaps up into his throat as Asbel turns to walk away. Desperation spurs him forward, until his hand finds Asbel’s; and the shock of warmth ought to humiliate him, ought to encourage him to push Asbel away all over again, but he simply cannot bring himself to pull back. Asbel turns, eyes wide as they meet his.

“Is something wrong?” he asks after a moment, when Hubert is unable to force any words between his clenched teeth.

At once, Hubert retracts his hand, putting it and the other safely behind his back. Tied up with each other, just in case the near-overwhelming desire to reach out, to touch, rears its ugly head again.

“I should be asking you that,” Hubert mutters. “I didn’t mean I want you gone. I just…thought to be alone, for a while.”

“It’s okay, Hubert. Really. I know…for a long time now, you haven’t really—had a brother anymore.” Though it clearly pains him to do so, Asbel offers him a reassuring smile. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. Whatever I can do to make it easier…”

But the problem is not anything Asbel is doing, or has done. It is—a fantasy Hubert has had since their father put him on that ship with Garrett Oswell away from everything he had ever known. A dream he has had so many times since he has lost count. This shockwave of warmth now, the infuriating realization that Asbel has grown into such a beautiful, charming young man, and yet still he is Hubert’s brother. He has loved him and he has hated him and now he does not want to confront the depth of emotion just being near him sets surging forth, but all the same he cannot seem to rid himself of the desire to be close. As close as possible. Like they are children again sharing a bed because Hubert couldn’t sleep, Asbel’s arm wrapped around his torso to hold him in place against him. Their bodies flush against each other.

Of course Hubert was lonely. But until Asbel was standing right in front of him, he had never had a problem just ignoring it. Always, always, there was something of higher importance; and by all means that should be more true now than ever.

And yet.

Asbel’s watching him intently, waiting. But patience has never come easily to him, and so after a few awkward beats, he asks, “Do you…want me to stay?”

Hubert drops his gaze. His cheeks sting and sear. “Do what you like. It makes no difference to me.”

“Well…okay. If you’re sure.” He hesitates, and then: “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I…I was lonely, too, you know. Without you, I mean.”

The heat climbs higher. He turns away, lest Asbel take notice of it. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m being serious!” Asbel protests. “I wrote you all the time after I started at the academy. I think all I ever talked about in those letters was how much I missed having you around. I stopped writing them when I realized you weren’t going to reply, but I still thought about it a lot. And I guess I just hoped wherever you were, you’d found someone to replace me.”

Hubert takes a moment to digest this—he never received any letters from Asbel as a child, but he doubts he would have wanted to read them even if they had reached him, too afraid that he would find out something he wouldn’t have wanted to know. Something that would shatter the fantasy, as if the reality were not already abundantly clear to him.

Then, he has to admit, “You’re not so easily replaced, as it turns out.”

Though he’s not looking at him, he can hear the grin in Asbel’s voice: “So you did miss me.”

“I suppose I did,” but it is different, of course, than Asbel thinks. If it were just this, the desire to have a brother again, he would not have been awake tonight with all this dread weighing down on him. He would be able to take Cheria’s knowing looks in stride, because at least he would not burn with the compulsion to prove she has him all wrong.

A hand on his shoulder jolts him away from those thoughts. He twists back to see his brother, that soft, compassionate smile lighting up his eyes. The water reflects off of them, so they glisten with all his infuriating earnestness.

And it’s really not fair how a simple touch makes Hubert’s breath flee him. How the heat from Asbel’s hand above his sleeve is enough to drive warmth all the way down into his feet. He is arrested by it; his brother’s ridiculous, loving gaze. How simple things could be if Hubert had felt this for Marian, or any of the nameless—advantageous for them, for the Oswell name—girls his father had ever introduced him to. But he has learned to see the gleam of yearning behind them all. Everyone wants something they believe they can’t attain. Once you find it, any power they may have held over you switches hands. This is human nature: cold and calculable and easily manipulated.

“We should get some sleep,” Asbel says. His hand is still on Hubert’s shoulder, like he does not have the will to remove it. But that’s just wishful thinking.

A beat passes before Hubert can bring himself to nod. At his assent, Asbel pulls away, finally. He takes a step back, and waits. It is a courtesy he has rarely afforded Hubert before, but time has forced them all to change. And yet, as hard as he has worked to kill the compulsion since coming to Strahta, alone, Hubert follows after him.

They do not speak as Asbel leads them back up to the steps to the inn. Nothing has been resolved, and, if anything, Hubert feels worse than he did before he decided to get up and leave their shared room, Asbel’s suffocating presence, behind.

But when Hubert eases the door of that room closed behind them and Asbel says, very quietly, “Night, Hubert,” he cannot help relishing in the feeling of it. As if the sensation of drowning were really so pleasant.

He bites down on the impulse to say more. To reach out, to pull him closer. His desires surge and then retreat when they can find no hold over his will. With not another word, he returns to bed and closes his eyes and pushes his thoughts down, far down, as far as they will go.

He understands better than anyone just how unattainable one’s desires can really be.

[yidou]

"This is enough for now, isn't it?"

[tpotr]

Can you make a short fanfic, in which area and Rhaegal wake up in Aegon and Helaena's body and they panic?

