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cheollipop · 10 months

Text

move

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pairing: pole dancer!choi san x club owner!reader (fem)

w.c.: 3.3k

tags: smut, ft. pimp!woo

song rec: 'move' by taemin

with his toned thighs wrapped around the pole, sweat glistening under the changing lights, you felt the urge to wipe the cocky smirk off the new hire's lips. but little did you know, choi san loved performing for a crowd.

warnings: this —in white— is san's outfit for reference (except tighter, cheaper-looking and with a different chain), mentioned mxm, reader has one drink but everything is consensual, switch!san (shorty give me whip-whiplash), mean!reader, she's a badass though, public sex, unprotected sex (👎), san has a nipple piercing, some nipple play (m), multiple orgasms (m), multiple creampies, some edging, overstimulation, a hint of breeding/impreg kink, voyeurism/exhibitionism, degradation, so much dirty talk, nicknames (sannie, pretty boy; miss, darling), I think that's all (?)

A/N: this is for my lovely, pretty, gorgeous, insanely kind, amazing, genius, and beautiful alyssa (@kitten4sannie) <3 I'm sorry this took over a month to get to ;; I really hope the wait was worth it though!! happy reading~ ^^

nsfw under the cut—minors dni!! 🔞

Scrunching your nose at the rancid odour of sewage, your heeled boots clacked against the pavement leading to the guarded club entrance, digging into your coat pocket and fishing out a stack of bills to lay gently in front of the homeless man’s sleeping bag. You passed by him every night, his yellow grin a stark contrast to his surroundings—fetid air driving everyone in the area to hold their breath, disease-ridden rodents and pretentious high school dropouts with one too many stacks of their daddy’s money crawling around in the vicinity.

You walked past the burly guard at the front, watching his ninety-degree bow from the corner of your eye as you stepped into the club. It wasn’t the best area to run such business, but you got enough loyal customers—mostly rich men lying to their wives—to pay the bills. You supposed you should be thankful to your father for that, the wretched bastard leaving his only daughter to run this shithole.

You walked down the short hallway and into wide room, blues and purples illuminating the shiny tile and peeling walls as you carried yourself to the bar near the entrance. The rusted stool creaked as you rested your body weight down on it, ignoring the young bartender as she scrambled to make your usual drink, drops of expensive liquor flying over the bench before she dropped a decorated glass in front of you. Giving her a tight-lipped smile, you wrapped your fingers around the cup and allowed the bitterness to sink into your taste buds.

Sitting sideways at the bar, forearm flat on the surface with the drink loosely held in your hand, you focused your eyes on the man to your left, moving his body around the pole anchored in the middle of the room. Cheap, glittery fabric pressed into the skin of his toned chest, stretching around his biceps until a peak of his warm skin tone shone through the white. His thighs wrapped around the pole, the muscles bulging as he held himself up and rolled his body around the metal rod, a dainty belly chain loose around his narrow waist, head rolled backwards to stretch out the column of his freckled throat. You could tell he was trying to show off his rounded backside, but his movements carried a certain stiffness that made you scoff. The customers spread out on the seats surrounding the stage—a mix of older, unhappily married men, and younger, broke college students who couldn’t afford a fancier club—didn’t seem to mind as much, taking in his lousy attempt of an arch and the prominent bulge pressing against the thin material of his shimmering bottoms, ogling eyes zeroing in on the metal bar piercing his nipple as it occasionally brushed against the pole.

He lowered himself down onto the LED flooring on his tiptoes, maintaining the graceful stance as the song came to an end, feline eyes flitting upwards to bore into yours. He oozed confidence, the air around him almost unbreachable, and for a reason you couldn’t place your finger on, the cocky curl of his lips irked you, your eyebrow twitching in irritation at the shameless show of brashness.

Veiny arms circled your shoulders, a familiar rasp in your ear, “that’s the new hire I was telling you about. Pretty neat, don’t you think?” His dark brown locks tickled your temple, curved nose nuzzling into your hair.

You hummed in agreement, “Mm, good job, Woo. He’s pretty.”

“And tight, ‘tried him out myself,” you could hear the smirk in his voice, proud of his take on a job interview.

You reached back to smack his shoulder, a faint smile on your lips. “He’s a little too confident for someone who can’t even arch properly, though,” you critiqued, narrowing your eyes at the man now bent over in front of the small crowd, thick fingers wrapped around the pole while he attempted to move his stiff muscles.

“He’s not that bad,” Wooyoung rolled his eyes, tracing over the man’s plump ass with his eyes as he played back the events from the previous night in his mind, the throaty moans and whimpers still fresh in his ears.

“Even you can do a better job than him, and that’s saying a lot.”

