#elastic stick together

[hammy-fan]

i need to cram

[oukabarsburgblr]

filthy drabble...

"Yeah, put it in me- mmff! I'm a cum dump. I'm a cum dump definitely- anggh!"

His hands were strapped to rubber cuffs that was connected to elastic ropes, its ends hooked on the upper corner of the beds. The (h/c) could pulls his hands but to a certain extent, he was still restrained, vulnerable under the men who was playing with his ass, shoving toys and groping his skin.

Someone slapped his butt, a whine from (m/n) as he pushed his hips back, grinding more on the toy that was deep and vibrating inside of his anus. He was intoxicated, so drunk that he couldn't even tell who was fucking him right now.

The toy was pulled out and he whined but moaned gleefully when a wet dick entered his ass. His knees dug into the plush bed, a room he didn't recognise but based off of the toys and bdsm equipment, it was definitely a love hotel.

"God, you're a pro at this. Good cunts get to have cum in their butts. You want it? You wanna drink some cum?" Someone was pounding his ass, their skin slapping together as (m/n) nodded ferverently, pulling on his restraints to the man that sat in front of him, gripping his jaw.

"I want it. I want some dick." He salivated and stuck out his tongue, drool pooling in the middle of the muscle. "Use me. Use me like a toilet, please." (m/n) squirmed, his face hot and his legs sticky. The stranger chuckled as he shimmied off his boxers, pulling out his cock as he ruffled (h/c) hair.

"If you lick it like an ice cream, I'll stick it in with him." He gestured to the other guy who was going to town with his hole. "Your hole is so good-mmff! Gonna cum in here." The man slapped his ass. "Make it leak and all, you'd like that wouldn't you?"

(m/n) couldn't respond, his tongue swirling around the tip of the cock in his face before shoving himself into the man's crotch, moving his throat to massage the base. The man hissed, shallowly thrusting in the (h/c)'s mouth while gripping his hair.

Ropes of cum shot out of (m/n)'s cock, the man behind him rubbing him as he gave one last thrust, spilling his seed deep inside his ass, rubbing his tip against his prostate. "Mmmgghh- oh fuck oh fuck." The (h/c) pulled his mouth away when the man behind him wouldn't stop jacking him off.

"I'm gonna cum again- wait wait-!" He squirted onto the bed, his hole tense and squeezed around the base that was still in him, his rim now dripping cum. "Don't forget about me." His hair was grabbed and he was forcefully shoved into a crotch, his mouth full as he gagged on the tip, the man moaning his name and as he thrusted into his face.

(m/n) mewled when the dick bursted in his mouth, suffocating him as he coughed deliberately, feeling a sharp pain up his nasal holes. "Did it came out your nose? Fuck, my bad." The stranger cheekily wiped his nose, grabbing a tissue to help (m/n) who blew his nostrils into it.

"There's so much, look!" He tossed the wet fabric at the guy behind him. "You're gross, man." "Shut up." The (h/c) was panting, drooling milky fluid from his lips as he shoved his ass against the man behind him. "C'mon, I need more. More cum, more cock-" He slobbered, wiggling his ass.

"So eager." The guy in front cooed at him.

"Pull him up."

-

"Ahh! Ah! Anggh! Urmm! S'deep- mmff! Cock's so big-!"

(m/n) wailed, his hips pulled behind him, as his arms was restricted with a leather fabric. He was suspended in the air, ropes pulling his arms from the hook of the ceiling and the only thing that was close to a surface was the penis that was nestled in his ass, pounding up into him.

"You're so beautiful like this. A waste if we don't use it, hmm?" The (h/c) nodded, kissing the stranger in front of him, the other man still fucking his back as they had switched their spots. His toes could barely reach the floor and his nipples were pinched by a toy clip, intensifying his pleasure as the man in front played with the pressure, releasing and clipping his sensitive buds.

Their tongues mashed together along with their dicks. The stranger humping onto his stomach, their precum dripping heavily onto the floor. "Mm ahh! Ackk-!" He gagged when the man shoved his tongue deep inside his mouth, somehow touching his uvula as he licked his palate, coating his mouth with his drool.

His ass was moving harshly against the man behind, skin was irritated from being pounded and previous cum was dripping onto the floor. (m/n)'s hands moved to grab his buttcheeks, spreading it so his rim was entirely exposed, liking the full bare pressure on his hole. "F-fucking perv'- mmngg! With an ass fat full of cum, I'm shocked if you're not pregnant after this."

The man licked his ear, sucking on his shell and thrusting his tongue into the canal earning a squeal from the (h/c). His cock was grabbed and was jacked off, the man behind him speeding up his pounds as he bursted his semen into (m/n)'s hole, pouring deeply along his walls.

The clips snapped on his chest, (m/n) screaming and creaming into the hand, someone bit his cheek, playfully pulling the skin. "Someone deserves a reward. For being such a good bucket for us." He pulled out, laughing at the amount of cum that dripped while holding the (h/c)'s hips.

(m/n)'s stomach was coated with fluids, the man in front cumming and slobbered the tip all over his skin. (e/c) eyes were drowsy as they moved him, his legs touching the floor as he sat obediently like a dog infront of the two who were jacking off to his face.

"Nice body, nice face...man, you're just built for this, aren't you?"

He nodded drowsily, whining as he grappled onto their dicks, greedily pointing it into his mouth. "No, no. Only good bitches get to drink cum. And you're the best one out there." The man slapped his face, (m/n) whimpered as he stared up at the two, pouting.

"Fucking hell, I can't with that look..." The other jerked off faster, moaning as he rubbed (m/n)'s cheek. "He's a bit rough, does it hurt?" "I like it. I like getting slapped." (m/n) confessed drunkenly, with a grin like telling his mother he got an A on his test.

The man laughed, rambling on how cute and confident the (h/c) is before slapping him as well. The (h/c) hissed, pulling his face back to face them with his mouth open. "Told ya' he's the best."

Both of them fastened their pace, inching closer to (m/n) who was eyeing their red tips, eager to swallow the salty liquid before one of them pushed his lower jaw up to close his mouth. "Not there."

Suddenly, they placed their tips onto his forehead, cumming sperm onto his skin, dripping down his face, cheeks and it slobbered over his eyelids. Some of it got into his hair as (m/n) whined. "What a waste.." One of them, the one who had slapped him first, rubbed the semen into his cheek, running his thumbs in circles.

"It won't be. You've got two dicks to cover for. Unless you're that fucking greedy."

-

(m/n) wasn't sure how coherent he was, sure he was drunk but his body was tired used over and over again. So many rounds and so many toys. His body was submitted into so many forms of horny torture.

His waist was strapped, his cock was tied with a ribbon, his hole was explored, them playing archer to see who could shoot his cum the most into his twitching hole while they locked his mouth with a gag ball.

His back had whip marks, one of them using a leather toy to whip his skin when he was riding the other. (m/n) had came so much at that time, shooting his sperm so much that it hit the guy's face he was bouncing on.

His ass was soft from how much they pounded into him, smacked and they loved it when their cum spilled out of his hole, dripping down his thighs as they fucked themselves into him more, watching how it squelched and the sticky strands connecting their skin together.

Currently, he was laying on someones chest, his legs pushed up as he mumbled incoherently with a dick static deep in him. "I...ugh...urm..." (m/n) didn't react much when a finger dipped inside his filled hole, pulling at his rim and he hissed when they pushed his walls. His mind was somehow clouded and blank, letting the two strangers stretch their hole, as one of them climbed on top of him, coating himself with lube.

"This one's for you, (m/n)." He cooed at the drunk (h/c) who gripped onto the man under them for stability, digging his nails into his bicep. The (h/c) couldn't breathe, his ass full with a cock and a tip slowly pushing past his strained rim. "I-It's gonna rip. Fuck- t-too full!"

"You were the one begging to have your ass shoved up with two dicks. Did you forget already?" He teased the drowsy (h/c), slowly pushing in as (m/n) clenched onto both of them, whining how much it hurts with his dick flat against his stomach.

"You'll be okay, it won't tear." The man under him comforted him, rubbing his nipples and licking at his nape. "This is your reward, remember? For being the best cum dump."

They moved slowly together, moaning at the heat and tightness and (m/n) had it the most. Screaming and cumming when they fucked him gently before gradually speeding up, using him as a cocksleeve. Grabbing his waist and pulling at it to slam him on both their cocks, the (h/c) crying how his ass was too full and they were bound to break his hole.

"Ngg-gah! Too much-TOO MUCH!" He screamed again when he both tips pushed against his prostate, kissing it as they pounded into him more and more, his legs pushed up to his shoulders. "Mmng angh anh shit shit!" He cussed as he felt like he was gonna come again, but tilted his head when nothing came out of his dick.

It was a drygasm, his hole unconsciously squeezing harshly onto both cocks. The one under him stayed still inside, yelping as he bursted inside (m/n)'s hole while the other pulled out, shooting his sperm at the (h/c)'s twitching rim, painting both the stranger's balls and (m/n)'s hole with his cum.

(m/n) wasn't sure what happened after, he was lying on the bed numb and full. The two men were talking to each other, their hands stroking his hair and his sore thighs. They turned their attention to him when he whined, annoyed how their focus wasn't on him.

"Prince finally woke up. Thought you died there, got him thinking we killed you with our dicks." "I was worried, you asshole. You went crazy on his body like a damn animal." "You slapped him first??"

They argued and (m/n) realised he had been laying in someone's lap. His thighs were gently massaged and his hair was being played with. He could get used to this.

"It was...good. I feel satisfied." He rambled mindlessly, the man rubbing his legs laughed. "If two men can't satisy you, then I'm worried what will." They were all chatting like friends despite being strangers in each other mere hours ago.

"Annh." (m/n) opened his mouth as he kneeled on the floor, showing off his tongue and he caught the guy off guard, his face amused and shocked by his enthusiasm. "Wow. I'm impressed, really. Don't have anymore in me. Unless you wanna be a real toilet."

"Just give me whatever. Whatever it is, I'll take it like a good whore." The other rubbed his hair, raking his fingers through his locks. "Consider it as a present then." He mumbled as the other one rubbed his penis in (m/n)'s face.

"Open wide!"

He jokingly slurred, pouring hot liquid onto (m/n)'s face who grinded onto their feet, squealing as the fluid came into contact with his skin. "Hah...hah...ha..." It wasn't cum. It definitely wasn't cum.

"We're going to have so much fun."

[END SCENE]

Afterthoughts :

I got horny mb

Keep in mind that these are empty characters, no connection to my ocs and these are just me being horny after class again. Please dont rq more of these weirdos cuz i genuinely donno who theyre gonna be. Ong someone tip me cuz im going broke ARGH Goodbye LOL

Edit : got off of my high...i donno what to feel abt this. The fact that theres no set character makes it feel bland, its literally just my desire to be squished in a threesome. Oh well this just proves that sex is better w feelings🥰 (im watching blue lock tonight!)

Taglist:

@tehyunnie @rainnyydaysworld @webwanderer @a-short-ass-disappointment @chikai-k @mello-life25 @miyuuuki @simpsations

[moondirti]

blue collar simon x gn! reader. implied cnc.

Simon finds a journal on his lunch break.

It's inconspicuous. A5 black moleskin with an elastic holding it's contents together, bits of paper sticking out like nails on a poorly constructed house frame. He only notices it because his cooler slips off the bench when he blindly places it atop the fat book, sandwiches and packets of crisps now strewn across the dirty pedway.

The day's already been shit. A motley of blows, each made worse by the torrid sun overhead, sweat to cling to his grievances. An uptight site manager. A near loss of life after some tenderfoot got caught in between an excavation truck and the wall. Even his too-long hair, which curls around red ears – having not had a chance to buzz it off since being called in for this job. It's no wonder, then, that the tiny mishap stirs as severe of a reaction as it does; he chucks his hard hat across the road, satisfied only when it finds its fate mid-lane, an obstruction to inevitably fuck the tires on a white collar's new car.

When his rage settles as smouldering ash in his chest, he picks his food off the floor and cracks open the source of his animosity.

With no name or number, the first page holds just a chicken-scratch address. Interesting. Its owner hasn't made this easy on him, crafting it like one would a game. A skewing of traditional acquaintance. Granting nothing of their superficial identity, yet unrestricted access to their innermost thoughts. Thus he's forced to paint his own picture of the figure behind the words.

And what a picture indeed.

The first entry is brief.

13.02 – My therapist expects at least three pages a week. I'm not doing any of that, so don't get your hopes up.

It's evident that you don't stick to your guns. Though the next one is dated several months later, so he see's the attempt had been made. Written in a whole new hand, like you'd picked a dry pen off the floor and practiced your non-dominant grip:

08.05 – I broke my arm playing tennis. The umpire called a match-point in my opponent's favour and I threw the racket at his head.

I am no longer allowed to play tennis. What good is that resolution? My radius has a greenstick fracture. I'm already out of the game.

His laugh is abrasive and sudden, like it'd been pried from his chest by a pair of careless hands. Or as close to that analogy as it can get – your anger is intoxicating and only grows more potent across the pages. Inadvertently amusing. Simon chews through the tough crust of his torpedo roll as he reads, time wearing away under the stiff comb of your words.

There's hardly any variation in your cataloguing –

10.06 – The universe must need more bad people in it, because it tests my limits everyday. Can the fuck next door snore any louder? It's 2 am, goddammit. I wonder if it'd be overkill to ship nasal strips to his mailbox.

26.06 – Dad called today. Didn't pick up.