Ask and you shall receive! I really liked this idea tbh, this was very funny to me. I hope you'll enjoy this one! It's mostly humor with a tidbit of friskiness I suppose, but nothing grand. For peeps who find this in the wild without knowing the AU: the context is genderbent!helaegon (Aerea and Rhaegal) waking up in the bodies of their not-genderbent counterparts (Aegon and Helaena). Genderbent!Helaegon | Humor/Fluff | AU of a series | wc: 1243

Aerea doesn’t bother to open her eyes. It is a chilly morning, and she snuggles with the furs of the bed close, tossing and turning with them to achieve a few more moments of sleep. Despite having three different furs brought for the winter, those around her feel all too thin.

Rhaegal must’ve stolen the rest of them to himself again, she thinks to herself. He had the penchant to be at his most audacious when he dreams, after all. She turns to his side of the bed, fighting against the morning crust that formed by her eyes. Such robbery will not go unanswered, and compensation is well due. If she cannot have her blankets, he’ll have to offer his arms.

When she opens her eyes, however, an unfamiliar woman is laying beside her. Long silver waves falling unkempt from the bed, breathing softly through sleep with her hands tucked awkwardly by her body. Aerea stares for a few moments before snapping back into a sitting position.

“What the fuck?” she yells, and unfurls her furs from the offending lady. How did she even get inside here? Ser Willis Fell should’ve guarded the room. What is she even doing here? Where did she come from? Where is her husband?

Wait. Why is my voice so low?

The woman in front of her is swiftly awoken, eyes vividly violet opening. “What— who are…” she starts asking, but then reaches for her throat in a hurried panic. As her hands fall down her body, so does her gaze, her hands sliding down from her chest to her belly and hips. Finally, she holds on the end her long locks of hair, positively frightened. “What is this?! This is not…!”

At the same time, Aerea looks at her own hands. Pale with purple veins as always, yet larger than hers usually are, with some fine hair on their back and the rather unbecoming hints of dirt under the fingernails. The cold she has felt suddenly makes all the more sense when she realises that for the most part, she is bare. Unlike the lady in front of her, her hair is short, and with one hand coming to her chest, she screams.

She has never been considered well endowed, no, but her chest is gone!

Coming up from the bed, she rushes to the mirror. The room is all the same, but all is wrong. She holds onto the short oily hair, and the broadened shoulders of this body. The dark circles of the man she faces in the reflection only grow more pronounced as she feels the blood draining from his face. Her face. 

“This is not funny,” she says, nearly on the verge of tears as she faces the woman on the bed again. “Where is my husba…” she stops herself, and examines that unknown girl again, who nervously played with the Myrish lace of the nightgown she seemed so pensive in. Rhaegal always plays with the lace trimmings of her dresses. “Rhaegal?” she asks.

“...Aerea?” is the woman’s reply and suddenly some air enters her lungs again; she nods, and the ‘woman’s’ eyes brighten too. “Yes, it’s me,” he says in that woman’s feminine yet husky voice. Her husband’s face is far more angular, but the appearance he dons now has a somewhat subdued angularity to match it, and an entirely softer looking body to contrast it with. His new form comes up from the bed and closer and it is almost surreal as he reaches out for her new body.

She looks down at herself again, thinking to take a peek at her breeches. She feels the absurdity of her new male effects, but isn’t she short for a man?

Rhaegal brings a dainty hand to hold her upper arm. “This is strange,” he says as he examines it until finally settles on a squeeze. “How could this be…”

Aerea, resigned, resorts to curling into him, demanding a hug. “Someone put a curse on us and made me a stubby sickly man,” she says in half desperation, leaning her head on her husband’s— wife’s? — shoulder.

“Don’t say that,” he wraps his hands around her, repressing a smile. “I think I may be considered the short one of us two, anyway.”

Aerea huffs as she sniffles. “You are as tall as any woman, and have gained giant teats for yourself,” she says. “Don’t you dare pretend to complain.”

Chuckling, he weaves a hand into her short hair, ruffling through it. “Neither should you, then. I think you make a pretty man.”

“Shut your mouth lest we stay this way!” she yells at him, only making him laugh. “I can’t believe this…” Tightening her embrace upon him, he squeals slightly, the way she often does when he locks on her firmly. He returns it quickly as he relaxes in her thicker arms, but it is strange to have him respond in that manner so easily.

Garnering some interest in that difference, she sets out to understand the situation in her hold better, and scoops him from behind into her hold.

“Aerea—” he yelps, quick to bring his hands to hold onto her body’s shoulder. She licks her lips and carries him around in her arms. She never quite understood why he liked doing it to her, but now she feels she does. It feels quite nice to feel him readjust his hold on her closer and closer.

“This is why you like to twirl me around so much, huh?” she asks. The girlish face he dons is beet red. The dainty fingers that on her nape play with her thin tufts of hair present there gently as he considers what to say.

“...I like it when you do this,” Rhaegal brings the hand back to her new face, cupping the round jaw and leaning down to kiss her slowly. Suddenly, her arms grow shakier. Gods, I need to go against a wall. She likes it when he gets her against a wall —

The doors to their room suddenly slam open, and she loses her grip on her husband-wife’s body. They manage to grip each other so he isn’t toppled backwards to the floor. Holding each other in some shock, they turn their heads to look at Mother, who seems exasperated enough to rip out all of her hair.