Two fingers pinched your upper arm through the blazer covering it, Wooyoung’s unamused huff blowing over the shell of your ear. “If you’re so displeased by his performance, why don’t you teach him how to do it yourself?” He pushed back the image of the man’s narrow waist and puckered hole, replacing it with the memory of the private show you’d put on for him the week before.

While Wooyoung was too busy fighting off the sudden tightness in his pants, you contemplated his words—despite knowing he’d spoken them humorously. Tightening your hand around your drink, you brought it up to your lips and gulped down the rest of it, pushing Wooyoung off you and standing up. He scrambled to find his footing, caught off guard by your brassy stride towards the center of the room, aiming towards the occupied chair right across the stage.

With a hand on the college freshman’s shoulder, you pulled him off the worn-down leather, sitting down in his place and watching him scurry away with a hand halfway down his pants. Redirecting your attention towards the handsome man in front of you, his gaze instantly locked with yours, and something in his eyes gave away that he knew who you were. His hips swayed with more finesse—still not up to your standards—and his expression contorted to mimic a state of ecstasy. He was trying to impress you.

You watched for a few seconds, until he bent down lower, the pathetic arch of his spine pushing the words off your tongue, “Choi San, was it?” your voice cut through the music. “It seems like Wooyoung may have spoken too highly of you. I’m a little disappointed,” you took pleasure in the slow erasure of his cocky smirk, his movements faltering as he took in your words, hints of discontent evident in your tone. “Stand up straight, pretty boy.” You leaned forward in your seat, resting your elbows over your thighs as you watched him hesitantly part from the pole to straighten up. A smirk—a sign of power, perhaps—found its way onto your lips, “why don’t you grind on that pole for me? Since you seem so confident in yourself.”

Red tinted the shell of his ears, and you wondered how a few words could have affected a man like him so easily, as though he wasn’t standing in a room full of people ogling at his body, two pieces of glimmering fabric hiding him from their deviant gaze.

You could almost see the thoughts churning in his pretty head, dubiously reaching for the pole once again, standing behind it and beginning his decent into a full squat. Firm muscle bulged out of his thighs, oiled, tan skin reflecting the moving lights shining over his figure, his clothed bulge trapped between the metal and his abdomen. His hands remained above his head as he sunk lower, the cropped material of his shirt riding up to reveal more of his flushed chest. You watched him wordlessly, eying the deliberate brush of his nipple piercing over the pole, a muted ‘clink’ drowned under the music. Your eyes moved back to his face, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and his eyebrows drawn in, and when you trailed down his body, your lips only curled further: his half-hard length pressing against the scratchy fabric, a wet patch spreading through the material and shimmering alongside the glitter. You may be starting to understand Wooyoung’s strange infatuation with the man.

You pushed off the creaky leather, smoothing down your suit before taking a few steps onto the round LED flooring, standing next to the crouched man and watching him twist his head to look up at you.

It was known rule everywhere that the dancers were not to be touched, and you figured your next move would probably be setting a bad example in front of your customers, but your clientele consisted mostly of regulars, people who knew you to be the boss. People who knew you made the rules.

You reached down to grab his face, fingers digging into his jaw and angling it further upwards, “you’re too stiff.” Your lips curved at his attempt at pushing away, nose scrunched up in defiance.

“’m not stiff,” he retorted weakly, words muffled through the tight squeeze of your fingers around his face.

“What’s the matter, Sannie, did Youngie fuck you too hard last night? Can’t even arch your back properly?” You gave his head a firm shake with every rhetorical question, pouting your lips in faux sympathy. His cheeks heated up under your touch, the pretty pink bleeding down his neck and chest as your aired out his nightly endeavors.

“I can arch my back-”

“My club is gonna run out of business if you keep running your mouth instead of doing your job properly, pretty boy. My old man would be rolling in his grave if that ever happened. We don’t want that now, do we?” You watched panic seep into his features when you spoke your next words, “how will you pay off your debt then, hm?”

“I-I’ll learn how to do it, please just-” his fingers release around the pole and wrap around your calves instead, his knees falling to the floor by your feet while he pleaded. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

His touch wasn’t unpleasant, rough fingertips brushing over your clothed skin, squeezing gently while he squirmed under you. Your fingers eased around his jaw but didn’t let go, pleased to have a man of his stature in the palm of your hand, yours to maneuver and handle however you wished. “And what will you do until then? Learning takes time, and we’re short-staffed, you know.”

A dangerous glimmer lit up San’s dark eyes, a sense of danger churning in your gut. Skilled hands slid up your legs, past your knees and thighs to settle on the curve of your hips, nuzzling his face into your palm before speaking. For a reason you couldn’t exactly pinpoint, you allowed him to do as he pleased, as though you suddenly had your own personal, human-sized cat, brimming with affection it didn’t know how to express. Siren eyes blinked up at you, a smile loaded with playfulness and mischief directed at you.