04.07 – I'm close to killing Kathleen. There's a reason the food in the fridge is labelled as MINE. GET YOUR GRUBBY PAWS OFF OF IT!

13.07 – The world is a shitty, stupid, crappy, icky, lousy, rotten, stinking, stinky, bad place. I hate my coworkers and friends and parents and landlord and etc etc. It's like everyone is out to get me.

– so it's like the honed curl of a hook. Whiplash-inducing, reeling his attention so quick that his neck strains in phantom pain. Simon stops everything, elbows settling onto his knees as he fixates on one entry in particular.

30.07 – I stand by what I said. The world is uniquely horrible. I think that's because I make it that way for myself. Whatever this exercise was meant to do for me, rage relief or introspection or whatever, it's clearly not working. I'm just as angry as I was before. Maybe burning these pages would help. I wish I could play tennis again. I don't know what to do with my hands anymore. I got fired last week. Need groceries. Eggs, spinach. Spinach always goes bad and I never make use of it. I keep buying it though. Dad keeps calling. I've got a migraine and I've run out of advil.

I just need someone to put me in my place.

And it ends there. No more entries after the fact, just a handful of blank pages before the journal wraps to a close.

He flips back over to the address at front. Looking at it a second time, he can tell the ink is still fresh.

Perhaps he misinterprets it. Perhaps it hits a little too close to home. It wouldn’t be the first time he looks for salvation in the empty lines someone leaves behind. Perhaps it’s just been a bad day, and he should go home before he does something he’ll regret. Perhaps it’s nothing at all.

Or–

Perhaps he sees it for what it is.

Here are all my colours. What you choose to do, or think, is no longer my concern.

[elaci]

You need a subject for a photography submission, 'the face of sport'. Art offers one up- him. He doesn't know, however, the long-lasting effects one photo can have.

cw; consensual voyeurism, piv sex, f-receiving oral, masturbation, tennis...

Art Donaldson x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!

An old tennis racket, two trophies, a signed ball, three pairs of worn shoes he couldn't bear to part with. Art Donaldson sifts through piles of memories with a smile on his face. Tashi would call it junk and insist Art gave up on what he does not use anymore if she knew it was here, hidden in boxes labelled ‘LINEN’ in the basement where the dust collects dust.

His old pair of lucky socks, an empty bottle of sunscreen, a drive-in ticket to Fast and The Furious, another old tennis racket, his last ever report card from school. Art has to take a moment to stretch his back out, being hunched over a box of old things doesn't work for long periods of time when your posture is everything. He isn't so sure what he's looking for under the dim light of a bulb that needs to be changed: a piece of himself, if he were ever that pensive.

A box of condoms with only one left inside, a toy race car he found on the side of the road after losing a match, three different lighters. The blond has a match the next day and a sore shoulder to boot- with a grimace, he pushes his hair out of his eyes. The basement feels cold and stale and Art doesn't quite know why he prefers being down here than lounging in the wide expanse of his multi-million dollar home. Tashi will be back soon and aching to go and train— maybe it's just a moment alone that Art is after.

Art throws an old neck pillow on the ground beside him and coughs at the dust it kicks up. He knows he should go back upstairs and forget about a life gone by, but when Art peers into what he thinks is a now-empty box, his eyes widen. A camera bag sits abandoned at the bottom of the box, a ribbon that was once tied around the handle lays discarded next to the bag, frayed at the edges.

Art Donaldson feels like an infidel, an apostate, as he reaches in and picks up the bag. It's smooth against his fingertips, the zip cold from its neglect, though the bag is in good condition in spite of a half decade's worth of dust and the constant use of it beforehand. It smells like something old and sweet, and Art feels perverted for even remembering a time of such struggle when his life now is so easy. The feeling makes his breath catch, and he holds the bag to his chest like it'll give him strength- the idolater that he is.

He's seen many cameras in his life, but the one inside is what he remembers most fondly, it's an old Canon with a scratched lens. Though Art is no religious man, this is an occasion that warrants a little extra faith and he thanks whoever listened for blessing his hands with the volition to dig into his past. Also in the bag is a set of printed polaroids held together with a worn elastic hair tie, though Art discards them for the moment in fear of recalling too much.

He takes the camera in both hands and turns it on, half expecting a dead battery symbol to greet his piqued attention, but instead, the screen lights up and he's looking at his spacious basement through a camera that's seen more than it should. He aims the camera into the box mislabelled 'LINEN' and snaps a photo of the white ribbon lying at the bottom. He smiles, presses a button on the camera, and waits as it loads the picture onto the display.

"Not too shabby," he hums to himself, though falls silent again when his finger hovers over the PREVIOUS button, and Art Donaldson falls victim to the sin of nostalgia.

He presses the button and is immediately assaulted with a flash into the past that burns a hole right through his stomach. There he stands, spry and grinning like an idiot with a lollipop stick between his teeth, his arms draped around Patrick Zweig, who is sticking up bunny ears on top of his head. They look happier than ever, bound by a friendship they had thought to be unbreakable. Art can't bear the sight, he presses the button again and feels nauseous.

It's the same scene, the same lollipop stick between his teeth, the same eye-slanting grin across his face. But rather than Patrick Zweig by his side, someone else hangs off his arm...

The door upstairs slams- Tashi's home. The basement ceiling shakes with the rattle of the door, and Art jumps when his wife, his wife, calls into the house for him.

"Art?"

He drops the camera, and the damned thing breaks as it hits the concrete flooring. His heart pounds in his chest as he scrambles for the shattered pieces, eyes glued on the now-dull display screen.

"Art, come on." Tashi's voice is loud enough for Art to catch as she walks through their first floor. "I want to get an hour in before we leave."

Art looks from the camera to the stairs, and then to the set of polaroids he had left unlooked at. And like a dog biting his own tail despite the pain of his own teeth, Art shoves the polaroids into his back pocket and straightens up.

“Coming, babe!”

SIX YEARS EARLIER

“If you hit my camera with that ball, I’ll never forgive you.”

Art grins, “What, you don’t trust my aim?”

You stand to the side of the court, eyes squinted in opposition to the sun as you watch Art Donaldson take a tennis racket from his bag and stretch out his shoulders. You don’t know him, not really, but you’ll vouch on any given day that the man has nice hands. 

You manage yourself as he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and hits it against the floor a few times before catching it and looking up at you, hands on hips.

“So, I just hit the ball a few times?”

You nod, “and look good doing it.”

Art snorts out a peal of sweet laughter that has you grinning in response, though when you take your camera from its bag, you’re struck with an issue.

“Hey, can I put my camera bag with your things? I really don’t want to lose it.”

Art looks from you to the bag you hold, a black camera bag with a white ribbon tied dutifully around the handle, he nods and gestures over to his belongings that sit to the side of the court, but can't help his curiosity. "What's the ribbon for?"

"So I know it's mine, everyone in my photography class opted for the same bag," you shrug. "Plus, it's pretty."

Art lets out a hearty laugh and readies himself with a few more stretches as you situation yourself, checking settings and exposure and the such. He doesn't want to distract you, but the silence between you is heavy and awkward. He wishes desperately to fill it, but words of much grandiosity fail to find their way out of his mouth.

"So, you like photography?"

You giggle at his attempt and squint up at him. "You could say that. It's a bit of an entry-level requirement for being a photographer, you know... liking it."

He laughs again, leaning back on his heels to admire the care you take with the camera, fiddling with the settings. He doesn't know you, not really, but he'll vouch on any given day that you have nice hands.

Art's tennis coach is in the midst of a hot work-fling with a professor who happens to head the photography club. She had a student lost on a subject for the 'faces of sport' submission, and Art's coach put his name forward. And here you are, now one of many who have watched him through a camera lens. He had seen you around campus on occasion, taken note of you talking to a friend of a friend- he'd have introduced himself if Patrick wasn't always dragging him away for a drink or four.

Now though, sober and grounded in his element: the court, Art can't help but let his eyes train on you a moment too long. He wonders what you see through the camera lens- a tennis player or a peer?

"Ready?" You're looking up at him with an encouraging smile and he feels his cheeks burn under your gaze as you snap a picture of him as he stands unassumingly.

"I did not say I was ready," Art points an accusing finger at you, but replaces his butthurt tone with a smile and readies himself to hit a few balls. "But I am. Now, at least."

You laugh, and Art finds himself wanting to hear it every day for the rest of his natural life. He smiles at the sound, a toothy grin he'd usually only flash when drunk or ecstatic.

You take another picture, and one more when he frowns at your antics. "You said you were ready," you shrug.

Art serves a few times, getting into his element as you photograph him. The click of your camera becomes background noise as Art works with his mind's eye and body's memory, making precise adjustments and hitting perfectly every single time. He gets into a sweet rhythm, serve after serve as he hits the balls to an empty other half of the court. You watch his form through the camera, taking each shot as they present themselves to you. All he does is play tennis, yet you find yourself eyeing something breathtaking. He's beautiful, like a piece of art with skill unmatched, but it's not his form that piques your interest: it's the look in his eyes. Focused, intent— in love. He adores what he does, the narcotic feeling it gives him, and you find you adore watching it flood his system.

Though your perfect shot, your submission picture, comes as an idea. 

"Okay," your voice breaks Art's reverie, and he stops mid-serve to look at you. "I have what I need."

Art's brows furrow, "that's all?"

His arms fall to his sides, tennis ball dropping by his feet as his racket hangs loosely from his grip. He's sweaty, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Though he hasn't done much, you blame the sun and thank it in the same regard: he looks good.

"Just one more thing," you hum, raising your camera one last time. "Smile like you did before."

"What?"

"Just do it, Art."

He likes the sound of his name on your lips and obliges without further question. There he stands like a boy on his first day of school, arms by his side, racket hanging from his grip, sweaty and squinting under the bleating sun with a wide grin plastered on his face. 

And you take the photo, him to the left of the shot as an empty court fills the rest of the frame. Remnants of that elated look still shine in his eyes, you've caught the afterglow. 

"That's the one," you practically jump up and down at the picture staring back at you on the display.

Art makes a face. "What? I wasn't even playing."

You have to look from camera-Art to real-life-Art to catch his frown. You smile in response and walk pointedly over to the blond so you can practically shove your camera in his face.

"Look," you offer, feeling the extra heat of his body against you when he looks over your shoulder to gaze at the camera screen. You click through photos of him playing, all basic pictures he's seen a hundred times with a hundred different players. "That's the game, hitting a ball with a racket. You look good, you're focused, in touch with yourself, that's great. But this..." you click forward until you find your latest image, the one of him smiling, "...this is the afterglow, the dopamine rush, the actual game, the face of sport."

Art is quiet. He stares at himself, his own smile. A moment passes, and then another, and you're beginning to think he doesn't see the vision when he finally breaks the silence.

"Have you ever played tennis?" His voice is barely there, loud enough for you to hear as he leans down a little, right next to your ear. 

You shake your head, you know he can see it, his breath is hot on your neck. 

Art stands upright. "You should let me teach you. It's a good skill to have."

You turn and look up at him, "anyone can hit a ball with a racket."

He's quick to frown, a dramatic faux hurt etched across his face, "anyone can press a button on a camera."

You're about to defend your sport, ramble about the editing process and exposure settings and moving subjects and the rule of thirds when Art's sour expression loses to his breaking grin, and you catch the hypocrisy as it's about to drip from your tongue. 

Before you can reply, however, he cuts you off. "I'll let you use that photo of me... if you let me teach you the basics."

The basics aren’t so basic when you spend most of your time photographing the ball, not trying to hit it. Art is patient, laughing ceremoniously whenever you flinch at the ball as it comes towards you, clapping when you do hit, and offering you pointers when you don’t. Half of the guys at Stanford for sports would have left fifteen minutes ago when you called tennis ‘a game straight from Satan's hole’. Art just laughed.

You wonder if you weren’t in need of a subject for your submission, whether you and Art would have ever crossed paths naturally. You wonder who his friends are, what he does when he’s not playing tennis, if he has other hopes and dreams.

“Your grip is wrong,” Art calls from the other side of the net. “You can hurt your wrist like that.”

You look down at your grip on Art’s racket and sigh—there’s a proper way of doing everything in tennis, you presume. You’re about to try and correct it yourself when Art quite literally jumps over the net to your side, he’s right in front of you in only a second. 

“Hi,” he huffs.

“Hi.”

Art gestures something with his hands that you don’t quite get, then takes another step closer to you before freezing. “Oh, can I touch you? To fix your stance, I mean.”

“I thought it was my grip that was wrong.”

“That too.”

You have to laugh at your fuck-ups if you want to avoid looking like an egg. You nod to Art, who moves behind you and gently places his hands on your hips. He guides your body, slender fingers splayed over your waist, into a position that feels unnatural yet somewhat powerful. With a gentle nudge of his foot between your legs, he parts them and pushes one slightly forward.

“That’s good,” his voice hits your ears in waves, and you feel the tingle of goosebumps creep up along your arm. “Now your grip."

Art Donaldson slides his hands down your arms, taking each of your wrists in each of his hands and readjusts your grip on the handle of the racket, one hand above the other.

You stare at the ground, and he clears his throat quietly. “Like this.”

He brings both of his hands down to cup around yours and pulls your arms up as he swings your arms back and forth, the movement fluid. in demonstration of the godforsaken 'proper technique'. Your back is pressed right against his front, his chest flush against your back and the ridges of his stomach brushing against the line of your spine. Your heart races, and though you're sure he hears it, it's drowned out by the pounding of blood throughout your head as you focus on each movement of his hands, on his words, and on his voice.