Alicent first seems flabbergasted to a degree, but recovers from it with a shake of her head. “Aegon, Helaena, I need you in the hall room,” she says as if she’s about to collapse. “Your brother has lost all of his wits. He woke up and started running around saying his name is Aemma and ogling his swords. Dress up and help me make him regain his sanity, I beg you.”

Aerea and Rhaegal share a prolonged look.

“Prince Aemond, please!” they hear Ser Criston’s voice from outside the hallway. 

“I think our sister is going haywire with new opportunities,” Aerea says. “We better see to her, husband.”

Rhaegal hums, while Alicent’s eyes open like saucers.

“What are you talking about,” Alicent yells at her. “Aegon, if you are in on the same shenanigan—”

Rhaegal comes to Alicent, holding her hand with his own small ones. “Mother, we will sort this out. Do not fret a thing.”

Aerea never thought she’d see her mother that speechless ever again, but alas. Until they figure this out, such a world is filled to brim with entertaining opportunities.

[salty-an-disco]

can’t believe out of all requests I received so far, none was for contrahero, smh

[cloudedcreams]

thinking of a cold! yandere who loved you too late and now has to pay the price.

you were annoying! he stands by the fact, constantly clinging onto his arms and twirling with strands of his hair. it was so easy to see you were obsessed and there were times he yearned to push you away from him, to watch you back out in fear and crawl away to never speak to him again.

he was the quiet kid at the back of the class. nobody cared if you bothered him, and though your attempts towards him were always so sweet and sincere he couldn’t handle the frustration that it left coursing through his veins. you were just so clingy.

he never reciprocated, and you came to realise the fact with a hearty acceptance. it broke your heart, noticing the cold looks he sent your way, the smile that always failed to grace his face. you wondered what he’d look like if his face lit up in joy, and you yearned to bring him such a feeling, but over time you realised you were incapable, and as such forced yourself away from him.

he realised too late of the mistake that he had made. thinking back to the lingering touches that you used to leave him with, only to realise that though they had once filled him with such annoyance, they were a feeling that he couldn’t live without.

he scratched at his arms to replicate the feeling, and left them sore and red. he wondered if you noticed, but in the recent days you seemed more invested in your work if anything. you barely gazed at him and he wondered if that was all he had been to you, a phase?

he wondered how long it’d take for him to reach out to you. to force your hands to his neck and beg for your touches again.

[unrelatedsideblog]

I don't know much abt yoga but hope it counts at least in some way lmao

I imagine this as their first training together after the time skip. Sanji-deficit for the past two years is catching up with Zoro now that he finally has him again (✿◡‿◡)

[chanrizard]

250413 | dominATE Mexico City D2 for anon 💞

© _howluvs_

[hanjlsung-archive]

SKZVLOG: HANJI EDITION ♡ requested by @strayklds ♡

[hwanswerland]

@jeongyunho99 asked: ↳ pink seonghwa or blonde seonghwa ;)

[valeisaslut]

Reader asking Ellie to record them fucking, and Ellie ends up getting really into it (love your writing btw!! 💋💋)

say hi to the camera ─⭑.

⭒ word count: 3.6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content warnings: film student top!ellie x sub!reader, oral sex (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), strap-on (r!receiving), pussy slapping, hair pulling, filming kink, AFAB!reader, cursing, pet names, rough sex, degradation + praise, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

࿐not part of the collide au (rip my absolute queens... this actually hurt my SOUL but hey sometimes we gotta go out of our comfort zone and get feral for... the craft)

you said it as a joke.

but it landed like a command.

it happens halfway through straddling her on the couch, your body already buzzing from the way she’s kissing you—slow and deep, like she’s trying to memorize your mouth. her palms are hot under your shirt, fingertips dragging slow up your ribs.

you lean back just enough to catch your breath, grin sharp as ever.

"you should record this next time."

her lips pause at your throat. she stays there, a little shocked, mouth barely grazing your skin, and then—voice low, amused:

"you want me to record you while i fuck you?"

you shrug, all fake casual, even though your pulse jumps.

"i mean… why not? could be hot."

ellie pulls back just enough to look at you. blinks once. and then she grins—all trouble. her hands drag down your sides, deliberate now, like she’s already directing the first shot.

"you want a sex tape, baby?"

your smile widens. "just for me. like, when you're gone late working on a project and i’m in bed missing you."

she groans. like, actual full-body groan. throws her head back against the couch, rubs a hand over her face like you’ve just ruined her life.

"jesus fucking christ. you’re evil."

you tilt your head. "you love it."

her gaze snaps back to you—darker now, her pupils blown wide, her lip caught between her teeth.

"i will story-board the fuck out of it. lighting. blocking. sound. i'll give you a score."

"you’re such a nerd."

“and you’re the one asking a film major to make a porno, so who’s the real nerd here?”

you laugh, leaning in to kiss her, grinding down on her lap.

“bet you’d narrate the whole thing like, ‘scene one—fucking my girlfriend. interior. night. single cam. practical lighting.’”

she chokes on a laugh, then groans, fingers digging into your hips. “shut the fuck up.”