“I’ll just make sure to put on a performance they’ll never forget.”

Antsy hands pushed open your unbuttoned blouse to slide over the heated skin, your dress pants tossed and abandoned over the chair you’d been sitting in, lace panties dangling off the ankle resting on San’s shoulder. His glitzy top scratched against your skin, forming a blister you were too busy to care about as San’s body pressed against yours with his belly chain forming indents into your navel, his cock pounding into you to the steady beat of the music blasting through the decrepit speakers, a distant whirring disrupting the audio.

You slapped his hand off your chest, a warning look in your eyes and a pathetically despondent one in his, reaching for your hand and guiding it to his own chest, a silent ‘touch me instead.’ It was fascinating how quickly San’s cocky persona vanished once he got his dick wet, his face contorting—eyebrows furrowed and his eyes lidded—while you pulled on his piercing, rolling his nipple under your thumb and reveling in the tight moans rolling off his tongue.

“Fuck, ‘m close,” he mumbled, readjusting on his knees, the tight material of his bottoms low on his thighs restricting the movement.

“Already?” you teased, sucking in a sudden breath at the new angle, his cock curving into your g-spot through his relentless thrusts, his previous rhythm lost in his overflowing lust. “What a waste of a pretty cock, can’t even last long enough to make me cum.”

You noted the rose bleeding into his ears once again, his hips stuttering and a throaty moan leaving his lips as he emptied inside you, his hot seed spreading warmth through your lower belly. You laughed as he lowered himself onto you, hovering over your torso while he rolled his hips into your cunt, riding out his orgasm with airy moans and tightly-shut eyes. Paper bills fluttered in the air, some sticking to the sweat beaded on San’s back while the majority landed around your tangled bodies.

You were about to get up, words of beration forming on your tongue, but San took a few breaths and drove his cock further into you, grinding his length between your dripping walls until it chubbed up once again. It caught you off guard, his eagerness to perform, to prove himself to you, to fuck you dumb in front of all your customers.

The slow pace he adopted wasn’t enough, but the deliberate drag of his cock over your g-spot nearly sent you spiraling, the leg perched up on his shoulder shaking with every thrust. “Ngh, do you like being watched, pretty boy?”

San’s bashfulness was nowhere to be found, replaced with a pleased smile and a quick nod to his head, “Mm, I do,” his fingers kneaded the flesh of your thigh, his other hand pushing down your right leg to further open you up for him, driving his cock into you twice before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “what about you, Miss? You’re the same, aren’t you? I can feel your cunt squeezing around me every time you look at the perverts watching us.”

Your limbs felt heavy, something in your stomach convulsing at his words. “Watch your mouth-”

Calloused fingers slipped under you to tangle in the hair at your nape, tugging sharply until your neck craned at the force, your next words dying on your tongue as he began pistoning his cock into your needy cunt, a broken cry ripping through your chest as his cockhead pressed into your sweet spot repeatedly.

“You want them to watch how I’m gonna fuck you full? I’ll give you all I have, Miss, every last drop, until you’re all swollen with my cum,” he rambled, soft lips pressed against your temple while he hammered into you, sending you barreling towards the edge.

A tingle spread through your limbs, the edges of your vision darkening, and you prepared to freefall into a numbing orgasm, but San’s hips suddenly slowed to a languid grind, his lips stretching menacingly against your skin.

“No- fuck, I was so close-”

San interrupted your complaints, “tell me you want it.”

Your eyebrow twitched in annoyance. It was as though he was holding your orgasm for ransom. “Don’t be a fucking asshole, I’m still your boss-”

“-and I’m the one fucking you stupid,” he retorted, that vexing smirk on his face once again, and you wanted to punch it away. You’d assume abusing an employee would bring bad rep to your club, though, and you couldn’t afford to lose any customers. So you settled on glaring at him, attempting to roll your hips but huffing when San’s hands anchored you down to the floor.

“C’mon, just say you want it. I’ll give you whatever you want, Miss.” He lowered his voice down to a whisper, “all of it, just for you.”

The deep baritone of his voice, the words flowing smoothly off his tongue, warm hands splayed over your hips, occasionally squeezing at the flesh at the end of every sentence, his musky perfume mixed in with the tangy scent of his sweat engulfing your senses. Your walls pulsed around his cock, sitting thick and heavy inside you while you squirmed under him, the skin of your cheeks heated under his gaze as he awaited the words he wanted to hear. After a few minutes of his relentless stare-down, cat-like eyes boring into yours with incessant demand, you gave in, muttering the words under your breath and breaking eye contact.

