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tomriddleslove · 3 months

Text

Pt 4 - Drunk words are sober thoughts.

✩ Theodore Nott x Reader

Summary: The one where Pansy organises a dinner party, you’re on the run from Theo, and bad decisions are made. Alternatively: Uncomfortable awkward tension, then smut.

A/N: We aren’t out of the trenches yet. We’ve only dug ourselves deeper with this one.

REQUESTS ARE OPEN.

Please let me know in the comments if you want to be added to the tag list!

MDNI!

Tags: Smut (duh),Drunk sex, PIV, Hair pulling, praise.

Songs: Love survive - Michael Nau

Star Treatment - Arctic Monkeys

The sun filters through the cracks in the blinds, casting an almost heavenly glow on your bed. The warmth was soothing, and you’d almost call it a very peaceful morning.

That is, of course, if you weren’t woken by Pansy yanking the covers off you, tossing them to the side.

You groan sleepily, rolling over as you try to shield your eyes.

“Oh come on! Merlin, you've been asleep for so long! Everyone else is up! I refuse to let you spend all holiday rotting in bed.” She nags, grabbing your arm as she tries to pull you up. You let your body go limp, the dead weight pulling you back onto the bed as you use your free hand to pull a pillow over your head.

“You know Pansy, have you ever considered my idea of a holiday is sleeping in all day?” You mumble and she tuts, grabbing the pillow from you.

“Nonsense. I’ll kill you if we don't make the most of this.”She admonishes, faffing around you like a mother hen as she walks around your shared room with Theodore (who notably wasn't there, his bed made.) She opens your closet and takes the liberty of choosing you an outfit as she flicks through your clothing, speaking again.

“We're going to celebrate the start of this beautiful Holiday I have so kindly provided us with. We’re making dinner and having a small dinner party. Nice clothes, naturally. Mattheo, Lorenzo and Theodore will be making the starters, and Draco, Blaise and I will be making the main, which means you’re in charge of dessert. Consider it a penalty for waking so late.” Pansy explained as she crouched down to sort through your other clothes.

You grumble, muttering childishly under your breath as you sit up, on the edge of your bed as you come to your senses.

“I'm putting poison in yours.” You half-joke, and she isn't phased as she tosses you a floral white sundress and a handful of jewellery. You dodge the assortment of gold sent towards you and you glare at her.

“There. You’ll have to change for dinner but this is good for now. We’re all downstairs, but I sent some of the boys to fetch the ingredients. Chop chop!” She calls out, as she descends down the stairs.

Pansy. She truly tested your patience.

You manage to drag yourself up from the warm confines of your bed as you head over to the bathroom, going to take a shower. You walk past Theodore's bed as you do so, and you see his copy of Little Women lying on his bedside table. Curiosity tugs at you.

It would be bad to take a peek, right? I mean, he did hand it to you that day in the library. Granted, he took it back right after, but surely that implied you could take a look.

You (rather weakly) justify your decision and pick up the book, thumbing through the pages as your eyes scan over the various annotations and underlined passages Theodore had analysed.

One in certain catches your attention. There, messily underlined, is the quote:

“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault.”

Followed by “No. 4” scrawled in Theodore's handwriting. You frown, confusion etched on your face as you try to decipher what the four could possibly mean. You flick through the rest of the book, trying to spot any other instances.

“You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.”

No. 7

I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, - couldn't help it, you've been so good to me, - I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me; now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any longer.

No. 5

You couldn't seem to find any rhyme or reason for this labelling. It was simply random parts of the text underlined every now and then with a number next to them, as though some sort of list. Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you're itching to look for more when the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs snaps you out of it. You quickly shut the book, placing it back down as you grab your dress and towel, dashing into the bathroom. You just manage to lock the bathroom door when you hear the door to your room click open, and you let out a small breath of relief. Your mind is working tirelessly, trying to decipher the cryptic annotations as you take a shower.

You finish off and get dressed in the bathroom, taking your time to avoid Theodore. By your luck, when you unlock the bathroom door and peer out the small gap, Theodore is not there, and you let out a small sigh as you step out.