“no, seriously—‘fade in: slut on couch. extreme close-up. one long take. raw as hell.’”

“i’m gonna ruin you,” she growls, and this time it’s not a joke—rough, all threat and promise.

you just smirk, mouth barely brushing hers.

“yeah, but make it auteur.”

she doesn’t bring it up again for a week. you think she’s forgotten, or maybe it was just talk—a shared fantasy that slipped between the couch cushions and the memory of her mouth on your neck.

but then it’s saturday night. you’re fresh from the shower, hair damp and clinging to your neck, skin still warm, still smelling like her soap. you’re wearing her old gray t-shirt—soft, stretched, worn in the best way—and nothing underneath.

ellie’s already in the bedroom. the lights are low, shadows moving slow across the walls. deftones plays from the speaker—just enough to feel in your ribs, not loud enough to distract.

when you step into the room, you freeze. she’s sprawled out on the bed in a black tank top and boxers, one knee bent, and a camera aimed straight at you.

not her phone. not some propped-up, shaky little attempt at homemade porn. a real camera—matte black, compact, handheld, with a flip-out screen angled toward her face and that unmistakable red recording light already glowing steady.

the kind of camera that says she’s thought about this. planned it. maybe even fantasized about how she’d frame you, light you, direct you. and now you’re here. standing in the doorway, already caught in the first shot.

“wait,” you say, blinking. “are you for real?”

she doesn’t even flinch. just looks up from behind it and grins, wide and wolfish.

“oh, i’m for real,” she says, voice warm and smug.

you snort, tugging the hem of your shirt down instinctively, "with a real fucking camera?"

"yeah, wanna see it in 4K" she responds, tilting it, lens still trained on you. "why? don’t get all shy on me now, babe. you're the one who said record it."

“yeah,” you arch a brow. “i just didn’t think i was dating a one-woman a24 production crew.”

“you’re not,” she says, adjusting the zoom. “you’re dating a visionary.”

you try not to laugh but fail.“you look like a lesbian scorsese.”

“and you look like the hottest thing i’ve ever filmed,” she says, voice thick, thumb adjusting the focus. “so maybe be nice to your director.”

you stay where you are for a second. let her film you standing still. let her zoom in the curve of your thighs, the way the shirt clings to your chest, the outline of your nipples through the fabric. the tension builds between frames, between your breaths.

“you’re actually committing to this?” you ask, voice softer now, a little breathless, as if the heat in the room just kicked up a notch.

“baby,” she says, adjusting the focus without even looking away, “i’ve been storyboarding this in my head since before we even spoke.”

her voice is calm, almost sweet—like it’s not the filthiest thing she’s ever admitted.

“freak,” you mutter, but you’re smiling, laughing again—breathier this time. your body already giving in. you step closer, hips loose, eyes locked on hers.

ellie lifts the camera a little higher, tracks the shift of your body as if she’s afraid to miss a second.

“show me,” she whispers, tone low but teasing. “come on, give me a show.”

and you give her one. you lift the hem of the shirt slowly. not for her—for the lens. you know exactly how this is going to look in playback. the glow of your skin in this light. the way your body starts to reveal itself, line by line.

you pull it over your head and let it drop to the floor, nipples stiffening in the cold air. your stomach tenses under her gaze, and you don’t try to hide the shine between your thighs.

she makes a noise—somewhere between a sigh and a curse—and the camera dips for half a second, like her hand twitched. you see her throat bob as she swallows.

you know that look. she’s not sure whether to keep filming or drop the thing entirely and fall to her knees.

and god, it turns you on even more.

"still rolling?" you ask, voice sugar-laced, cocky.

ellie nods once, "yeah. fucking hell, yeah."

you step closer, slower this time. not acting. not pretending. this isn’t performance—it’s instinct. it’s power. the way she’s looking at you, mouth parted, eyes glazed behind the viewfinder. you know she’s turned on before she’s even touched you.

“you better not cut the part where i called you a pervy little director,” you tease, all teeth.

ellie lowers the camera just enough to meet your eyes, flushed and slightly out of breath. hand still holding the lens like a lifeline.

“cut it?” she says. “i’m putting it in the trailer.”

you grin. shift your weight, your thighs brushing.

“turn around,” she says next, and it’s not a suggestion.

it’s gravel and gravity, all command. her voice has slipped into that other place—firm, sure, focused. all director mode.

you smirk but do what she says. slowly, hips swaying. your hands drag down your own waist as you pivot, and when your back is to her, you arch slightly—just enough. let her see the full curve of your ass, the slick glinting between your thighs.

behind you, there’s a sharp exhale.

"jesus christ," she mutters. then the soft mechanical buzz of her adjusting the zoom.

you don’t need to see her to know she’s locked in. her eyes drinking in every inch, the red light on the camera the only thing keeping her from touching you already.

you glance back lazily. “so, you gonna keep filming, or are you gonna fuck me?”

and that’s it.

the camera dips. her body snaps to attention like it’s muscle memory.

you’re pulled back towards the bed in one smooth movement—no hesitation. the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you drop, your body folding back on your elbows, legs parting without a hint of shame.

ellie stands over you, camera raised.