Just when you thought you could breathe again, his deep chuckle echoed in your ear, the pleasant sound preferable over the music playing in the background, but his words sent a wave of cold sweat seeping out of your pores, “No, no. Say it louder for me, darling.”

You huffed in exasperation, the smell of alcohol swimming in the air between you. Shutting your eyes to relieve yourself of the sight of San's sharp jawline and arched eyebrow, you missed the way his gaze flitted upwards to meet with Wooyoung’s—the man now sat in the chair to the left of the stage, palming at the obvious tent in his pants.

San gave a harsh thrust to egg you on, the shot of pleasure shooting up your spine at the gesture enough to push the words off your tongue, “just fucking give me your cum already, ‘want it all inside,” you slurred, voice breathy with hints of desperation.

San didn’t waste any time before picking up his pace, pounding into your heat with urgent want, as though he was a starved man at a banquet. It was as though he’d lit your nerves on fire, the pleasure so intense your mind went numb, nails digging into San’s biceps as he pulled moan after moan out of you. “Hnnngh! L-like that, yeah-”

There was no build-up to your orgasm, and you found yourself tumbling down a steep cliff into a valley of ecstasy, lips forming an ‘o’ while San guided you through it. With your back arched off the ground, your blouse damp and stuck to your slick back, you clung to the fluid drag of San’s throbbing cock between your fluttering walls, the sound of skin-on-skin following the beat vibrating through the speakers.

San’s fingers dented your skin with enough force to promise blossoming bruises, his breath laboured as he began to chase his own high after you’d ridden out yours, fucking into you like a madman, “’m almost there, Miss, ‘gonna make sure you’re nice and full of me,” He groaned near your ear, the sound melting away the tinges of overstimulation jolting you away from him, his tight grip keeping you in place to buck his hips into your used hole. “So full you might get pregnant- ngh!”

Driven to completion by his own words, San’s throaty moans drowned out the melody strumming in the background, spurts of hot cum adding to the white painting your walls as he milked himself of every last drop. It seemed like you were the one who had fucked him stupid, barely-coherent, babbled praise flowing into your ear as he tucked his head into the crook of your neck.

Your knee dug into your chest, and you stared at the lace still hanging off your ankle where it sat on San’s shoulder, pins and needles pricking at your muscles from the prolonged position. But you didn’t complain, simply basking in the afterglow while San’s chest rose and fell into yours. You could see the flutter of paper bills in your peripherals—more than you’d ever seen before on a slow, Thursday night—barely any of them reaching you as the men tossing them had their dominant hands preoccupied. Your eyes moved sideways, meeting Wooyoung’s, already staring back at you with a knowing smirk on his pouty lips.

Through the thick haze of the orgasm still clouding your mind, your muscles twitching with its remnants as San’s cock spasmed pathetically between your flooded walls, two loads streaming out of your stretched cunt, you realised just how much Choi San enjoyed performing for a crowd.

And just how much you could profit off that.

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rustedhearts · 4 months

Text

i hate you, baby (troubled!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: steve makes you pay for destroying his truck in an interesting way.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the sinner ✶ the library

tags: stalking (ish?); degradation; spitting; smut; toxic relationship/situation; they're so ultraviolence.

rural midwest. summer, 2008.

The morning sun blares through a pair of thin curtains left in the bedroom. You figured he needed them more than you. A soft orange hue melts over the bare, bronzed limbs of a slumbering Steve. They didn't do much to keep the heat out. Maybe that's why you left them. A gentle karma.

Mumbling his morning disagreement, Steve stirs under the sheets until they rumple into a ball near his feet. He stretches his arms, lips cracking into a noisy yawn, and finds his hand reaching for you. The side of your bed left cold and empty for three months now.

He had it coming. You stayed too long.

Steve’s eyes snap open when his fingers fall to a wrinkle in the sheets instead of your soft flesh. He jolts upright, the heel of his palm rubbing sleep away from his gaze. He had to get it together. He couldn’t stop waking up this way.

He had a cigarette for breakfast, smoked over a pile of unopened mail in the sink. Clutter covered every inch of the house. He hadn’t realized how frequently you cleaned. He hadn’t realized how much of the home was a credit to you. He never thought of how quiet it would be without you.

It hit him like a ton of bricks the moment you finally left. After years of threatening, ages of trudging back after a few sporadic days apart—you left. For good this time.

Steve cracks open a Budweiser and slings a mostly-clean shirt over his head, halfway through the can and reaching for his second by the time he flings the back door open and staggers toward his truck. Booted feet scuffing up gravel, he was far too concerned with locating the lighter in one of his jean pockets to inspect the details of his four wheeler.

Until he lifts his head to open the door.

"What the fuck?"