"There we go," he nods, his mess of blond hair brushing against your neck as he dips his head down, presumably to check your footing. Your body shudders as he whispers, "Good job," and his mouth tickles the shell of your ear before he releases you. The world seems to tilt, no longer relying on Art for balance. You're surprised the racket doesn't fall from your grasp when he steps back, though with the loss of contact, your knees feel weak enough to collapse. As it stands, though, you're still standing, and Art is beaming down at you like he's just taught a puppy a new trick.

"So, what'd you think?" he asks.

You tilt your head in question.

Art smiles wider, "is it easier than pressing a button on a camera?"

"Oh, so you're an asshole," a bemused smile crawls across your lips.

He snorts, "Maybe."

Your laughter dies away as a strange sort of melancholy seeps in. You're suddenly aware of how far apart you two are, the space between your bodies, the lack of physical contact. Art notices, and gives a soft laugh of his own, a lighthearted chuckle that breaks the eerie need to replace the warmth of the sun with the warmth of each other. 

"So," Art crosses his arms. "Now you just have to learn how to hit the ball."

"Ha ha ha," you verbalise, straight-lipped and eyebrows furrowed. "Maybe next time, hot shot."

"Next time?" Art's reply is quick. "So you'll let me keep teaching you?"

You smile at him, "No, I was lying to be polite."

It's Art's turn to act unimpressed, but you see him bite back a grin. He lets out a stressed-short laugh that turns into a huff at the end. "You're so funny."

"I know."

"Will you show me the photo once it's printed?"

It takes you a moment to realise he's being serious.

"Huh?" you ask, looking up.

Art's eyes are wide, and he raises an eyebrow. "Can I have your phone number?" he clarifies.

You open your mouth to object, to tell him no- you don't give your number to random boys you've just met, but instead, the corners of your mouth twitch upward and you're suddenly typing your number into Art's phone and saving your name with a smiley face next to it. Art smiles at the gesture and pockets his phone. There's a moment of silence shared between you, an unassuming silence that's more comfortable than it is awkward, but a silence nonetheless.

A silence broken by the loud echoing voice of another boy calling out from the far side of the courts- a brunette with curls that are more defined than Arts, that's the most you can make of him as he calls to the blond by your side, waving his arms above his head and then gesturing to his wrist like he's tapping a watch.

"Oh, shit," Art pulls his phone back out to check the time. "Fuck, sorry, I have to go."

You shrug, smiling. "It's fine, thanks for giving up some of your time."

Art smiles back, thanking you in turn for putting up with his tennis brain, then hurries to grab his things and race away in the direction of his friend. For a few seconds, all you can do is stand there dumbly watching his retreating form until he reaches his friend, who nudges Art and looks over his shoulder at you before the pair of them disappear around the corner leading back towards campus.

It's not until they're out of eyeshot that you turn to grab your camera bag, just to be greeted by an empty space where you had left it. Your heart drops for a moment, the thought of losing your camera a soul-crushing one. You remember, though, tucking it away with Art's stuff for safekeeping. He must have grabbed it in his rush to leave.

You exhale, running a hand over your forehead. Well fuck.

Art Donaldsons dorm room number plays on a loop in your head that night. He had texted you as promised, with a simple ‘I HAVE YOUR CAMERA!’ along with an easy ‘COME TO MY DORM I HAVE BEER’

It had taken him another ten minutes to realise you’d have no clue where his dorm was, and send through his dorm number. You had debated sending him a text back, telling him to meet you tomorrow on campus to hand over the camera, but your submission deadline is the next night and you need time to edit, decide you hate your prospective career as a photographer, and then fall in love with the process all over again.

You roam the halls of the boys' dorms for a few minutes, eyeing door numbers until you find his. Some doors are left ajar, some wide open and sporting odours so bad you curse God for giving you a sense of smell. You finally find Art’s door, and double check the number twice before knocking, despite a tennis ball sticker just above the door handle. 

There's a little rustling inside when you knock, but his voice calls out clearly. "Come in!"

When you open the door, you're greeted not by Art Donaldson, but by the blinding flash of your own camera. You blink away the stun to find Art grinning at the display, admiring his handiwork as an amateur photographer. He turns your camera in his hands to show you to yourself, startled and wide-eyed in a half-blurred photo: Art's finger covers a corner of the frame too, it must have been over the lens.

"I think I'm a natural," he bites his tongue cheekily as he hands you your camera back. You check it over, out of habit more than mistrust of Art, and he pushes his door wide open to reveal the dorm room in all its college-student glory. It's not large by any means, but it has everything you could ever possibly want and then some, plus an impressive collection of sports memorabilia from past years and awards displayed in frames on the walls. Your camera bag is sitting on his bed, and Art gestures you towards it with a smile.

"Sorry," he spins around and opens a little cooler sitting on his floor, pulling out two beer cans from inside and offering you one. "I didn't realise I had picked it up. Were you okay without it?"

You take the beer with a 'thanks' and pat the small shoulder bag you wear. You lift the flap open to reveal a little Polaroid camera, an old one you barely use anymore. "Had to pull this off the shelf," you say.  "But yeah, it should be good now."

"That's good," Art nods as you pop the top of your beer.

You sit on the edge of his bed while he takes a sip of his beer, staring at you. You notice a slight flush to his cheeks and wonder if he's a few drinks ahead of you. You can't help but laugh, leaning forward as you rest your elbows on your thighs. "Why am I here, Art?"

He frowns, looking down at you from where he stands, leaning against his countertop. "To pick up your camera?"

"You could have met me with it tomorrow. It's..." you glance at the alarm clock beside his bed, "nearly midnight."

He blinks and laughs sheepishly at you, scratching behind his neck. "Yeah, about that... I guess I just wanted to see you again?"

"Oh," you lean back and purse your lips in surprise, glancing from Art and the beautiful nervous look on his face to the beer he holds in a tight grip.

Art laughs softly, "Are you freaked out?"

"No," you shake your head quickly, "I'm not freaked out, Art."

Art chuckles lightly at that, his smile widening as his blush deepens. "Okay," he breathes out before he takes another sip of his beer and moves to sit beside you on the bed. It dips under his weight, almost pulling you closer into him, though he leaves enough space to remain respectable. His eyes seem darker now, more focused, even though his expression remains soft and pleasant. His gaze lingers on your face for a while before he opens his mouth to speak. "You said earlier, on the court, that the photo you took was the real face of sport. You're good, huh?"

"I'd like to think so," you smile fondly, gaze flitting from his lips to his eyes.

"Are you in love with it?"

You hum, "with photography?"

Art's eyes flick up to your eyes. His gaze is intense, not in a scary way, but something more playful and inviting. He nods.

"I love it, sure," you nod, situating yourself to sit more comfortably on Art’s bed. "Are you in love with tennis?"

Art nods, taking a longer drink from his beer. "Yes."

Your brow furrows and you raise an eyebrow. "I didn't know. You seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole 'look at me, I'm a tennis player' thing, actually."

His face splits in a toothy grin. "I'm humble."

You giggle quietly at that, and stare at him for a couple of seconds, studying his face, taking in every little detail. His hair, his eyes, the faintest hint of stubble on his jawline and chin, his smile, and the dimples on each cheek that said smile brings out. There are traces of dark circles underneath his eyes, you realise, and they're highlighted when his pupils expand slightly at your laughter. 

You feel warm, and not from the alcohol that sits inside your stomach. The both of you place down your beers, and Art Donaldson, who may well have a girlfriend and dirtied intentions, takes in a deep breath before asking you lowly, "Can I kiss you?"

The word 'please' escapes your lips before you can stop it and the red tint in Art's ears deepens. You bite the insides of your cheeks nervously, waiting for Art to speak again, but he doesn't, and suddenly his hand is at the nape of your neck, tugging you forwards and pressing his lips to yours in a hungry, desperate manner.

As he starts moving slowly, his tongue darts out and traces the curve of your bottom lip as he pulls you further into him, the taste of his beer lingering on his lips making the gesture feel all the more enticing. A hand cups your jaw, slender fingers trailing down your neck in sensual exploration of your exposed body before his other hand rests on the small of your back and he draws you even closer until the heat radiating off himself feels almost unbearable on your skin.

There's no hesitation, no awkward pauses, or second-guessing, you find yourself melting against his body instinctively. A narcotic, he is, the way he smells and tastes and sounds and touches, and there's only so much you can handle before it overwhelms your senses completely. The kiss itself isn't that hot, it's chaste and messy and your teeth click against his in the desperation of it all, but it fills you with something unfamiliar, makes you feel lightheaded and dizzy and yearning wholeheartedly for more. You don't care how little you know him, you don't mind the lack of foreplay; you just feel overwhelmed and need more, you need more than just his lips on yours.

He practically whimpers when you pull back, his hands sliding down to hold onto your hips possessively. Sad eyes meet yours at the loss of your taste, but you brush off his worry easily, running your thumb across his cheekbone as he leans into your touch, breathing in and out heavily through his nose as if you are his only source of breath, and the sight causes a knot to form in your stomach.

"You are single, right?" your kiss-swollen lips whisper against his and you feel him exhale.

"Yes," he speaks against your mouth, a husky sound that makes your heart ache.

"Good."

You kiss him again, more fervently, letting your tongue tangle with his as his arm wraps around you tightly. Before you know it, Art has your back against his mattress and is hovering over you, hands gliding swiftly under your shirt. You aid him in getting it over your head and watch as he follows suit, pulling off his own shirt and tossing it to the floor in dismissal. He slides down his shorts and leaves himself in a pair of blue boxers that you already notice are tenting.

You take a moment, you have to, to appreciate the sculpt of Art’s body—the muscled planes of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. His face is flushed, hair mussed and unkempt, lips swollen and kissed pink. You want to commit every last inch of this man to memory, keep him locked in the back of your mind in fear of never experiencing this again. 

Is this a one-time thing? You lift your hips as Art pulls down your shorts and panties in one go, and you can't help but wonder if this is the first and only time you'll feel his fingertips against the skin of your thighs. When morning comes, and your lust is expelled and tired, will Art turn his shoulder from you? Is this something? Hell, you don't know the guy, not really.

But he presses a gentle kiss to your lower abdomen and you feel safe and comfortable; your heart rate slows as the tension eases and your body sinks further into the mattress, letting Art's hand slip between your legs to part them. "Art…"

A low moan passes your lips as he brushes his fingertips over your clit, they're still cold from holding his beer, and the stark contrast in temperature is enough to make you gasp. Art slides his thumb over the sensitive nub and you arch your back in response. Your hands come to grasp at the sheet beneath you, knuckles whitening from the amount of pressure you're exerting on them. You want more, but you realise quickly that Art is a man for taking his time. Slow, languid circles over your clit, not daring to even push a finger inside of you just yet. You whine and buck your hips against his hand, needing his touch to be deeper.

He presses a kiss to your chest, and then trails his mouth down your stomach, pausing briefly to look up at you before he dips to place a kiss directly to your pulsing clit.

You freeze, and a wave of insecurity washes over you. "You don't have to..."

"I'm dying here," Art's eyes meet yours: he looks starved. "Please let me."

All you can do is nod your head and close your eyes as he delves between your thighs for a taste of your lust. His free hand digs into the flesh of your thigh, grip tight as if he’s dead set on leaving his mark, staking his claim. He’s showering in the way you writhe, his tongue rolling over your clit as he slips two fingers inside of you. He’s high off your taste alone, latching his lips around your clit in an assault fueled by insatiable need.

You can feel him shuffle a little, moving his free hand from your thigh to reach under his own waistband and stroke himself in tandem with the thrust of his fingers inside of you. His pace quickens, though he still manages to savour your pleasure. Your hand snakes down to thread your fingers through his mess of blond hair, pushing your hips up in an attempt for more.

As Art pumps his cock with his hand, he groans against your heated flesh, sending vibrations from your sex to your spine: you arch your back in pleasure, the tightness of an impending orgasm beginning to roll over you. You try to vocalise it, tell Art you’re close, but you’re already a mess of incoherent moans and pleads for more— but he doesn’t need words to know, not when he can feel you clenching around his fingers, your every muscle tensing. His scalp must burn from the stress of your pulling, but he doesn’t seem to mind so much, smiling against your pussy as he finger-fucks you to climax.

With a sharp inhale and a choked sob of a moan from your throat, you come undone under Art’s ministrations, your vision blurred and stomach in knots of ecstasy. It's only once your breath finds you again that Art pulls his fingers out of you and climbs over you once more to press a messy kiss to your lips, he shares with you a taste of yourself, lips glistening with your release. He grins into the kiss, as pussydrunk as can be, and moves to press a sloppy mixture of kisses and bites to your exposed neck.

"You taste so good," he speaks against your skin, nipping at your pulse. 

"I want more of you," you exhale, dizzy with lust.

Your legs tighten around his back as he meets your eyes once again, a sultry smile creeping across his face. You snake a hand down to the waistband of his boxers, noting the thin layer of sweat that already glosses Art's torso, and dip a finger under the elastic. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah, please," he murmurs, ducking down to press another kiss to your shoulder. You tuck your hand into his boxers, feeling past his trimmed-short hair and wrapping your fingers around his cock, rock hard and pulsing in your hand. He groans and presses himself further into your hand, his teeth dragging along the expanse of your shoulder as you pump his shaft. His hips rise of their own accord as you bring your hand higher, rubbing along his length until you have him completely desperate for the now-familiar warmth of your pussy.