“holy shit,” she mutters.

she brings the camera lower, letting it drink you in, between your legs, over the slick. the way your chest rises and falls, nipples peaked, skin glowing.

“look at you,” she says. “you’re already dripping, just from being filmed.”

you shift, thighs tightening, and she catches the movement.

"such a fucking dirty girl," she mutters, one hand ghosting over your stomach.

she places the camera down on the nightstand, still rolling, still angled at your spread legs and heaving chest. her focus is so fucking precise it sends a wave of arousal through you all on its own.

and then ellie kneels between your legs like it’s her altar.

angel starts playing low in the background, slow and dark.

has she even prepped the soundtrack? you wonder for a second, half-laugh, half-moan.

(of course she did.)

she starts with your knee. presses her mouth there, slow and warm, a kiss that lingers just a second too long before she trails it upward. her hands follow—one curling firm around your thigh like she owns it, the other gliding up the center of your stomach, dragging heat in its wake.

she slips her palm higher, sliding between your ribs, under the soft weight of your breast.

her thumb brushes over your nipple and you gasp, chest lifting into her hand like you’ve forgotten how to do anything else but respond.

"you feel that?" she murmurs, voice low, like it’s just for you even though the camera’s still blinking red. "your heart’s beating so fucking fast."

you open your mouth to say something smart, something flirty, but then she’s kissing up your thigh again and the thought dies on your tongue.

she reaches your stomach, then your sternum, then your collarbone—and instead of diving down immediately, she pauses. tilts her head. looks at you.

and kisses you.

hot and deep, all tongue and teeth. one of those messy, all-consuming kisses that steals the breath right out of your lungs.

you moan into it—she swallows the sound greedily. her fingers are already moving again. one circling your nipple, the other caressing your side.

she pulls back just enough to speak, her lips grazing your cheek, then your jaw.

"you're perfect" she says, kissing beneath your ear, down your throat, impossibly reverent.

your hips roll up involuntarily, and she smiles against your collarbone.

"getting impatient, baby?"

"ellie—fuck—"

she chuckles. not unsympathetic—just pleased. her mouth finds your nipple next, tongue dragging over it slow, flicking, then sucking it into the heat of her mouth. her other hand moves to your other breast, squeezes gently, then rougher, thumb teasing over the tip until you whine.

"god, these tits," she mumbles against your chest, "camera’s not even doing them justice."

your back arches when her palm lands flat on your stomach, sliding lower, past your hip, fingers teasing the edge of your thigh.

"ellie," you gasp again, helpless this time.

she lets your nipple go with a soft, wet pop. looks up at you from your chest, mouth slick, green eyes lit up with that impossible mix of her—tender and ravenous, as if she wants to worship you and devour you in the same breath.

she shifts downward, dragging her tongue along the slope of your breast, down your stomach, until she’s eye level with your pussy. you’re throbbing, already wrecked, thighs trembling just from the anticipation of her mouth.

she glances at the nightstand, double-checking the angle like it matters. then brings her fingers to your folds, spreading you open with both thumbs, totally entranced by the sight.

“say hi to the camera, baby,” she teases, looking up at you.

and then, without warning, her tongue drags a slow, devastating stripe from your entrance to your clit.

you moan—loud, raw, helpless, trying to lift your hips but her free hand is already there, pressing you down into the mattress.

"f-fuck!" you whimper, voice cracking.

"that's right," she murmurs, licking again. "let it hear every fuckin’ sound."

she starts working you in earnest now—tongue circling your clit in tight, practiced spirals, her mouth warm and greedy. she moans against you, like the taste of you is enough to drive her insane. you can feel every vibration down to your toes.

your hands are tangled in her hair, thighs wide open, whole body arching into her mouth. she slips one hand between your legs and slides a finger inside—curling just enough to make your spine seize.

"holy shit," you gasp. "oh my god—Ellie—"

"more," she whispers against your clit, sliding in a second finger "let it see how messy you get for it."

and then she reaches back—without stopping—grabs the camera from the nightstand with her free hand, flips the screen toward you, and holds it low between your bodies. the image blinks into view—a live, unfiltered shot: your pussy stretched around her fingers, your mouth agape and brows furrowed, your thighs shaking with every thrust.

“you seeing this, baby?” she mutters, eyes flicking between you and the viewfinder. “fuck, look at you.”

and god—you do. you watch yourself fall apart in real time, every wet sound, every twitch of your stomach from overstimulation, every pump of her fingers, every gasp on full display. like it’s art, like it’s proof.

and it’s probably the filthiest, most turned on you have ever felt in your life.

its holy and obscene at the same time—your body laid bare, her fingers deep inside you, your face twisted with pleasure, and all of it immortalized in perfect footage.

you can’t look away. neither can she.

"ellie—please—I’m gonna—"

"do it," she growls, "come f’me, come for the camera."

you come with a cry that splits the room, loud, shaking. your thighs squeeze around her hand and your back lifts off the mattress, body wrung out like a rag.

she doesn’t stop, just slows her pace, works you through it. you’re trembling when she finally pulls away, kisses your thigh, and sits back with the camera resting on her bent knee. she lifts it, points it at your face.

you’re flushed, sweaty. lying in a wrecked halo of your own making.