The left side mirror is hanging by a wire, tires drooped like deflated balloons. When he stomps to the other side, there’s a gnarly gash from the edge of a key slashed through the passenger door.

Steve's hands tremble into fists, and he chucks his unlit cigarette toward the grass with a tight jaw.

He knew just who was responsible for this—and you were fucking dead.

✶ ✶

"My fuckin' truck, are you fuckin' insane?"

A coffee pot clatters against the counter, the tassels of an apron swinging with the sharp spin of a body hurrying away from the door as Steve strides through it. The door smacks against the window from his violent push, and all heads turn to watch him make his way between the rows of metal tables.

"I thought maybe it'd get you to finally leave me alone," you grumble, taking a customer's empty plate and placing it on the dirty tray. "Clearly not."

Steve slides between customers, elbows pressing onto the counter. "Get a fuckin' restraining order if it's so bad, sweetheart."

"Already on it."

Steve scoffs, head shaking as he watches you feign nonchalance over a plate of sunny-side up and ham. You place it front of a middle-aged man, who leans back when Steve crowds over his chair to point an inked finger at you.

"You really know how to piss me off—"

"Jesus, Steve, would you get out of here—"

"Hey!"

Your head whips toward your manager, who came stomping behind the counter with her arms crossed. "Take it outside."

Tossing a glare Steve's way, you fiddle with the knotted bow of your apron strings at the small of your back and bundle up the fabric. It's thrown on the back counter on your march toward the front door. You don't bother to make sure Steve's following, hurrying under the dinging bell and into the stifling air.

The bell dings a few moments later with his hurried exit, and then his boots are clomping on the sidewalk.

"You're gonna pay for this," he spits at the back of your head, tracing your path toward the alleyway.

You roll your eyes, whipping wisps of hair out of your eyes when the wind picks up. The redbrick diner wall clings to the cotton of your t-shirt when you press up against it, foot kicked up to brace the sole of your sneaker. Steve's arms are folded when he appears in front of you, but you do your best to look anywhere but at him.

"You need to stop coming to my work, Steve. You need to stop calling me, and texting me, and showing up whenever you want—"

"I wouldn't be here right now if you weren't such a crazy bitch."

You scoff, flicking a strand of hair away again. The shade of the alleyway is a gentle break from the beating sun, but the heat still lingers. You hate being hot and sweaty, and you hate being around Steve.

Once you left, it took no time at all to realize how wonderful life was without him. How freeing it felt to make decisions for yourself. How at ease you were without the threat of another fight, or another crime, or more parole officers showing up.

But when he wouldn't stop knocking on your mother's screen door, or showing up at the grocery store, or tailing you on your way to work—you also realized how difficult it'd be to free yourself of him entirely. He didn't seem willing to let you leave quietly.

So lately, you despised the very sight of his stupid, handsome face.

"Yeah right," you snicker, mimicking his stance. "You can't seem to leave me alone, Steve. Don't you have other things to do? Like, I don't know, robbing some other piece of shit? Ruining someone else's life?"

Steve's jaw tightens, inked fingers cracking into fists. He lunges forward, pressing his palm against your throat. The pressure is familiar, but the sudden shift still pulls a gasp. You perk to the tops of your toes, pushed by his hold.

"You're still such a fuckin' cunt."

"Fuck you."

It's Steve's turn to gasp when a glob of spit smacks his cheek. It sizzles on his skin, dripping down his jaw and chin. He pauses, fingers still on either side of your neck. You swallow against his palm, hands clammy at your sides. There was no warmth quite like the kind that filled your body when you were frightened of Steve.

He fixes his head back into place, and you see it coming before it lands: his lips puckering, cheeks hollowing, his tongue touching the edge of his teeth before the sharp smack! The spit hits you just where it hit Steve, beading in a hot puddle across your cheek.

Your eyes pinch shut, breath hitched in your throat.

“Don’t like it, huh?” he grits out.

But when your eyes open again, they’re deliriously unfocused. Glossed with a cloudy daze, and steadied on his rosy lips. Steve’s thumb twitches under your jaw, chest heaving under a thin tank top. His arms were swollen with tensed muscles. You could see tufts of dark, coarse hair peeking over the collar of his shirt. He had his cross on, like he always did. Something about the way it shined in a streak of sun made you forget all about your spite and hateful ways.

Steve steps forward, taking you in over the slope of his nose. His chest touches yours, his sticky arms brush your skin.

“I hate you,” you whisper, but it’s so soft and breathy that it sounds like a love confession.

Steve swallows, head shaking. “I know.”

You tip your chin up and drop your shoulders, and it’s all Steve needs to smash your mouths together. A short squeak pips from your throat, and his teeth scrape your bottom lip hungrily. The fingers around your neck curl a little tighter, a little needier; you bring your hands to fist at the cotton thinned with sweat and suctioned to his sides.