"I need to be inside of you," he lays his intentions out, head tilting up to watch you for a sign of protest.

You nod, eager and willing to accommodate him, and release his cock, raising yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at the beautiful mess of a man moving to stand. He (ungracefully) reaches over to grab a condom from his bedside drawer and sheds his boxers. Inhaling slowly through his nose, he takes his time as he slides the condom onto his dick, stroking his cock gently once it's on. He watches you closely, a fond look on his face as he rubs the head of his cock up and down your pussy a few times, collecting the remnants of your lust and his spit before he enters you. It's slow, and careful, and deliberate, and your body trembles in anticipation, eyes flickering closed when he finally gives into your silent plea. The shared gasp between you is uniform, a symphony of pleasure and endurance. Him, overwhelmed by just how tight you are. You, overwhelmed by the stretch of just how big he is.

Art bottoms out in one movement, to get the harshest part out of the way for you; you hiss at the searing heat of the stretch, but calm as Art stills inside of you. You both take a moment, a shared breath, to appreciate being one, and the pleasure that comes with such entwining.

Once you’re ready, you squeeze his bicep, giving him the green-light to move. And he does, painstakingly slow, he pulls out of you, just to snap his hips forward to plunge himself back inside. The hand that isn't holding him up is pressed down on your stomach, feeling himself through you as he pushes in deep, then withdraws.  Each thrust of his cock brings forth a loud gasp from your lips, which only serves to guide him further into a state of mindless bliss. He keeps himself in check as best he can, though his breathing has quickened considerably as he continues to fuck you. You feel like you're going to lose your mind, unable to breathe or speak or think straight as you're pulled closer and closer to your end. Though as you've learnt, Art Donaldson is a man to take his time, and he switches from the fast snapping thrusts to a slow roll of his hips once he feels he's a little too close to the edge.

You notice, too: you see the tension building in his muscles, how he pants and groans with each movement he makes. He stares at you adoringly, heavy lids weighing his sights down to your chest, your arched torso, your sweet design. He leans down to press another kiss to you, lips parting so he can slide his tongue into your mouth as his rhythm quickens even more. The kiss feels more intimate than even the act of his cock splitting you open, it's a sweet one, a honeymoon-style kiss where after his forehead meets yours and his eyes bore into your eyes in a mixture of something hazy.

You notice the glossy look in his eyes immediately, it's the same one you had seen on the tennis court earlier. The awestruck, total blissful look in his eyes that had spurred your inspiration. The face of sport. Even through your fucked-dumb haze of lust and a hedonistic desire to finish like this, with Art on top of you, the opportunist in yourself can't help but move. You place a firm hand on Art's shoulder, and his thrusts roll to a stop.

"You okay?" he pants, a sudden worry in his eyes, he looks you over for any signs of discomfort.

"Fine," you shake your head, trying to clear it, blinking away the foggy sensation clouding your mind. "Just, uh... do you trust me?"

Art's eyebrows shoot up, taken aback by the question: "Why?"

Your voice is barely there, a heat spreading across your face as you ask; "will you let me on top?"

Art chuckles low and deep, eyes never breaking contact with yours. A gentle touch to the curve of your ass cheek tells you that he'll miss the view, but he nods nonetheless, and you smile in turn. You expect Art to pull out and lay back on the bed, but instead, he wraps one arm under your back and pushes up with his other, flipping the both of you in one fluid motion. As soon as he's flipped over you straddle his waist, resting your hands on his chest for support, and laugh at the sheer adrenaline rush of it all.

This new position, with you sitting on Art's cock, makes you feel twice as full. You can tell that neither of your orgasms are far off, and you take the opportunity to test the waters. You roll your hips, grinding down on Art's cock, enjoying the way his eyes flutter shut. When he lets out a low noise of approval that sends shivers down your spine, you lower your body closer, pressing a wet kiss to Art's jaw as he grips your waist with a strength you don't doubt will bruise come morning.

His hips raise underneath you, fucking up into you as you continue your ministrations. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the air, and you'd close your eyes in ecstasy if you weren't so hypnotised by the sheen in Art's eyes. With each thrust Art manages to drive into you, you find your nails biting into the skin of his chest. He gets louder, groans and whines that you'd play on repeat if you could,, he's close, and he says as such.

"Let me take a picture," you say before you can stop yourself; his jaw slacks open at your words, staring up at you with incredulity written across his face. You defend your proposal- "With the Polaroid. I'll let you keep it, no copies."

A bad idea, probably, what with his face being one he hopes to see plastered across buildings one day. He doesn't know why he nods, why he smiles when you reach across the bed for your Polaroid. Maybe it's the mindless state of lust he's in, maybe it's the danger, or maybe he'll find the photo in ten years' time and remember this night with a smile or a frown depending on the grand outcome.

You ready the camera, roll your hips against his a few more times, and look down at pretty Art Donaldson. 

"You're fucking gorgeous," you let slip, praise falling from your lips straight to his reddened ears. You feel him twitch inside of you, you squeeze around him in coaxing. "Look at you."

He fucks up into you with a pace unrelenting. Your second orgasm of the night is only seconds away, and you cope through the haze of pleasure and lust to focus on Art's face, memorising every detail of that look in his eyes as he starts to falter.

"Fuck," you groan, pressing down onto him to a new depth. He's tense for a moment, a sweet moment of shared rapture as you both fall over the edge of your climaxes. 

"Shit, shit," his sounds mirror yours, veins pulsing in his neck as he cums. One hand digs into your hips, the other grips the sheets. 

His eyes meet yours, and you see it. The look, the face of pleasure, of need, of sin. 

You take the shot.

SIX YEARS LATER

The night is quiet, save for the sound of rustling trees outside and the occasional passing car. Art Donaldson has to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a noise.

He stands in the shower, water falling over his back, though cleanliness is an afterthought despite being sweat-ridden after hours of training with Tashi.

With one hand, Art pumps his cock in vigorous strokes, leaning against the cold tile wall as he jerks himself off. His eyes are locked onto what he holds in his other hand- the photo you took all those years ago. He's careful not to get it wet, but it's hard to focus on the state of it when his pooling orgasm nearly blinds him. 

His eyes burn into the image, a display of himself at his most vulnerable. You had taken it looking down at him as your orgasms synced, and now he looks down at the same sight you had seen at your peak. He cums ropes onto the shower floor, biting so hard on his tongue to stifle his moans that he's surprised he can't taste blood in his mouth. 

He’s left breathless, eyes still locked on the polaroid he had found in the basement earlier in the day. There's a handful more of them, but Art had no time to go through them, not after pulling this one out first and being hit with a wave of memories he’s not sure he should have.

He has to satiate his guilt by telling himself it’s not wrong to jerk off, especially not when it’s only a photo of himself… or, that could make it worse. Art exhales deeply, emptying his lungs so he can take a breath of new air.

Art steps backward into the fall of water, letting it run down his face in a rejuvenating cleanse of his sins and unholy ways of thinking. He sighs, wonders what level of hell he’s going to, and then flips the polaroid around.

Written in your handwriting on the strip of white down the bottom in permanent marker, 

THE ART OF MAKING LOVE.

series taglist: @lotties-ashwagandha @daughterhouse @kiiwizz @doll-0f-flesh @jackierose902109 @lonnie2390147 @hedonisticwomen @ysuftmikey @viena-vie @whitewashedghanianlol @kolsmikaelson @nikirikii @dumbass-sappho-stan @seriousaliysa @majathepapaya @lovezclub @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo

[bits-and-babs]

Mutual Masturbation with Joel Miller? 👀 could we be so lucky ??

-ˋˏ 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃 ˎˊ

— pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

— word count: 1k

— warnings: mutual masturbation, [Snape voice] “obviously”. voyeurism, dirty talk, the ol’ switcharoo at the end. Not proof read.

joel miller masterlist || main masterlist

Fuckin- It was so fucking hot.

The sunshine thumps through the windscreen and into the black interior of the pickup truck. Appropriated by Bill to finish this smuggling mission, Joel insisted the battery wouldn’t survive the journey to Pittsburgh if he turned on the air conditioning. Not even for a second.

Sticky. You’re sweltering, the beads of sweat sticking the fabric of your linen shirt to every inch of your torso. Rolling your head back against the headrest, you let out a soft whine of complaint. It’s not even the suffocating Pennsylvania temperatures that tortured you anymore. No, it’s the ardent pulse settling between your thighs. It’s Joel.

His eyes are settled on the dusty road, watching intently for hunters who might be stupid enough to tempt fate. He’s so calm that you’d be forgiven for thinking the heat doesn’t affect him at all if it wasn’t for the sheen of sweat that glossed over the skin of his brow, the wetness in his hair.

You can smell him. Joel smells like musk, like dirt, a tinge of whiskey that he always liked to drink and the bite of death- the sweet tang before decay. It shouldn’t be attractive, shouldn’t even be pleasant, but it’s Joel, and it makes your heart slam against your ribs as you swallow back how much you need him.

“Stop your scowlin’,” Joel’s voice is throaty, half asleep after hours of silence settles between the two of you. The engine's rumble nearly drowns him out, but you hear him.

“M’not,” you rebuke, keeping your eyes forward and avoiding the silver of the wing mirror where you would no doubt find his tawny eyes boring into you. Your answer is quick, too quick, and suspicious.

“No?”

“Nope.”

God, you want to fuck him so bad.

Hesitating momentarily, you finally pull your eyes over to his body. His knuckles drape over the steering wheel, delicate with the leather. The denim of his jeans is dark with his sweat, sticking so closely to him you can see his thigh muscles shift when he pushes down on the accelerator. There’s a bead of perspiration running down his throat, dribbling down the collarbone exposed by his open shirt, and you whimper when it soaks into the fabric because you would have licked him clean-

“Can touch yourself, f’you want.”

Joel’s tone is so lazy it almost masks how filthy his suggestion is. Your attention snaps up to the wing mirror, finding those deep irises settled on your expression.

“I’m not—“ you scoff, but Joel jerks his head just slightly. ‘No’.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart,” he insists, the term of endearment dripping with patronisation, “You’ve been rubbin’ your thighs together since we joined the highway.”

Swallowing thickly, you smother your denial like Joel suffocates your propriety. The air is no longer pulsing with heat but with tension. Joel’s waiting, watching for you to give in. Fuck, you’re buzzing.

You can’t anymore.

Shoving your fingers down your cargo pants, you graze your fingers over the seam of your panties and let out a trembling breath of relief. They’re soaked, your cunt practically dripping.

“Don’t you stop,” Joel insists, and when you glance up, you can see his knuckles are white against the steering wheel now, his eyes flicking between the road and the reflection of your pleasure.

You aim to appease him, rubbing your throbbing clit with the pads of your fingers and melting into the humming pleasure it elicits. Brows pinched together, you push your body back into the seat and rock your hips upwards.

“Unbutton them.”

You do. You raise your free hand and pop the button above your naval, using the free space to work your hand under the elastic of your panties and roll the drag of your fingers over your clit.

“Joel-“ you exhale shakily, body trembling with need.

His right-hand breaks from the wheel, palming himself through his jeans and squeezing at his growing erection while he watches you.

“C’mon Darlin’. Keep goin’,” he whispers, unzipping his jeans and working his cock out of his boxers. “You look so fuckin’ good; look at your tits.”

He’s rambling, talking so much more than he usually does. In your haze, you wonder if he’s got heat stroke.

Joel slams on the brakes, jolting you forward in your seat. What the fuck?! Your free hand darts out to hold the dash, gasping his name in shock.

“Joel-!”

“Fuck-“ he rasps, paying no mind to your half-hearted reprimand. His hand reaches over to cup at your breast and squeeeze. The linen of your shirt is see-through with your sweat, sticking to your skin and pert nipples showing through. He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, letting out a thick moan as he ruts into his fist.

Joel is so sexy like this. It’s like he’s lost his mind, fucking his fist and squeezing his weeping head. His greying hair is slick with sweat, swept back against his skull. A burgundy flush tints his cheeks, blurring the sun spots on the bridge of his nose and the peaks of his face.

“Joel,” you whisper, watching him roll his hips upwards, seeing him swipe his thumb over the head of his cock and swear the precum across the reddening skin. “Joel, tell me what you need.”

You ask because it’s obvious. The burning arousal, the building orgasm as you tease your clit, the need you’d felt since you joined 83. None of it had compared to the desperation Joel had been so expertly hiding from you.

He tremors, sweat weeping down his temple as he shuts his eyes, tilting his face towards the car's roof. You can see him thinking, can see him chastising himself and recalling that it’s a bad idea to sleep with your snuggling partner.

“Joel.”

“Fuckin’ come’ere,” he gasps out like he’ll die if he’s not inside you within a second. Joel’s lips are crashing onto yours, bruising them as he grasps your hips and hoists you across the console to the driver's side.