“so damn perfect like this” she mutters, voice a rasp. "you want more?"

you nod, chest heaving.

"words."

"yes," you whisper. then louder, like she needs to hear it. like the camera does, too. "yes. fuck, yes. please fuck me."

and she grins like the devil.

she tosses the camera onto the nightstand—still recording, angled just right, lens slightly askew—but it only makes it hotter, messy, real. something she’ll watch for hours with her hand down her boxers.

she doesn’t say anything as she crosses the room, opens the drawer, and pulls out the harness. it’s not slow or performative. it’s practiced, casual. she straps it over her black boxers with one hand, the other slicking lube over the thick purple silicone cock. it gleams in the low light, catching the flash of the camera’s red recording dot.

you’re already moving, your body shifting on instinct—onto your hands and knees, face buried in the sheets, ass high in the air like it’s muscle memory.

ellie looks at you and lets out a sound from deep in her throat. almost a laugh, mostly a groan.“stay just like that.”

she climbs behind you, smooth and silent. spreads your cheeks with both hands and groans when she sees how soaked you are.

"fuck, baby. you made a whole fuckin' mess back here."

"ellie—"

she leans down, kissing the small of your back, then bites your ass, playful and sharp. one hand grips your hip, the other slides between your legs—and she slaps your pussy once, just enough to make you jolt and whine. it’s wet, loud, dirty.

she groans at the sound. "jesus. dripping."

then she drags the head of the strap between your folds, slow and heavy.

"you ready for it?"

you nod frantically, pressing your face into the mattress.

“say it.”

“please fuck me. please, i want it. i need it so bad—”

she wanted to draw it out—make you beg, make you squirm—but she’s just as wrecked as you are, barely holding it together. so when she finally thrusts in, it’s with one deep, steady stroke that knocks the air straight out of your lungs.

you gasp, choking. “jesus christ!—”

“god, look at that,” she breathes, pulling back, watching the way you stretch and suck her back in with the next thrust. “you’re fuckin’ swallowing it.”

her hands find your hips. she sets a brutal rhythm, dragging you back onto her cock with every thrust, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls. the sound of your moans, the slap of her thighs against your ass, the headboard slamming the wall—it’s filthy.

she leans forward, chest pressed to your back, and wraps one hand around your breast, squeezing, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you whine. her other hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back.

“you like getting fucked like this?” she hisses in your ear. “like a toy on display?”

“yes—fuck, yes—”

“touch yourself.”

you obey instantly. one hand between your legs, circling your clit in frantic, desperate little motions while she fucks you from behind like she’s trying to split you in two.

you notice that closer is softly but steadily playing, and the camera’s still rolling, capturing everything. the curve of your ass, the tremble in your thighs, the way your body jerks every time she bottoms out.

ellie groans like she feels it too—because she does. she’s grinding against the base of the strap, hungry and relentless, chasing the friction like she’s starved for it. the harness is soaked, her boxers nearly translucent with how wet she is, and every time she thrusts into you, the base rubs right against her clit.

“you gonna come like this?” she pants. “gonna soak my dick like a good little slut?”

“yes—yes—fuck, ellie, i’m gonna—”

“say it.”

“i’m your slut,” you cry out. “i'm your fucking slut—”

and right then, without missing a beat, she grabs the camera off the nightstand, angles it behind you. the lens catches the mess of your ass bouncing against her hips, the wet slap of skin on skin, the slick sound of your cunt stretching around the purple silicone.

and then she slaps your ass, hard. loud enough to echo through the room.

"fuck!" you yelp, back arching, legs shaking violently.

and you come like a landslide. body seizing, muscles locking, then breaking all at once as you scream into the mattress. it rolls through you in waves, loud and long, your thighs trembling, fingers still working yourself as you ride it out.

you feel it when she starts to lose it—her rhythm falters, hips stutter, breath hitching into short, high little gasps. her fingers dig into your waist and she presses forward, deeper, harder, her chest flush to your back like she’s trying to crawl inside you.

“fuck—fuck, baby—i’m—”

her voice cracks, and then she whines—high and helpless, the kind of sound you didn’t know she could make. desperate and slutty and fucking perfect. her whole body goes taut, then shudders, her thighs shaking as she ruts through it. she comes with her face buried in your shoulder, teeth clenched, breath shivering.

the base of the strap is slick and messy between you now, but she grinding against the harness like it’s not enough, never enough. she groans into your skin, broken and dazed, and you can feel her heart pounding against your back.

and when she pulls out, it’s slow and careful, hands suddenly tender where they'd just been rough. she leans forward and kisses your spine—once, then again—her breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“you okay?” she murmurs, palm sliding up your back in soft, grounding strokes.

you nod, barely able to form the word. “better than okay.”

she laughs, quiet and breathless, into your shoulder. a little dazed, wrecked herself.

she rolls you onto your back, her hand never leaving your skin, and collapses beside you. the room is humid with sex, thick with sweat, heat and the echo of everything that just happened. the air itself feels heavy, slow.

in her hand, the camera is still rolling. its red light blinks steadily, casting a faint glow over the two of you.

ellie flips the screen towards herself, then turns the lens on you—zooming in dramatically on your wrecked face.