His pelvis tips up, the sharp buckle of his belt and the hard outline of his cock pressed against your thigh. It sends a shockwave sparking down your spine—burrowing deep in your gut, lapping with desire. You claw at the hair near the nape of his neck, and his head tips with the desperate pull.

Steve detaches from your mouth with a grunt, pushing your head back by your neck. "Where's your car?"

You inhale shudderingly, resting your head back against the wall. "Back lot."

You stumble there together: his fingers plucking at the button of your jean shorts as you go along, your own freeing the buckle of his belt. He fishes your keys out of your back pocket and pulls the back door open, shoving you into the stifling heat caged inside.

Splattered flat against the seat, you whine into his mouth attacking yours through all his rough push-and-pull. He wiggles the jean shorts down your thighs, pulls the dampness of your panties aside to rub his thumb into the heat.

You scratch at the fabric of his tank top and push it to his chest, scraping through the slickness painting his torso. Popping the button of his jeans, guiding them over his hips and sinking your nails into the flesh of his ass. He grunts into your mouth again, hand balled at the top of your scalp to yank you away.

The look you give each other is frenzied and crazed. Your cheek is still wet with his spit, lips swollen with his attacks. Sweat gathers and collects along your throat, and he wants to lean down and lick it up.

"Fucking kiss me," you demand tightly, nails digging deeper into his skin.

Fingers still knotted in your hair, he gives your head a shake that stings—but his lips reattach themselves, anyway. Tongue swiping and swirling, teeth nipping and scraping, free hand cradling your hip to hold you down.

"God, you crazy fuckin' bitch...mm...fuckin' hate you."

You curl into him when his hot breath finds your neck, settling a suction on your pulse point that rattles your thighs. You let up on the claws, sliding your hands under the heat of his shirt.

"Oh," you moan, writhing on the vinyl of the seat. "I fuckin' hate you...ah....piece of shit."

He groans into your neck: guttural and animalistic, hips rocking involuntarily between your thighs. He fumbles to free his cock, swiping a sticky palm over the pulsing length of it before he feeds it through your legs. One deep push is all it takes, and the pair of you mewl together when it burrows fully.

His forehead clings to yours, nose brushing your cheek where he watches you falter and struggle to speak. You want to spew more insults, bite his head off a little more while you can. But you're rendered uselessly idiotic when he starts to grind his hips.

"Look at you," he breathes, and the air fanning your face smells like cigarettes. You feel nineteen and full of love again. "Hate me so much, but you're...fuck...lettin' me fuck you like old times."

"St-still hate...oh! Fuck, Steve—"

"Huh?" Steve rocks harder, skin slapping with force and perspiration gathering. The car creaks noisily under the weight of it. "What's that? You what? Tell me, sweetheart."

The lilt of mockery to his voice brings a new wave of pleasure to your veins, and your head slides back against the seat with a shrieking whine. You aren't quite sure that you do hate him anymore. Not when he's fucking you this hard, this good, this deep. Not when he's spitting words of anger full of so much love down at your beating face.

Steve snatches your jaw, pulling your head back into place. You can't quite see through the blurred haze, but you're sure his eyes are sharp with rage.

"Say it. Tell me you hate me."

His voice is steady but his leg are quaking where they're standing in the doorway, and his fingers are all but steady pressed into your cheeks. A vein along the side of his throat swells with exertion. He's just as effected by this. He's been driven just as mad.

Steve growls, picking up speed. "Say it!"

A strangled cry cracks through your throat, hands bracing his humming biceps. "I h-hate you, Steve. God, I hate you."

It sounds just like I love you, and maybe that's why Steve collapses into your chest and shudders. Maybe that's why you cling to him, wrap your legs around his hips and clutch onto all of him. Let him drain himself dry into you, pump all he has between your legs right there in the diner parking lot.

Maybe that's why neither of you say anything as you fumble for scraps of missing clothes. Silent even when Steve sits on the edge of the backseat, hanging halfway through the open doorway, and lights a cigarette. Wordless as he takes a long drag and glances at you sideways, still pink and swollen and catching his breath.

You pluck your keys from the car floor and slip them in your pocket. Use the rearview to fix the makeup smeared under your eyes and the frazzled knots at the back of your hair. Try to ignore the way Steve's eyes graze the sliver of flesh at your lower back when you lean forward.

Steve flicks his cigarette butt toward the asphalt. "Were you lying? About the restraining order?"

You settle back into the seat, sighing. "No."

He nods, thumb rubbing the cross on his knuckle. "Got it."

He pushes to his feet, and you pop the other door open to step out. The free air soothes the burning ache in your limbs.