-

-

[murdrdocs]

suggestive content; mentioned public sex MDNI w/ LUKE CASTELLAN

thinking about the beginning of summer with luke.

the mist keeps camp half blood's weather decent year around, but the beginning of summer can still be marked by the way shines a little heavier and the lack of wind creating a stuffy feeling. that, and the general euphoria that takes over everyone.

when your clothes stick to your bodies and you're nearing heat exhaustion, there is nothing else to do but sneak away to the water with luke.

following a path frequently taken, the grass worn down by the soles of your beat up sneakers. gossiping and snickering and gasping at stories about your day, usually told about the short moments you hadn't spent together.

sometimes, if you had enough time or patience, you both would be wearing clothes fit for swimming. most times, though, you reach the water and peel of your camp shirt and your shorts to reveal your usual underwear. (if you two only had a short amount of time to relax, luke would usually convince you both to take your underwear off, only so it wouldn't have to take long to dry)

on the occasions where you're at the water to cool off and escape, you and luke will float on your backs and listen to the soothing sounds of nature. there's nothing more relaxing than being alone and weightless without the burden of counselor responsibilities and the nagging of children distracting you.

but there are times where you would make a day out of it. on the weekends, after a tiring capture the flag battle, you would pack clothes and towels and strawberries and take them down to the shoreline.

luke would convince you to let him slather your body in sunscreen (he is suddenly an activist for skin cancer prevention, but his hands lingering on your hips tell another story), and you let him do it only if you can return the favor (you don't bother pretending to care about his skin when you run your hands down his abs).

many kisses are shared. if you have enough energy, you'll lazily make out with each other. you straddle his hips, he has a hand on your face and another on your ass. luke likes to tease in this scenario. he likes to dig his fingers under the elastic of your bottoms, maybe snap the string back onto your skin if you're wearing a bikini. sometimes, he'll go as far as to peel the crotch of your bottoms aside, or lodge one of his thumbs under the cup of your top.

begrudgingly, you end up slapping his hand away with fear that someone (or even something) could catch you. (you both know there will come a day where you let him go all the way)

by the time you leave the shore, you both have new tan lines, saltwater clinging to your skin, and the swapped taste of strawberries on your kiss-swollen lips.

[loveshotzz]

12 -mutual masturbation while camping in a tent. 

maybe tough girl finally gets to go on the annual camping trip :)

A/N:Thank you for your request angel, the way I had to write this immediately. I love this, I love you and I love them. 💗 this request comes from my completed series All I Really Want Is You but can be read as a stand alone. All you need to know is he calls you Tough Girl, you’ve been dating a year and he’s got a dog named Bandit.

wc: 2k

warnings: 18+, established relationship, age gap (reader is 30 and Steve is 42) slight somno I guess? reader is touching herself but not him, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, semi public.

AIRWIY!older!steve x fem! reader

The birds chirping stirs you first, the sunlight leaking through the half opened flap at the front of the tent, second. Eyes shifting behind closed lids that aren’t ready to open yet, the soft sound of Steve’s slumbered breathing next to you brings the beginning of a smile tugging up at the corners of your lips. The clinking of metal from Bandit’s leash outside is what finally gets you to open your eyes. You’d heard Steve in a daze take him out to pee before letting him bring in the sunrise outside the tent, quickly realizing this was the dog’s favorite part of these getaways.

The air mattress makes a noise that has you cringing when you roll over on the spread out sleeping bags to get a better look at him, the fresh humidity making your skin stick to it. You can’t stop that sigh that slips past your lips at the sight as he takes up room on his back. His permanent bed head is even messier than normal from a night under the stars with your hands in his hair and the stubble that lines his jaw rubbing the inside of your thighs raw. Rejuvenated after a shower that washed off the first two days of the trip.

The streaks of gray that sprinkle through his honey locks stand out even more in the daylight. The crows feet and laugh lines that you’d like to think got deeper in his first year with you are smoothed out in his sleep. You can’t help but wonder what he’s dreaming about, secretly hoping it’s you and not just the morning that has the blood rushing south.

His chest is bare, the dark thatch of hair in the middle looking soft in the warm light, the moles and freckles that dot his tan skin beg to be kissed, just like the sun had the pleasure of doing all weekend. One leg is kicked out of the covers, revealing a low hanging pair of black mesh shorts giving you a peek at the faint hint of a tan line from your days hiking down to the lake. A big hand lays spread across his stomach while the other looks like it got halfway across the small space between you on the search for yours before he fell back asleep.   

Your thighs press together in your small sleep shorts, searching for some kind of friction that you know won’t be enough for the low simmer that’s already started deep in your gut. Why did he always have to look so good? 

Steve licks his full lips, and you can’t help the way your hand starts to wander towards the ache between your legs that’s begging for attention. Fighting with your self control, your nerves ring in your ears and you swear the birds outside get louder when the tips of your fingers start to play with your waist band. 

You freeze when he grunts, blunt nails scratching his stomach making the muscles in his pecs flex. The slight pinch of his brows when something happens in his dream is enough for you to push past the elastic, your fingertips meeting your already dripping folds with a shaky breath through your nose.

Your hips roll, your pointer and index finger spreading your lips apart before the pads of them catch your bundle of nerves when you drag them back up with enough pressure to make you whimper. They don’t feel as good as his, and your heavy lidded gaze focuses on his hand spread across his stomach as you add a third finger to try and mimic the feeling. It’s almost enough and it makes you have to bite your lip to keep quiet, the sound of how wet you already are is almost enough to compete with the growing sounds of the woods coming alive.

“Fuck - honey,” Steve’s voice startles you, thick with sleep and the unmistakable gravel of want, “Why didn’t you wake me up if you needed me so bad huh?”

Your eyes meet his, and all you can do is whine in response when you see all the colors usually inside of them first thing in the morning are gone. The bright greens and gold specks are replaced with something dark and hungry, jaw a little slack while his own hand reaches down, squeezing his now fully hard length over his shorts to relieve some of the throb.  

“You know I’d never say no to you,” He whispers, his own hips rocking into his palm. You start to push two fingers in, your greedy walls fluttering despite the embarrassment of being caught making heat rise to your cheeks.  “What’s got you so worked up baby?”

He pushes his shorts half way down his hairy thighs, the full thickness of his cock smacking against the dark trail on his stomach. Already leaking, the fat tip of him looks angry as he wraps his fingers around the base, the pad of his thumb swiping over the top making him shudder. He pumps once, twice before rolling over on his side, kicking his shorts all the way off along with the blanket exposing you both to the morning air.

“Come on, don’t be shy now.” He’s closer like this, your noses almost touching and you can smell last night's bonfire still lingering. His eyes roam your body while his wrist sets a slow pace watching your nipples pebble under the thin fabric of your tank when a light breeze ruffles the walls of your tent. 

“Y-you - you just looked so good.” Your confession sounds pathetic, but it makes his eyes squeeze shut and a deep breath exhale through his nose, cock twitching in his big hand before he opens them again. 

He leans in so his lips ghost against yours, the tip of his tongue tracing the curve of your bottom one before licking into your mouth to steal your breath with the kind of kiss that was usually reserved for late nights after a couple of bottles of wine. 

“Take your shorts off, be good for me and let me see honey.” He pants, already wrecked, pressing another soft kiss to your lips before shifting to sit up, the air mattress making you bounce with the redistribution of his weight giving him the perfect view down every curve and dip of your body. 

Listening to him, you feel more exposed than ever with your legs spread wide despite no one being around. Steve groans at the visual of you like this, the motions of his wrist getting quicker while his free hand reaches down to pull up your tank by the hem, the soft fat of your breasts spilling out for his hungry eyes. It feels dirty and new, touching yourself like this for him and it only adds to the growing slick between your thighs.

“God, I’m so lucky - can’t believe you're mine. Wakin’ up to you like this? So damn pretty, baby - shit.” He groans, already babbling, squeezing hard at the base of his cock when he sees your arousal gleam in the sunlight every time you pull your fingers out, drunk off watching them disappear again.

“I want you all the fucking time, Steve.” You whine hips pushing up when you add a third one, back arching when he tweaks one of your nipples.

“Yeah?” He asks before spitting into his hand, the slick sounds of his palm working his length even harder blending in with the messy way your walls suck you in. “Tell me about it.”

You nod, completely gone by hearing him talk to you like this, curving your fingers just right to hit the spot that makes you keen. A strangled noise leaving his throat when he clocks the way your thighs start to shake, your mind racing with thoughts of him. He needs you to come soon, and when he sees the pad of your thumb start to rub messy circles on your puffy clit he knows he doesn’t have to hold off for very long.

“You’re just so sexy all the time,” it’s your turn to babble and the breathy laugh that leaves him makes you clamp around your fingers even tighter despite wishing you could roll your eyes, “Those fucking running shorts, your suits, god I want you to bend me over your desk so bad. I think about it all the - ohhhh- a lot.” 

“Jesus - baby, m’gonna have you meet me for lunch when we get back, god wear that short little dress, yeah? I’ll give you what you want, shit - anything you want.” He stutters feeling himself start to get close, your confessions bringing him to the edge. 

“I - mmm- I won’t wear any underwear.” You giggle before your mouth falls open, the band inside of you dangerously close to snapping at the thought of him behind his desk and the predatory way he’d watch the sway of your hips knowing you’re bare and already soaked for him underneath. 

“Dirty girl,” He moans and you hear the back of his head slide against the tent, “my dirty girl.”

Looking up, your eyes roam the way his chest heaves the closer he gets to his climax, sweat beading and starting to drip down his neck where the veins protrude. His gaze is heavy and hot, and it doesn’t leave you, it begs you to fall apart for him. He watches how your eyes glaze over, completely wrecked at the sight of him and the corner of his mouth turns up.

“Gonna be good and come for me now?” It’s soft when he asks despite how filthy the sounds echoing in the tent are, and when you nod with your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, his grin widens. “Of course you are, always so good, so sweet.”

The last part comes out strained, his cock twitching catching the way your thighs start to shut when the drag of your fingers in your cunt becomes deliberate. You were close. The hand that he’s kept on the dough of your breast reaches down to pull your knees apart tutting under his breath.

“I wanna see it, let me have it, come on baby.”

His words are enough for you to push your head back into the pillow, your leg fighting against his firm grip to shut as the rubber band finally snaps. His name falls from lips long and drawn out, a high pitch whine that turns into a gasp and a shuddered loud moan when he pushes your hand away to replace it with his. Thick fingers collect everything you give him, pulling even more from you when he dips inside to hit the spot you could barely reach, praising you as you come even harder.

The feeling of your velvet walls squeezing tight around him brings Steve over the edge, gasping your name with a guttural groan that vibrates from his chest as he spills across his thighs and stomach. Chest heaving from the force of it, the visual of you spread out and falling apart for him makes him see white with his release.

The only sounds are your labored breathing, and a forest that’s come alive in the daylight.  You hear Bandit shuffle around to move to another spot following the moving sun as it gets higher in the sky, warming the tent more. Steve is gentle when he pulls out of you, bending down to kiss your sweaty forehead before grabbing his basketball shorts. He chuckles, wiping himself down feeling like a teenager again with nothing else around to clean himself up, your breathy giggle making his teeth shine in a wide grin before he lays himself back down. 

There’s zero hesitation to pull you to his chest despite the growing stickiness with the heat, peppering kisses across your face before collecting your lips in something a little sweeter.

“Morning, tough girl.” 

[teasteeper]

ohh i like this…. i got carried away T_T (sorry anon, i had to delete the original ask bc tumblr deleted half of this when i first posted it. i hope u see this <3)

suggestive 18+ mdni

before you started working for them hendery couldn't care less about getting his makeup done, seeing it as a time to scroll through his phone, his eyes burning after waking up only thirty minutes prior. he's truly a man in that he doesn't get makeup, barely noticing a difference between his bare face and his face after sitting in the chair for an hour. he hates those tiny angled brushes near his eyes, the feeling of foundation suffocating. he honestly prefers the days when he's running late, getting pushed into the chair while all the makeup artists band together to make him look flawless in under ten minutes. the less time he has to spend getting his makeup done, the better.

that's until the day you started, brushing glitter onto yangyang's eyelids as hendery stumbled through the door forty five minutes late, a baggy hoodie draped over his shoulders and his hair sticking up in all directions. did he even wake up?, he thinks, frozen awkwardly in place as he deciphers whether his tired eyes were actually staring at the prettiest girl he's ever seen or if he was still dreaming.

the artist hunched over kun subtly rolls her eyes at the sight of hendery, tapping your shoulder and pointing to him with her foundation cushion, "i'll finish yangyang's makeup. you can start on him"

hendery sits in the makeup chair, heart racing as you pick up your bag of supplies and move towards him. it's too early for this, he thinks, the soft smile you give him and your sweet vanilla scent, your fingers gently clipping his hair away from his face. it all goes straight to his dick, his mind still half asleep and morning wood not yet fully soft. yeah, it's too early for this.

from then on he sets his alarms extra early, fixing his hair and putting on a decent outfit before getting to set on time, aiming to make getting his makeup done last as long as possible. the members couldn't care less, just happy that he hasn't been late for weeks. but you notice, looking forward to the early mornings you spend talking and laughing together. there's no use denying your big dumb crush on him, butterflies in your tummy when you tell him to look up at you, instantly following your command and showing you his big pretty eyes so you can do his eyeliner.

he actually starts to take an interest in makeup, purely because it's your job, and he swells with pride when you start to take an interest in wayv, listening to their music on the regular and getting fully invested in the team. to hendery it feels like you're his biggest fan, waiting off stage between performances so you can touch up his makeup and fix his hair.

this week finally comes around, and everyone's on edge, what with kcon and countless other performances wayv's scheduled to do. hendery's happy to see you loading your luggage into one of the black suvs parked outside the company building to take you all to the airport. you're there after every performance, his eyes scanning through the crowd of staff members for you. he gives you a tired lopsided smile as he steps forward, spreading his feet apart to make himself shorter. then you feel his hands on your hips, and you're left staring wide eyed at his closed eyes, waiting for you to powder his face. it feels like you're standing like that for hours, the soft weight of his hands on your hips, his abs tensing with his heavy breaths. who the fuck chose this outfit? his jacket mostly unzipped with no shirt underneath, the elastic of his briefs on full display. the worst part is he knows he looks good, flashing you his smile before running back to the stage for their next song.

you think this might be the best job ever as you pack up your makeup bag, watching the last song of their performance on the monitor backstage. hendery finds you again as soon as they're backstage, "follow me" he whispers, placing a hand on your lower back and looking over his shoulder as he ushers you toward the artists' entrance and through the door outside.