“say hi, baby” she teases, still catching her breath.

you blink up at the lens, dazed. hair a disaster. lips kiss-bruised. eyes glassy like you’ve just returned from the dead.

“hi,” you mumble, grinning like a fool, “i just got fucked into the stratosphere.”

ellie then pans the camera to her own face—sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to her forehead—and raises both brows like she’s in a documentary.

“filmmaker. method actor. strap goat. i do it all.”

you burst out laughing, weakly swatting at her.

she grins, crooked and proud, turning the camera back to you. “and you just won best actress in a leading role, doll.”

“so, what’s the title?” you ask, giggling into the pillow.

ellie snorts—eyes gleaming like she just won an oscar and knocked someone out in the same damn night. she adjusts the angle, tilts the camera so you’re both in the frame: flushed, sweaty, radiant, completely ruined.

then, with the most serious voice she can manage, she deadpans to the lens—

“the slut and the lesbian scorsese.”

you wheeze. “shut the fuck up.”

“already submitted to sundance, actually.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“director’s cut drops next week.”

you try to slap her but miss—too sore, too high on her, too in love. she just laughs, smug and glowing, and zooms in one last time on your face.

“five stars,” she murmurs, “would absolutely fuck again.”

⭒ perm taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <3): @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andiemiaswife @mayfldss @sewithinsouls @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pleasejoel @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ omg… first fic NOT set in the collide au in literal MONTHS and it feels SO weird but soooo good to write something different omfg 😭 rockstar!ellie and popstar!reader yall still haunt me everyday. my favorite lesbians for the rest of the eternity. i’ve missed this kind of chaos. huge love and tysm to my gorg mootie who sent this amazing request before i even started collide—you live in my brain rent free forever bby!

i might play around with a few more fics + requests before launching the next big series i’ve been outlining (👀), so stay tuned babes. ily all dearly ♡

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on my perm taglist!

credits for divider: @cafekitsune <3 – images from pinterest - edited by me

[kohakhearts]

Asbel, Richard, and Lambda is along for the ride, and #50

#50: “why does anyone have to be naked?” wc: 1 631 read on ao3 here

The whole thing is starting to get sort of…strange.

Probably thanks to Asbel’s influence, Lambda’s disdain for humans has in some areas melted into a genuine, at times even rather endearing curiosity about them. It’s a bit cute, even, when the timing isn’t completely awful. Sometimes, Asbel even lets the others hold his hand and explain something that, to the rest of them, is incredibly simple—why Cheria enjoys the sound of the piano, how Lady Kerri has been teaching Sophie to tend to the flowerbeds, the compulsion Hubert has to collect figures and models that serve no real purpose beyond looking nice on a secret shelf in his bedroom—so that Lambda can interrogate them properly. This is all well and good, but when it comes to Richard, Lambda’s questions are a little bit different.

He takes some comfort in the knowledge that Asbel is as flustered by Lambda’s interjections as he is—or maybe even a little more, if only because so much of it seems to be coming directly from his own head. It’s not as if Lambda is a stranger to Richard’s feelings for Asbel, either; but they had both been rather more focussed on other things at the time, and any notions of a romantic reunion had been buried deep down long before Asbel found him in the catacombs again.

Their relationship already feels complicated enough without adding Lambda’s probing questions to the equation, but even if he has ever considered the same, Richard knows Asbel would not have entertained the thought for any longer than the time taken to disregard it completely. The last thing Asbel wants to do is exclude Lambda, even—or perhaps especially?—when it comes to matters of intimacy. Richard can understand, a bit; these are, after all, some of the biggest joys of being human. The brush of hands, of lips, skin on skin—he certainly cannot blame Lambda for wanting to understand it.

Unfortunately, it also meant that their first kiss was cut short by Lambda’s voice ringing through Richard’s head, demanding to know, “What exactly is the benefit to this action?”

So the kiss had stopped, while Richard tried to come up with a justification for kissing that satisfied Lambda, who stubbornly would not accept anything amongst “It feels nice” or “It allows you to let your guard down around someone you love” or “It stimulates physical arousal, which is a necessary biological function.”

Finally, Asbel suggested, “It brings you closer to the other person,” which for reasons far beyond Richard was enough to satiate their friend’s curiosity. Even though Richard is still fairly certain it was no better an explanation than any he had given.

That’s pretty much par for the course, though. Lambda is often calling Asbel a weak, soft-hearted fool, amongst other similarly barbed epithets, but Richard isn’t so blind to the adoration with which Lambda considers his host. Sometimes, even, he wonders if he is in part responsible for it: as if he has loved Asbel so deeply, for so long, that when Lambda left his mindscape for good he carried a fraction of the emotion away with him.

That was, in any case, one of the more mild iterations of this scene, which has played out more times than Richard could even hope to keep track of between both his hands and his feet. Some of the queries are very innocent: “ What exactly qualifies something as ‘cute’? ” or “Why is it that Asbel belives he must wipe the whipped cream from your lip, Richard? Are you incapable of such a simple action? ” Others, however…a little less so, though when they’ve been about Asbel, Richard can’t deny they’ve had their own enjoyability.