Steve pulls another cigarette from his pocket and sticks it in his lip, crossing the hood of the car toward the street. He barely looks your way when he walks by.

"I'll bill you for the truck."

#rolly!#steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x y/n smut #steve harrington x female reader smut #steve harrington x y/n fluff #steve harrington angst #dark!steve harrington #steve harrington au

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tw1l1te · 2 months

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Can I request NSFW with Four?

YES.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, some fluff

Assisting in the Forge wasn't easy work, which you were expecting. Despite traveling with the Chain, you helped out in the shop whenever you were back in Four's Hyrule, as you could both repair any broken weapons faster and get some extra rupees for the Chain.

It was nearing the end of the day, the sun setting over Castle Town steadily. You were exhausted, you burnt your hands at least twice today and spent over three hours separating metals into boxes.

Washing your hands in the sink, you sigh for what felt like the umpteenth time today. You hear the creak of the door, signaling that Four came back from talking to a customer or the head Blacksmith.

Turning around, you smile at him as you dry you hands on the apron, hands still covered in soot, dirt, or whatever other dust that never seemed to leave your skin, no matter how much soap and water you used.

"All good?"

"Yeah. Somebody was just picking up an order they had placed a few weeks ago. All done with work?"

You sigh, "Yeah, uh, just let me put away a few tools and we can head back to the others. We leave tomorrow, so should we bring our supplies back to everyone tomorrow, or...?"

Four shrugs, "Eh, we can just stop by tomorrow morning before we leave, that way we won't have to drag like... fifteen swords and cleavers..."

You laugh, turning back to the table in front of you, taking the cloth hanging from your apron to wipe down the range of tools. It was therapeutic, in a way.

You hear Four's breathing behind you, piquing your interest at his sudden quiet demeanor. Not taking your eyes of your task, you ask, "What's up, baby?"

You feel his hands on your waist, slightly squeezing your plush hips. He's not quite tall enough to place his chin on your shoulder, so he leans his forehead against the top of your back.

"Mm, just miss you."

You chuckle, "I'm right here, I've been with you all day."

"You know that's not what I meant."

You frown in confusion, turning around to face him, "What do you-oh. Oh."

His hands were on either side of your hips, eyes unqavering from yours. They seemed hungry, yet soft, for you.

You bite your lip, averting his gaze, "Why don't we-uh, let me finish up real quick and we can head back to the inn... back to my room."

He just gives you a slow, sensual kiss on your lips.

Alright then.

"G-gah! Four wait-"

"I've been waiting all fuckin' day, Princess."

He pushes you onto the bed, your hair splaying out around you like a halo. Like a goddess, he thinks. He sits on you, kissing under the shell of your ear, nipping the lobe lightly. His hands never leave your form, tugging at your top.

"Even with soot and dirt on you, you look perfect. Like you were made for me, baby."

You keen at his praises. Something about the way he praised your very existence made you more in love with him.

"Four, I need-"

"What, baby? Use your words."

"Mm- more. Please!"

He chuckles darkly, hands coming under your top and slipping it off of you, tossing it behind the two of you. He takes both of your breasts in his hands, squeezing the soft mounds. He brushes his thumb pads over your nipples, the roughness from smithing leaving a delicious texture.

"F-fuck. That feels so good, Four."

"I can tell, Princess. Take of your pants for me, you know I love it when you're bare f'me."

Under his piercing gaze, you slip off your leggings, his hands immediately latching onto your flesh once the pesky fabric was gone. He kisses his way down your body, sucking lightly at your skin every so often.

He noses your clothed heat, eyes locked onto yours. He then licks your heat, eyes watching your face. You try to keep yourself composed, but a whimper escapes your throat.

A dark chuckle leaves his throat, "Aww, that was so cute. Let's see how many more of those you can do for me, Princess."

#twilite answers #linked universe x reader #yandere linked universe #yandere linked universe x reader #linked universe au #linked universe headcanons

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local-edgelord · 5 months

Text

yeahhhhh this is the post where I'm gonna plan my patch pants while I don't have access to them as I left the base in my apartment while I'm at mother's for the holidays. and january. and february.

defo gonna be edited in the future.

the base: pair of formerly black stretch jeans that hasn't been washed in like a year. unsure if I'll wash them before starting or keep the dirt for that crust look even though it's not *really* crust. they were bought new from the store but have been through like 4 years of near-daily wear since then. on the tight side. the knee bits are overstretched and thin and faded and weird. and so is that one butt spot, you know the one.

the front pockets have been customized to have more space, which brings in our first problem: it's overly blatant both sensory wise and to outside viewers when I have stuff in those pockets. I'm autistic and live in a country with a high crime rate so these pants are gonna have to become looser. plus, it might get tighter with the patches which would be bad anyway.