"hendery wh-" you're backed against one of the black suvs parked outside, hendery's hands on your hips like before. they tremble with adrenaline, sweat dripping down his temple with heavy breaths passing through his lips. "can i kiss you?"

you can barely finish your whimpered consent before he's dipping his head down, lips crashing to yours in a heated kiss. he's surprisingly gentle, grounding himself by pressing his fingers into your hips. muscles flex in his jaw and his cheeks hollow, swallowing your dreamy sighs. you're fully pinned to the car behind you, your tshirt riding up and his belt buckle cold as it presses against your tummy.

your hips are pressing up against his, whimpering into his mouth, and his restraint snaps. his arm circles your waist and pulls you into him so he can open the door to the backseat, "get in, baby" he's relieved it isn't locked, watching your shirt ride up your back as you crawl in.

he wastes no time pulling your leg over his hips so you're straddling him, tipping his head back to kiss you. he has to be back inside in a few minutes, hands roaming your body to feel as much of you as possible. his lips trail down your jaw, softly sucking marks onto your neck. he leans back every few seconds to check his work, addicted to the way your skin blotches and shines with his spit.

and you're even better than he dreamed you'd be, impatiently jerking your hips against his, your chest pressed to his and your arms clung around his neck. with the way you just melt in his hands, he figures you'd let him fuck you right here in the back of the luxury car. he nearly considers getting his cock out and making you sit on it, but the bubble around you two bursts, two loud knocks striking the car window. hendery's manager shuffles awkwardly outside, his back turned to you as if he hadn't just seen you two drooling into each others' mouths.

hendery turns back to you with an exasperated expression and feign panic in his voice, "does my makeup look okay?"

"i'll fix it" you smile, wiping your lip gloss from his mouth.

[n0ts0surel0ck]

Some autistic Sherlock headcanons!!

Based on my own autism

Sherlock hates getting his hair cut. He can’t wear ear defenders and he despises the small talk and how loud the clippers and blow dryers are. So, he generally wears his hair long and/or cuts it himself. Mariana eventually starts cutting it for him, since it equally bothers him when his hair touches his ears or neck. She’s just… not very good at it.

John finds a salon for Sherlock that does sensory appointments. It’s a silent appointment, so he doesn’t have to talk, and John gets him some earplugs to help with the noise. They’re not as good as his ear defenders but they do for the short time it takes to get his hair done. He mostly gets a dry scissor cut so he doesn’t have to be wet and so the clippers don’t touch him. He doesn’t like the vibration. He finds that he actually enjoys the sensation of a blow dryer when the sound isn’t overwhelming him. The heat and the air pressure are soothing.

Sherlock is very particular about fabrics. He despises polyester and other scratchy, synthetic fabrics. Everything he wears has to be 100% cotton. If he got his way, he’d wear an old pair of holey, decade old pajama pants and a jumper everywhere, but he doesn’t. He understands that he has to be presentable. He likes linen, the material doesn’t touch him as much, doesn’t stick to sweat, and allows for plenty of airflow. During spring and summer, and often stretching into fall and winter, he wears a pair of grey linen trousers. When it finally gets too cold, he switches to a pair of cotton ones that have an elastic waist band. He hates when there’s a lot of pressure below his diaphragm, so he keeps it loose. Shirts are mostly tees in the summer, a bit too big so they don’t touch him much. In the winter, he wears big sweatshirts, a half-peacoat, and a green scarf.

He’s been buying men’s high-top converse since he was in middle school and refuses to wear any other shoe. They’re comfortable, allow him to move without being heard, and don’t add to his height. He hates breaking in new ones, and so holds on to the ones he’s wearing for dear life. John has seen him wrap duct tape all the way around his shoe to keep the sole from falling out before.

His bedroom is kept perfectly organized by absolutely agonizing effort. He is particular about that space, since it’s where he rests. He doesn’t work in there. His chemistry equipment is in the living room and he never goes into the room on cases unless John forces him to change clothes. His room is a sensory heaven that he works tirelessly to keep so. Cleaning is difficult for him, but he resets the space every time he leaves it, even when he’s in a rush.

The rest of the apartment is a bust. His executive dysfunction takes over as soon as he crosses the threshold into the hallway. He leaves toothpaste uncapped, cups and plates everywhere, clothes wherever they fall. It drives John insane and he tries to clean up after himself, but it feels like an insurmountable task.

His hyper fixations overtake conversation constantly. Sometimes he and John will engage in conversation that is just… incomprehensible to those around them. John’s talking about the weather and Sherlock’s talking about Pendolino trains. Neither is acknowledging the other’s topic of conversation, but they’re responding to each other in turn and seemingly having a lovely time.

He likes to stim “with” John when something exciting happens. He grabs both of John’s hands so they’re facing each other and has John pull him back and forth quickly. He likes it when John and Mariana mimic a stim back to him, especially vocal ones. When the three of them are in the office together, it’s just an echo chamber of mouth pops and buzzes.

Sherlock respects the fuck out of routine. His in unconventional, but he follows it almost religiously. This means he respects other’s routines just as aggressively. He never moves John’s items, and if he borrows anything, he puts it back exactly where it was, position and all. He noticed John folding laundry in a certain way and now, if he steals one of John’s shirts and washes it after, he folds it in that certain way.

[dognonsense]

Question...how do you make your patches? They seem so fuckin cool. I'm working on a vest and a jacket atm, and I'd like for them to be done by the time a pride fest rolls around next month.

Main technique I use for making patches nowadays is linocut. Its best suited for mass production of patches.

Make sure to remember your carving the mirror image so you have to flip all the text. Using tracing paper to flip the design is a good trick, as well as leaving graphite marks on side, then pressing that to the lino to leave the marks in the same spot. Another trick with pencil is to view what ur carving in negative space quickly, put a paper over your design and shade over it with pencil, darker marks will be where you haven't carved yet.

I use speedball fabric ink, it takes 1 week to set then will be fine to be washed. I have magenta, violet, turqouise, and white. They have a limited range of fabric colors at the store. I have seen gold and silver fabric paint for sale and I will investigate it one day.

I use a speedball roller, i find the smaller one to be better than the big one as I can be more precise and waste less ink.

I got a fancy handle for $40 but the screws fallen out so its broken now so just get some heavy books. I used to use a mug. Whats important is pushing your whole body weight into it.

I got a speedball carving tool with different heads I can swap out so I can cut into the lino at different deepness and widths. The heads are stored inside the tool since its hollow and has a screwable removable bottom. I use linocut or dollar store erasers for my carvings. Make sure to wash the ink off your linocuts after your done using them.

A thing to increase the lifespan of you're linocuts is to use wood glue, some cork or wood pieces, and glued the lino stamps onto them. I dont do that yet so my stamps fall appart from overuse sometime and because I cut way too deep into the lino since I hate chatter.

Chatter is the term for in linocutting when theres little messy lines and stuff. It makes the art more recognisably to be linocut. My work is very clean with no chatter which is why people don't notice its linocut usually. This is a stylistic choice, with diy styles having a lot of chatter can look really cool so experiment with leaving bits of extra uncarvered lino sticking out in ur stamp. I need to experiment and buy some more lino.

You can also use multiple linocut stamps together to make a patch. Some patches ive made have like 8 different stamps. Ive made a dog nonsense patch where each letter was their own eraser stamp. You can also use different colors between the different lino stamps on the same patch to add more color. An effect I like to do is first stamp it in color, then the next day I stamp it in white over the same spot but shifted to the right and down slightly. It makes the text have a cool border 3D effect I love doing.

If making a more detailed picture with colors, i reccomend hand painting patches. I use white fabric paint mixed with acrylics for color to get all the shades i need. Acrylic paint mixed with fabric softener works too.

If doing words and you dont want a unique font reccomend using letter stamps. If you want a unique font for that i recommend hand paint for individual or linocut for mass produce.

The positive of letter stamps is the font is neat and can be done quickly. I know from lending them to my roommate that they are very helpful if you have dyslexia and have trouble getting letters right.

A visual effect of the letter stamps is that have a nice boxy edge effect, its an imperfection that adds a personally touch to it. I have both lower and upper case stamps that I got from michaels. You can use a hair band or elastic to hold a bunch of letter stamps together to make a word stamp.

You can use other stamps than letters that you find at craft stores for example my racoon print is a craftstore stamp.

You can also find big plastic letter stencils at the dollar store that you can use to do lettering by filling in gaps with a sponge or or paintbrush. They make special paintbrushes just for using stencils.

You can also get plastic stencils in the shapes of things, i got some for children and use a horse stencil for my horse smoking weed patch. Easier than drawing a horse myself.

Another technique I use for more unique clean patches is gel plating. I haven't tried printing laserprint images with it as ive seen online a lot but I will try one day. What i personally do is use it to make imprints with chains and physical objects.

Another thing i use with gelplates are any stamps or linocuts that dont have words, or words ones that i fucked up with and forgot to mirror when carving. It flips mirror image twice with the gel plate so it goes back to being right again on the patch.

Another patch making technique is using foamboard cut into shapes glued onto cardboard. This is good for a quick test of a design and is very cheap to make. It will not hold under water so is more difficult to clean.

[heartfullofleeches]

Your hands in Mine

Yan Entities T.V Show Crew (Thirteen, Wishbone) + Host Clown Darling

"Ow!....D-do you always have to hold my hand so tight?"

"Maybe I wouldn't have to if your hands weren't so sweaty all the time...."

"But, I sweat when I'm nervous...."

"Excuses, Excuses.. Thats all you ever give. Why am I stuck with you of all people."

Those two.... Never a moments break from their arguments. You could hear their shouting matches from all the way over the pond- Well, it was moreso of a one character in particular screaming and the other timidly raising their voice to be heard. Wishbone and Thirteenth. A bunny lucky as the number of days in a week, and the cat with misfortune tailing every step they took. Forces of calamity on their own, putting the two together was nearly a worse fate than letting them run freely separately.

Pairing the two together was the only solution anyone could come up with. Side by side, Thirteenth's bad luck canceled out Wishbone's good luck - the same going working the other way around for the rabbit. Still, one troubling issue remained. The duo utterly despised one another and would sooner plunge the world into darkness than hold hands.

A solution to their problems was delivered after becoming part of the show's program. Not by a skilled therapist or even talking about their differences together- The answers to all their disagreements where quelled with the kindest of a colorful character with a smile bright as the suns painted on their clothing.

"Wish, Thirteen.... Is everything alright?"

Thirteenth is swift to throw Wishbone under the bus. "How can anything be alright when I have to put up with them everyday?!? You'd swear you could fill a glass with how much sweat I have to squeeze our my fur after holding their hand all day."

Wishbone tugs at their ears - the staples pinning faux fur to the damage corner of their left ear straining from the pull. "Stop blaming everything on me! How am I supposed to hold your hand when you dig your claws into me whenever your mad?!"

"Maybe if you weren't so infuriating I wouldn't be as pissed off!"

You step between the two as Thirteenth shoots an icy glare, advancing towards the twitchy rabbit; claws unfurled. The distance is thin enough you have no concerns for your safety, prioritizing settling things between your companions.

"Relax, take a deep breath, both of you. I know it's hard for the both of you. Just focus on me."

You feel Wishbone's arms around your midsection as you lay a hand on Thirteenth's neck - scratching at that one spot beneath their chin that had the feline melting in your arms everytime. Given that nobody bothered touching them before due to their curse, you knew how much of a sucker they were for it. You reach your other hand overhead to pat Wishbone's ears. The rabbit's happy sigh rumbles against your back, shaking subsiding as you stroke your fingers down their long ears.

These two were some of the sweetest things when around you....

"Hm....."

Pinching the fingers between your teeth, you pull off your left glove - repeating the same process with your right. You'd seen Thirteenth use these left hand for most things, thus you ask them for their right.

"Thirteen? If you'd be so kind?"

"Okay?..." Puzzled, Thirteenth sticks out their hand. Their claws run the fabric of your glove slim as you slip the glove onto their hand, retracting into their skin as you adjust the glove onto them properly. Once fiinished you turn around to face Wishbone.

"Wish? Your left hand, please?"

The rabbit gives you their arm, practically shoving it into your chrstas they hide behind their ears. You stumble a bit, the teetering on your heels as you regain your balance making you giggle.

"I'm sorry!"

"It's okay, it's okay- Here." The airy laughter in your voice calms them as you fit the glove to the best of your abilities over their slightly larger paw. Thankfully, the elasticity of your gloves holds up as hugs their wrist. Seems like most of the size of their hands was just fur.

"Ta-da!"

Thirteenth and Wishbone look at each other.

"Now you guys don't have to hold each other’s hands directly - whenever you have to, you can just pretend your holding mine!"