There was that time, for example, when Asbel reached out for his hand and said, very lightly, apparently having no idea as to the nature of the question, “Lambda would like to ask you something, Richard.” And then that all-too familiar voice was in his head: “What exactly is the purpose of Asbel’s preoccupation with touching your hair? Would pulling on it not harm you? It seems unlike him to wish you pain.”

Asbel heard it, too. And pulled his hand away as if he had been burned, although Richard was mostly amused by it all. He had taken some time to think of an answer before winking at Asbel and answering, “I don’t believe his intentions are to harm me, Lambda. As it turns out, pain and pleasure run on a parallel spectrum for us humans. I believe, in a roundabout way, what Asbel really wants is to make me feel good.”

He thought Asbel might melt into the floor, then. It was painstakingly cute.

There had also been that time when they had been kissing on Asbel’s bed and Lambda had spoken up to wonder, “Why does Asbel keep thinking he wants you on top of him? Would he not suffocate?”

They haven’t expressly given Lambda “the Talk,” if only because his questions about intimacy come at such inopportune times. In this case, for example, Asbel had pulled away from Richard and thrown his face against the pillow instead in a show of adorable despair. This may be another reason why Asbel has yet to broach the subject with him: he himself is still too embarrassed by the very idea of sex that any time he has grown hard under Richard’s ministrations, he has put a stop to them and excused himself to deal with the problem on his own.

Richard doesn’t mind waiting, of course. And now, months since that first awkward kiss later, they are finally here, which Richard’s hands under the hems of Asbel’s shirt. He doesn’t speak his question, though he pauses long enough for Asbel to break their kiss and answer, which he does with a minute, breathless nod of the head.

His shirt is pulled up over his head and delicately thrown to the floor with their jackets, shoes, and Richard’s gloves. Reverently, Richard runs his hands over Asbel’s bare torso, eliciting a shiver.

“I won’t put you through the pains of undoing my clothing,” Richard murmurs at last, pulling back in order to deal with it himself. Asbel watches his deft fingers with a sort of burning desire, which only makes Richard ache all the more to continue touching him. But when finally the garment has been graciously discarded and his hands snake up around Asbel’s neck again to draw him closer, Lambda speaks up, breaking them out of their lustful stupors in record time:

“I was beginning to understand all this kissing nonsense, but this brings another question to mind…”

Asbel stifles a snort while Richard stares down at him, aghast. “Lambda, your timing never fails to impress.”

Ignoring him, Lambda asks, “ Why does anyone have to be naked?”

Now, it is Richard trying hard not to laugh. Asbel ducks his head, shame colouring his face all over again.

“Well,” Richard says, “it is rather hard to have intercourse with one’s clothes on. Not impossible,” he adds. “But I don’t particularly fancy dealing with any stains on my clothing, myself.”

“Stains?”

“Asbel,” Richard says, chiding, “don’t tell me you have still yet to explain to our friend about the birds and the bees?”

“Not…exactly,” Asbel mumbles to his bedsheets.

“Well, that won’t do.”

“What, pray tell, are these birds and bees? It seems unwise to approach monsters unclothed.”

“It’s a metaphor,” Richard explains. “Although, I must admit, I am uncertain where the idiom comes from myself. In essence, though, it is a euphemistic way people talk about sexual intercourse. And before you wonder what benefit sex has beyond procreation, which of course Asbel and myself would have a hard time with given our incompatible anatomy, I will suggest that the purpose is it feels good. Wouldn’t you agree, Asbel?”

Asbel glances up at him, cheeks burning all the way up to his ears. “I…I guess. Sure.”

“Lambda’s never going to believe in your conviction if you say it like that.”

Asbel winces. “Um, right. Yeah, of course. It feels great. Probably.”

“Is that supposed to be more convincing?”

“I don’t know!”

“Perhaps,” Richard interjects smoothly, “Lambda could better learn through a demonstration?”

As the intention registers, Asbel’s eyes widen. He opens his mouth and then slams it shut again and shakes his head. “I— You want him to take control of my body?”

“Heavens, no. Then you wouldn’t learn anything, either.” Gently, Richard sweeps his hand back to Asbel’s front and cups his chin. He leans close again, so that he can feel his own breaths against Asbel’s parted lips. “He can watch, though, can’t he?”

At once, a different emotion overtakes Asbel’s gaze. He slackens in Richard’s hold. “Well…if he wants to. What do you think, Lambda? You can stop us any time, if you feel uncomfortable.”

“Why would I feel uncomfortable?”

“Because Asbel will be making all sorts of indecent noises,” Richard supplies cheerfully. “Though something tells me you’ve heard those before, too.”

“Richard!” Asbel hisses, but Lambda tellingly doesn’t deny it.

“Then I fail to see how this will be a new experience in understanding you humans.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll see from his perspective why I needed to be naked as well.” Richard closes the gap between himself and Asbel with the swift, chaste kiss against his lips. When he pulls back, he adds, “Please save your questions for after, though. We may be a touch too occupied to answer coherently.”

Silence, for a beat. And then Lambda says, a bit sullenly, “Fine. I accept. Show me this intercourse, if you please.”

Richard grins, and pushes Asbel down until his back hits the bed. “Gladly,” he says, before descending ravenously upon them both.