I have widened shorts before but that was by adding fabric between the inside (inner part of the leg) seams, and that makes the crotch area bigger, and I don't want that for these pants so it'll have to be by adding fabric on the outside. I have thrifted black stretch jeans and cut them up for fabric acquisition purposes so that's what I'll use. the colour doesn't match but fuck that.

I'll use a sewing machine for the widening process. would be cooler to do it by hand with nice big stitches, but alas, chronic pain. nice big stitches will be left for the patches.

zippers for the pockets are a possibility. would make me less afraid of pickpockets on the bus.

I want to add metal but I have no clue what or where to add.

I don't want it too cluttered but I do want many patches so most of them will be just plain black.

might cut holes on the knee parts but I don't know if I can tolerate the texture of that, never tried it. gonna have to test the texture of threads and flosses against my skin too before using them for patches. sensory issues suck, man.

mm that's all I can think of for now. next up: find inspiration images.

#evaposting #the patch pants post #diy punk #patch pants

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vinceaddams · 2 years

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Top 5 WORST fabrics

1. that fuckign. synthetic knit that some of the sport coats at work are made of. I don't know what it's called but I hate it. It's polyester with barely any stretch and is. so. DENSE. Worst thing to alter. Damn near impossible to get a pin or a hand sewing needle through, and sometimes it makes the machine skip stitches. A lot of the sport coats are half lined, and if you bring me one of those ones with the side seams pinned to take in, I will just take in the centre back seam instead because I DO NOT want to hand sew the lining back down to both entire side seams on that horrible impenetrable bullshit fabric. Sometimes it has a woven looking pattern printed on it, as if to mock me.

Some of the shirts at work are made of a slightly softer version of the same stuff, and I once tried to mend a small hole in one of them using a zigzag stitch and it shredded the fabric and ruined the shirt. They had to go find the customer an identical replacement shirt, because the stupid fabric couldn't hold up to a few tightly spaced zig zags. Bullshit, bullshit garbage fabric. I hate it, I hate it I hate it I hate it. Everyone should stop manufacturing it immediately. Stop making it and destroy the formulas so nobody can ever make it again. It's not even a particularly bad texture to touch, relatively speaking, it's just a nightmare to sew.

2. Faux fur. To be fair, there is some decently nice faux fur out there, but most of it is just such an icky plastic-y texture and it sheds so much. So so much, and then you're worried about breathing in floating fuzzies of plastic. And it can also be really hard to get a pin or needle through the base fabric, depending on what kind it is. I remember I had some scraps of white faux fur that I used for craft projects as a small child, and it was like that, and there was some kind of finishing (presumably to help glue the hairs in place) that made the back of the fabric all crusty. It's the kind of thing that's awful to touch if your hand is even the slightest bit sweaty. I dislike polyester fleece for the same reason. No fleece sheets or pyjamas for me, ick!

3. Really loosely woven boucle. Who would invent a fabric that frays so gotdamn much? Look at this. (image source) Awful. Falls apart if you sneeze at it. Unpleasant texture, and not even nice to look at. (Yes I chose an ugly picture on purpose, but it's not a look I like even if it is in nice colours.)

Where's your structural integrity?? You can have weird lumpy fabric and still weave it decently tight! Especially if it's wool and you felt it a little bit. I shortened a skirt for a co-worker and it was made of similar stuff, and I was worried I'd damage it because it was so loose and shifty. What happens if you walk by a tree or something and snag a thread? Whole thread comes out and deforms a big patch of fabric? Well that's what you get for making all your threads just acquaintances instead of best friends. (I hate poly chiffon for similar reasons.)

4. Poly/cotton blends, because they feel like a betrayal. You could have been 100% cotton but you aren't :( Could have been a nice comfy shirt or nightgown that could eventually be used for firestarters once it's too worn out, but no, can't use blends for kindling because the polyester part melts into nasty little black plastic blobs. Not like 100% cotton or linen, which burns nicely and leaves basically no ash. And I hate pilling, horrible hell texture, and synthetics tend to pill way more.

5. Anything with glitter on it, because it's contagious. Small sequins are also bad (see blog post linked in poly chiffon line) but at least they're sewn on and only come off where you cut them. I think we as a species have moved past the need to glue glitter onto fabric, because it does not stay glued. We have foil print, and metallic ink, and beading and rhinestones and metallic thread and all kinds of other ways to do the sparklyshiny. No more sticking glitter on things that might go in the wash.

Generally speaking I dislike synthetics and Bad textures, though everyone's opinion of bad textures is different. I'm also not fond of stretch knit, but it has its uses.

#ask #ask meme #fabric #sewing

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