You take their gloves hands and pair them together, smooching the back's of their knuckles starting with Wishbone as apology for gifting Thirteenth your glove first. The two look uneasy for a beat, eyes softening a second from being simultaneous. If Wishbone closes their eyes and thinks hard enough, the heat of Thirteenth's palm almost reminds them of yours. Holding Wishbone's hand, Thirteenth fondly recalls the texture of your glove brushing their fur.

"Well?"

Thirteenth sucks air through their teeth, the switching of their tail giving way to their true feelings. "I guess it'll work."

"Yeah....." Wishbone admits, beaming from ear to ear, absolutely dumbstruck you'd give them something with so much meaning. They can't let you down now. "This will do."

"Ahhhh, I'm so proud of you too!"

Squealing with glee, you throw your arms around the two - trapping them in a group hug. Thirteenth's tail wraps around your leg as Wishbone's large paw rests gently on your back.

The two didn't have a lot in common, very few things realistically - but their sole interest in one special clown kept them from killing each other and taking the world down with them.

[heich0e]

vash wears his signature round-framed glasses every day, and has for all the years you've known him. he's not particularly shy about anything, but he freely admits to having terrible eyesight and an absolutely insane lens prescription to anyone who asks.

nai on the other hand outrightly lies about it.

his eyesight is every bit as bad as his twin's—worse, sometimes, because he gets tension headaches that affect his vision that vash has never suffered. but in contrast to his brother, he wears contact lenses at all times to keep that secret hidden. he doesn't reveal much personal information in the first place, and his frosty demeanour is enough to put anyone off from prying, but you really would swear that someone as perfect as nai has the 20/20 vision that he claims.

except one day, during midterms, you show up unexpectedly at the twins' apartment to drop off a textbook that vash had forgotten at the library the night before in his exhaustion-induced stupor. you have to pass his place on your way to campus anyway, so you stop by to return it to him bright and early—knowing he'll need it in last minute preparation for his test that day.

but it's not vash who answers the door when you come knocking, it's nai. he's more dishevelled than you've ever seen him; in a pair of track pants whose elasticated legs are lopsided—stuck at different points on either side, one resting at his left ankle and the right about a quarter of the way up his calf—and a rumpled t-shirt, his bright blonde hair sticking up on one side. he must have just woken, you realize quickly. it's early in the morning, after all, and he's in the throes of midterms too. premed midterms at that. but you just never quite expected someone like nai to even be capable of being dishevelled, much less succumbing to any sort of academic pressure, seeing as he's always so frighteningly well put-together.

"you're wearing glasses."

any lingering softness of fatigue in nai's expression is immediately replaced by a much more familiar look of ire.

"what do you want?" he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

he doesn't take the glasses off, you notice. part of you wonders if it's only because that would be like admitting defeat.

"vash left this at the library yesterday,"—you lift the textbook in your hands, holding it before you like a peace-offering—"i know he needs it for-"

nai snatches the hardcover from your grip before you can even finish your explanation.

"is that all?" he asks you coldly. you know he only bothers to do it—only grits his teeth and bears it—because if there was something else you'd come there for, and he kicked you out before you'd gotten the chance to do or say it, vash would be upset with him later.

you purse your lips in thought as he stares you down from behind the lenses of his glasses—cold blue piercing though the clear glass. after a moment's consideration, you laugh lightly.

"they really suit you," you remark with a smile.

nai slams the door in your face before you can say anything else.

[dollwritesarchive]

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!prize!reader, dub con, manhandling, rough sex degradation / barou being mean, name calling ( whore, bitch ), all characters featured are 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ my toxic valentine masterlist. do not repost or translate. please reblog && leave feedback. thanks for reading &lt;; 3

“Con— gratu— lations!” you spat in between ragged breaths, your brows knit tight together, your features twisted in both pain and unwilling pleasure. each syllable seemed to erupt from your lips, shot out by the force of Barou’s hips pounding into yours from behind. each time, you bite back a hoarse squeak, your feet stomping on the floor. you could feel the grate in his locker imprinting against your cheek the harder he pushed your head against it, his other hand was clasping your wrist— the hand that you’d used previously to attempt to coerce him into a gentler victory celebration now successfully restrained.

Barou was snorting through his flared nostrils, dark eyes wild  with lust and adrenaline, and each time he bucks his powerful hips, he fills you to his hilt, and none too gently. “You don’t seem very excited for me.”

you bite down harshly on your lower lip; his voice was deep and raspy, and the hot puffs of breath on the back of your neck as he fucks you like a feral animal raised your hairs on end.

“I was promised an eager fucktoy,” it was a hiss, as if he were disappointed in your services. however, his body told a completely different story. he was throbbing in your guts, and each time he rams into your depths, you pull yourself forward against the locker. with nowhere to go, you tremble, impaled on him. “Instead, I get a whiny bitch that can barely even take me.”

your hand, the one not balled into a tight fist down and wrenched behind you, pushes flat against the locker, trying to push back against his strength— just to get your face off the harsh, cold metal. “I’m— trying—“ you whimper, indignant. you typically didn’t mind your stay or your contract in Blue Lock; most of the boys were needy, but never hurt you. this was your first time with the beast that was Barou Shoei, and you were blindsided by just how little he cared about your body. he twisted you up into whatever position he desired, like you were nothing but elastic, and fucked you so brutally that you knew you’d be sore for days to come. you could only hope that the next victor would be content with using your mouth instead.  “y—you’re being too rough, that h— hurts!” you felt as though you were being ripped open. with each, greedy thrust, Barou was battering your limit, and he didn’t seem to plan on stopping any time soon.

“‘Cause you keep trying to run from my cock,” Barou  released your wrist and your face simultaneously, both hands clamping against your shoulders to lock you in place. naturally, both of yours follow, nails biting at his forearms. maybe you were just trying to hold on to something as he drilled you with more aggression, as if emphasizing his following point. “I know it hurts, but I wouldn’t have to be so rough if you would just be still and take it, like you’re supposed to.” your calf muscles burned, and that when you realized you were struggling on your tip toes, the velocity of each thrust nearly sweeping you off your feet. “Come on, whore,” he snarls, grinding his teeth, “stick it out for me. Give it up.” you were practically screaming— the shrill moans hardly even sounding like yourself, but you obey. arching your back as tight as it would go, your feet dangled just above the floor as the strength behind his merciless fucking took over. as if you were perched on his lap, his lower half supports your weight so he can pound upwards, and you slammed down to meet him. 

“Fuck!” you cry out, planting your palms on either side of your ass, fingers pressing into the muscle pads of his lower abdomen. like caressing pure steel. if you could just get a moment of reprieve, push yourself up and away from his pistoning hips, you could try to regain some control over your own body. but he was granting none of it. 

his fists grip your waist instead, both hands so massive that you swear he can almost interlace his fingers around you, and he pulls you down harder. “That’s better,” he grunts in approval; the bestial edge to his voice in your ear eliciting a surprised mewl, “now you’re starting to sound like you like it.” 

[otterloreart]

Takara Pony model file (.blender)

Linked is the file for the Takara pony I made (pictured above in pink). As a reminder, this is made from scratch and I don't have my own takara pony but I used as many references as possible. The joints are ball-joints but will require some additional work to use them properly, the joints need a bar across the opening to attach a hook and elastic to.

see below, black bar is a metal rod, blue S is an S-Hook and red is an elastic.

And this would be roughly how to string it, this is inspired by Dollightful's bunny doll but I also advise that the elastic between the legs be pulled upto the hoop as well if possible. The head is not a ball joint, the head + body and head + nose are meant to come together with a peg-in-socket. For the head, the tightness of an elastic should keep it on ideally, but honestly I don't know if the nose will stick in perfectly and might need to be glued, I'm not sure.

In addition to the ball-jointed takara pony, who is 9 separate pieces, I included a simple little sculpt of the "baby pony" takaras. These are just 2-part sculpts and don't need elastics or anything, they have a "peg" and "hole"

Takara baby ponies are already common on the market so I'm not sure if anyone will actually want the babies but I included it anyway. The eyes + nose are just cosmetic, the whole head is just one piece.

Anyways, a reminder that I don't have a 3D printer so I haven't tested it but feel free to download and play with the files and print them yourself if you have a 3D printer! Please credit and also tag me so I can see if someone prints them!

[dxckgrxsonx]

soo… can we get more dickpic storyline?? IM ON MY KNEES BEGGING YOU 🙏🙏🙏😩😩

okay. so this took longer than i wanted. on the upside, i've got about seven different scenes half written out because this fought me every step of the way.

Jason gets a little jealous in this one which i will explore in the next part ;)

MASTERLIST // SERIES MASTERLIST

**

“Do you have to go?”

Panic snaps tight like an elastic band around your chest and you whirl a full hundred-and-eighty degrees to face Jason, breath still frozen solid in your throat.

There’s a pout settled on his face, bottom lip pushed out just slightly, eyes downcast. He looks almost…pathetic really for someone who has the potential to be dangerous. A mean looking bruise grabs at his jaw and annoyingly, it almost makes you cave right there and then.

“Will you stop doing that!” You snap, pitching a tube of lipgloss in his direction. “The idea of dying from a heart attack is so embarrassing. I either die in an epic shoot-out, or I simply just do not die.”

Catching the tube with one hand Jason grumbles and flops face-first onto your bed, “I can’t believe you’re leaving me.” He whines, voice muffled by the duvet. “I bought us facemasks. You’re denying me beautifully moisturised skin. This is the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

“Aw, poor baby.” You mock, standing up from your dresser and draping yourself across his well muscled back. “Is this worse than the time I blew up your microwave? Or the time you asked me to look after your plants and I accidentally killed them?”

Grabbing a pillow, Jason reaches behind him and wacks you with it, “You’re a horrible person and you’re going directly to hell.”

Sniggering, you balance on your knees as Jason shifts underneath you. Once he’s settled so he’s facing upwards you seat yourself comfortably on his stomach. Jason looks at you with nothing but disappointment when you request his attention by sticking a finger in his mouth, but you ignore him and ask, “Will you be there?”

“Get your fucking finger out of my mouth before I bite it off.” He garbles.

“What was that? I can’t understand you.” Grinning to yourself, Jason rolls his eyes and sinks his teeth into your finger. He bites down hard enough for it to fucking hurt and you yell whilst yanking it free. “That was attempted murder. You’re definitely going to hell with me.”

Jason doesn’t reply and you feel the pause in the air. It makes you nervous and you can’t decide if it’s in a good way or not.

“You look really nice.” He suddenly blurts out, and you pause in your anxious examination of your now injured finger. He swallows thickly when you look at him like he’s grown another head, pink splotching clumsily across his cheeks. “But you’re missing something.”

“Yeah.” You agree, trying to control your voice without letting him know that your heart is shaking at the bars of your ribs. “A finger without teeth marks.”

The pink starts dipping to caress his throat and you shift just slightly on his lap, getting worked up about just how far down that colour could reach if you pushed him a little more.

Opening his palm, Jason reveals your lipgloss and he twists it open. You expect him to hand it over to you so you can apply it yourself, but Jason–forever full of surprises–reaches out his steady hand and goes to apply it for you.

His swipes with the wand applicator are precise and you rub your lips together to get them evenly coated, but you end up smudging a small blob of gloss at the corner of your mouth.

Jason’s lips quirk up at the edge and he silently wipes the excess away with the pad of his thumb before you get a chance to even raise your hand.

“There you go.” He says, and his voice is thicker than normal, heavier. “Now you look perfect.”

You find yourself lost for words.

It doesn’t happen often. But sometimes you find yourself grasping at thin air, letters slipping between your fingers like sand.

Well, that's not entirely true.

The right letters are there, but you just don’t know how to hold them yet. And you don’t know what would happen if you stopped hoarding them behind your teeth.

How strange that the fear of something unknown can keep you from being happy; how unbelievably human that is.

Touching the tips of your fingers to the bruise on Jason's jaw you sigh, almost like it’s causing you pain. The colour is dark–recent–not yet starting to heal. Jason exhales and tips his head to the side, baring his throat and letting you explore the edges of the bruising. His eyes slip closed and there's a yearning throb inside you swelling up at just how much trust Jason has in you to be vulnerable.

His hands come to rest on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. Sweeping your fingers at the very bottom of the discolouration something catches your eye.

A thin white line stretching across his jugular.

It looks like he’s had this throat sliced open.

Pulling your hand back you say Jason’s name in a near horrified whisper and he turns his head to look at you. There’s something there, written in the lines of his face and the way he looks at you–like you’re everything–but neither of you say a word.

A sudden smile lights up your face despite the sharp wedge of something like grief in your chest and you plant a sticky kiss across Jason’s cheek, “Mwah!”

“Fuck you so much.” Jason says, shoving your head away and wiping the lipgloss from his cheek, but he smiles back at you, Lazarus eyes glittering. “For the record–”

“Oh no you don’t. If the next words out of your mouth are something stupid like, ‘for the record I know you ate the leftover pizza in my fridge last night’ then I’m not listening.”

“For. The. Record…” Jason starts again, “If you’re with me in hell. Then it’s not hell.”

“You’re such a fucking sap, Todd.” Shoving your entire palm in his face he makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat and swats at your thigh. “Sweet talk isn’t going to make me stay home tonight. I’m going out and it’s going to be fun!”

**

You’ve got seven messages to say your friends are waiting outside and you wrestle open your door with a growl then turn to face Jason who’s sprawled out on your couch.

“If I don’t text you by one–”

“I’ll come look for you.” Jason finishes. He’s got a mug of tea in his hands and he picks up the book he left on your coffee table the last time he was at your apartment. “Have fun! Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Pfft. I’ve never been stupid a day in my life.”

“Hey! Remember that time when you–”

“Nope!” You interject loudly whilst Jason laughs. “I’m leaving now.”

**

Your shoes keep sticking to the floor.

Resting with one elbow on the bar you sip at your drink and throw a glance around the crowded club. Bodies are jammed together on the dancefloor and as the music swells the crowd rises to match. The entire atmosphere is electric, the push and pull of thrumming bass and alcohol making your hips sway easily to the beat.

“Well hello there, pretty thing. Can I buy you a drink?”

Pointedly glancing down at the glass in your hand with a slight quirk of your mouth you look up and make eye contact with the guy standing beside you. The first thing you notice is that he looks completely out of place; like he would be more at home somewhere quiet. He fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt and you quickly realise that he’s nervous.

It’s almost endearing if not for the whole ‘pretty thing’ thing.

“God.” He says, laughing to himself and rubbing the back of his neck. “That was absolutely horrible–there’s literally a drink in your hand. I’m so sorry. I must admit, this isn’t usually something I do.”

Across the club you watch as your friends zero in on you, waiting for any sign you need intervention–or an escape. Just the knowledge that they’ve got your back is enough for you to loosen your shoulders slightly.

The air around you twists and swells. Someone else has your back too.

“I agree. That was horrible. I mean, pretty thing? Really?” Someone says from behind you, their voice eerily familiar and sharp. A firm arm snakes around your middle and the memory of having that same thick arm wrapped around you whilst you slept flashes bright behind your eyes. “She’s not interested.”

You've never heard Jason sound like that before. He sounds almost possessive, maybe even jealous and it feels like someone just jammed a taser into your ribs and shot you full of fifty-thousand volts.

“The fuck are you doing here?” You ask, leaning back against his chest, skin warm and buzzing. “But also, thank fuck you’re here. Did you hear that guy? Pretty thing? Seriously? I’ve never felt more objectified.”

Jason laughs and rests his head on your shoulder, “It was boring waiting for you to get back and I didn’t feel like doing facemasks on my own. What are you drinking?”

“Something fruity.” Comes your response and you lift the glass so Jason can take the straw between his teeth. “Are you sure you didn’t just miss me?”

Humming as he takes a sip Jason lets the straw go and turns so he can press his mouth against the shell of your ear, “And if I did miss you?”

Your whole body shudders at the tone of his voice and you just barely manage to stop the whine from coming out of your mouth. His arm tightens around your waist and you can’t deny just how good it feels to have him close like this.

“You could have just called. I would’ve come home, you know?”

“I did call.” Jason rumbles, and you pull out your phone to check. “See. I called you twice and you didn’t answer. You’ve really hurt my feelings.”

“Oh here we go again. You’re always talking about your feelings.” Jamming your elbow backwards and into his ribs, Jason recoils in offence. “I hurt your feelings when I stole all your socks. I hurt them when I burnt that cake in your oven. I even hurt them that one time I laughed when you fell down the stairs.”

“I can’t help that I’m sensitive!” Jason defends, the pitch of his voice touching the roof. He shifts to pinch your waist and you smack the back of his hand.

Patting his arm you spin around to face him, and when you glance up at him you suddenly turn thoughtful–emotional.

“You’ve just got a big heart.” You say softly, reaching up to brush your fingers through the white streak in his hair. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Jason pauses, and you let your hand drop back to your side.

“And yet you laugh at me when I fall down the stairs.”

“Of course.” You deadpan. “Because it’s really fucking funny.”

**

You took your shoes off a few blocks back and they’re hanging from your fingers as Jason gives you a piggy-back ride home. You were fine until you stepped one foot outside the club and then the hit of somewhat fresh air sent your head spinning.

“I really hope my ass isn’t out.” You mumble, head resting on his shoulder. “No one needs to see what underwear I’ve got on.” Jason sighs like every word out of your mouth causes him physical pain. “At least I hope I’ve got underwear on.”

“You are a goddamn disaster.” He says, mostly to himself. Shifting you further up his back when you start to slide down he grumbles, “For fucks sake you’re not making this easy.”

“I live to please.”

“I think I might actually hate you just a little bit.”

“Rude. Now you’ve hurt my feelings.”

“Now, now, pretty thing.” Jason mocks. “Having your feelings hurt is my thing, not yours. So shut up.”

Breaking out into giggles you tuck your face into Jason’s neck and sigh, “The only person I want to call me pretty is you, Jay.”

“Well I’m not going to do it now.”

Without thinking you sink your teeth into his neck and bite down hard enough for it to bruise. Jason stops dead in the middle of the street, his rough hands flex around your thighs and you honest to god hear him moan.

It sounds almost exactly the same as it does on the videos and you shiver.

“Y’make such pretty noises, Jason.” You praise, and run your tongue along the indents of your teeth in his skin. Goosebumps flare up his forearms and you feel him swallow. You wonder for a split second if he’s blushing again. You wonder how far down it goes this time. “My sensitive boy.”

Yawning loudly, you slump your head back against his shoulder, and Jason starts walking forwards again, his pace uneven.

“M’tired.” You slur, half asleep.

“Almost there.” Jason reassures, “My pretty girl.”

**

[captain-hawks]

BAD HABIT

♡ — aki hayakawa x f!reader

You should know better than to challenge Aki with a bargain, not when he knows exactly how to take you apart.

18+ ONLY

wc — 1.7k

prompt — thigh riding, spit kink (requested by @dabisdancer) additional content — NSFW, 18+, smut, oral fixation, a lot of spit tbh, fingering, multiple orgasms, squirting, overstimulation, light dom!Aki

╰┈➤ kinktober masterlist

“I thought you were going to quit,” you grouse, flopping down onto the couch beside Aki just as he begins to tug a cigarette out of the open pack sitting on the coffee table. 

An amused huff escapes his lips as he deftly spins the white stick between his fingers, leaning back against the couch cushions and lifting his hips, his other hand digging a lighter out of his front pocket. The action itself is mundane, and yet it’s so reminiscent of the way that he’d roughly bucked upward into your mouth in the very same spot yesterday, a rushing flood of warmth pools in your gut at the sight.

He catches you staring, the corner of his mouth tilting upward with a knowing smirk as he brushes the soft, loose strands out his long hair out of his face. As with most days, the topknot was quickly dismantled after he arrived home, your fingers tugging away the elastic while he pressed you against the kitchen counter and kissed you thoroughly in greeting. 

“I seem to remember you saying how sexy I looked when I smoked, once upon a time," he teases.

You roll your eyes. “Well yeah, before we were dating. When you were just that serious, broody Devil Hunter, looking all…” You trail off, waving your hands in the air for emphasis, “...mysterious and dangerous with your katana and cigarettes.”

Cigarette now propped loosely between his lips, he raises an eyebrow as he speaks around it, “What changed?”

“Now you kiss me with that mouth,” you pout, reaching out for the offending object.

Aki leans sideways, just out of your reach, chuckling as he intercepts your hand and threads your fingers together. “I help protect the world from fucked up supernatural entities for a living. I feel like I should be allowed to have one vice, at minimum.”

“You snore,” you retort without missing a beat.

He clicks his tongue. “Not as loud as you do.”

An indignant noise escapes your mouth as you launch forward to make another pass at the cigarette dangling from Aki’s lips, catching him off guard this time. The couch groans in protest beneath you as your limbs weave and tangle, and the resulting scuffle somehow finds you straddling his thigh as he holds the stick just out of your reach in an outstretched hand.

At a stalemate, you sigh dramatically, “No sex till you quit, then.”

Aki’s eyes widen, and he doesn’t hesitate to flick the cigarette clear across the room, going so far as to kick the rest of the pack off of the table as well. 

“That was disturbingly easy,” you snort.

He shrugs, “I might struggle without cigarettes, but I think I’d actually die without fucking you.”

Both of his hands now free, he brings them to rest on your hips, fingers sliding up the hem of your shirt—his shirt. It takes you a moment to come up with any sort of a comeback, your senses distracted by the slow, deliberate drag of his fingertips along the waistband of your panties. You hadn’t quite made it back into pants after showering earlier.

All you can manage on an exhale is a slightly shaky, “Is that so?

He levels you with a stare, suddenly tugging at the right side of the waistband and letting it snap against your hip bone. “As if you’d be able to hold up your end of the bargain.”

Ignoring the way every nerve ending in your body goes alight at even the slightest suggestive touch from him, you mutter, “I could.”

Aki’s responding laugh is warm and rich, an edge of mischief in his tone as he grasps your waist more firmly and drawls, “I don’t think so.”

Any trace of an argument dies on your lips when he subtly shifts the leg that you’re straddling, a smug grin tracking across his face when he watches your back arch at the feeling of his thigh pressing firmly against your cunt. He holds your gaze, pushing his leg directly upward this time to pointedly increase the pressure between your legs.

“I—” 

Aki slides two fingers between his leg and your mound, dragging them against your cunt to feel the damp arousal already soaking through your cotton panties. Leaning in, a shiver courses through your body as his lips brush against the shell of your ear to murmur, “Are you really going to try to lie to me when you’re this wet?”

A whine crawls up your throat as you ever so slightly rock into his touch, and Aki’s responding chuckle is like kindling to the embers churning in your gut.

“That’s what I thought,” he rasps.

He can read you like a fucking book.

You let out a sound of frustration as he pulls his hand away, only to inhale sharply when he grasps your hips once more and begins to firmly drag you along his leg.

“Aki,” you moan, fairly certain that your slick arousal has soaked its way through to his slacks but far too turned on to care.

And given the sight of his own lust-blown pupils, the way his chest has begun to heave, you know he wants you to make a mess.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, repeating his previous motion as his lips go to your neck, all but begging you to ride his thigh.

It’s not worth the effort of trying to save face, trying to act like you’re capable of mustering up the wherewithal to deny him. As insatiable as Aki Hayakawa is for you, the sentiment goes both ways—and fuck if he doesn’t know it.

There’s something that feels particularly filthy about this—rutting against the firm muscle of Aki’s thigh, whimpering like a bitch in heat while he loosens the knot in his black tie and flicks open the top buttons of his pressed, white shirt. The peek of his chest reveals a fading red mark you’d left behind days ago, and the memory of your teeth sinking into his soft skin as he edged you to the point of tears makes you clench against his leg. His fitted black slacks, meanwhile, have been reduced to a wet, slippery runway for your eager cunt.

You reach down to untuck Aki’s shirt from his pants, and he inhales sharply when your fingers brush over the erection that’s straining painfully against the confines of his zipper. His answering moans as you grasp him through the material spur you on, thrusting you near the edge of the precipice of your rapidly building arousal. 

“Come for me.”

His rough, commanding tone is all it takes to send you toppling into searing waves of pleasure, his mouth capturing your own in a heady, messy kiss while his hands guide your hips through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Your nerves are still humming when Aki gently takes you out of his lap and lays you down across the couch cushions, eyes remaining ablaze with lustful intent as he hovers over top of you. There’s a sensation crawling along the curve of your jaw—Aki’s finger. He slowly makes his way across your face, pausing to press down against your bottom lip when he reaches your mouth.

There’s a satisfied look in his eyes when he tracks the unconscious movement of your tongue darting out to swipe across the tip of the digit as your lips automatically fall open.

“You give me a hard time, but you like having things in your mouth, too, don’t you?” He asks huskily. 

He slides his finger further between your lips, groaning quietly in satisfaction as you moan for him, tongue greedily wrapping around the digit. Knowing just one isn’t quite enough, he adds another, his other hand cupping your sensitive pussy. Drool pools in your mouth as you suck on his fingers, need blistering through your body again as he firmly presses into your fluttering entrance through your ruined panties, the slick, wet material sliding against your tight walls.

You shamelessly whine when he pulls his saliva-covered fingers from your mouth, though the disappointment is quickly replaced by a sharp pang of need when cups your chin, drags his thumb over your bottom lip, and murmurs, “Open.”

Your lips part for him as Aki leans down, spitting roughly into your mouth at the same moment that he tugs your panties aside and slides a finger into your soaked cunt. The dual sensation has you writhing beneath him, moaning his name and jerking your hips into his touch.

Dizzy with need, all you can do is nod when he groans down at the sight beneath him and chuckles, “You want more, don't you?"

More fingers.

More spit.

More warm, sticky arousal staining Aki's pants and the couch cushions beneath you.

More everything.

Your mouth falls open wider with a moan when Aki slides another finger into your pussy, thumb massaging your throbbing clit as he pumps the digits in and out. He spits in your mouth again, and you eagerly swallow it down. 

But your entire body is on fire, and it’s not enough. So he stretches you open even wider with three digits, muttering with a boyish smirk how greedy you are as you begin to outright fuck yourself on his fingers. You lift the upper half of your body toward him, lips still hanging open, and something feral flashes across his face as he pulls his fingers all the way out of you, spits in your mouth, and then plunges them deep back into your pussy just as your throat bobs.

Aki makes a rhythm out of it—pump, spit, pump, spit—until the tightly-wrapped coil in your gut snaps, and you sob in pleasure as your climax gushes from you, squirting all over his palm and up the white sleeve of his shirt.

“Fuck,” Aki exhales, dragging a hand through his hair as he looks down at your debauched form, tits spilling out of your rucked up t-shirt, cum dripping from your glistening folds.

And even though your limbs feel entirely boneless, your cunt pulses with anticipation anyway at the clink of his belt as he takes out his thick, flushed cock and rubs its leaking head against your overstimulated clit.

— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!