You put on the jewellery Pansy set out for you and slip on some socks, combing through your wet hair as you dry it lightly. Satisfied with how you looked (you did feel rather pretty, in all honesty), you make your way downstairs.

The kitchen is empty, save for Blaise putting the groceries away into the fridge. You grin as you walk over to join him, his eyes flickering over to you as you walk in.

“Morning. You got your rest, didn't you?” He teases and you shoot him a mocking smile, rolling your eyes.

“Yeah yeah, make fun of me all you want.” You sigh as you reach for the second bag, helping him put everything away.

“Where is everyone else?” You ask.

“Pansy and Lorenzo went out to get drinks, and I'm pretty sure the rest found some sort of creek or something so I think they went out for a swim,” Blaise says and you hum, nodding.

Come to think of it, you had completely forgotten about the rather surprising development between Blaise and Pansy. You and Lorenzo had bet on it as well. Deciding to pay Pansy back the favour, you begin probing into their little dilemma.

“So Blaise, tell me. What's going on between you and Pansy?” You ask, and he chokes on the coffee he was sipping as he sets the cup down. You open one of the cupboards, storing away a packet of pasta as he looks at you.

“What do you mean?” He responded, and a small grin tugged at your lips.

“Oh come on, don't act all shy now. This whole flirting thing you have going on.” You say, vaguely motioning in his direction as you put some fruits in the fruit bowl resting on the kitchen island.

“There's nothing. Just friend.” He denies, and you turn to him, resting against the island.

“Sure. Just one thing? You're both stubborn fools. Don't let that prevent anything.” You advise, looking at him. You grab an apple, tossing it into the air before catching it as you walk past Blaise, patting him on the back.

“Right now, out. I need to start prepping the dessert.” You say, and for the first time in your life, you see Blaise ever so slightly red.

He playfully grins as he walks out, and you tie your damp hair up as you look through what the boys bought.

You settle on a classic after taking note of the copious amounts of cream cheese the boys had bought (You were reminded to never ever ask them to go shopping, and you'd be sure to remind Pansy the same.)

A salted caramel cheesecake. You decided to make the biscuit base yourself - it would serve as a good way to pass the time seeing as you had the whole day to yourself.

Before you begin cooking, you wander over to the living room. Your eyes settle on a collection of vinyl records in the corner, and you sift through the sleeves, settling on one that doesn't look immediately terrible.

You carefully place the vinyl onto the turntable, the soft crackle of the needle hitting the record filling the room. The sound of a smooth jazz melody starts playing, creating a cosy atmosphere in the kitchen. As the music envelops the space, you begin gathering the ingredients for the biscuit base.

You preheat the oven and begin making the biscuits, sifting flour into the bowl as you work. It's surprisingly relaxing, the villa is empty and you're left to your own devices, humming along to the music as you bake. Sure, you definitely weren't the cleanest baker. A simple biscuit recipe had left you with a white powder coating over the kitchen, stacks of bowls in the sink and somehow, flour on your clothes as well. You huff, dusting down your dress as you place the haphazardly shapen uncooked biscuits into the oven. It didn't matter whether they looked good or not - you'd be crushing them anyway.

It only takes about 15 minutes before the delicious aroma of vanilla fills the kitchen, You're admittedly pleased at just how good they smell, and you can only hope they taste as good as they smell.

Whilst those finish off, you begin making the actual filling of the cake. You reach for one of the bowls when a certain song begins playing, your ears perking up at the sound.

“This is my conquering song

played on a wave so strong

pulled the broke-down ride for far too long”

You lightly sing along to the lyrics, a small smile tugging on your lips as you do so. You had always imagined this song to be blissfully domestic, something you'd willingly play if you were to cook or bake, so the fact you selected it by chance made you oddly happy.

Sometimes it was the little things that count.

With a little pep in your step, you walk around the kitchen as you gather the ingredients. Liberated by the villa having no other occupants, your movements are freer, a small little (unnecessary) spin or a little break to sing along as you cook.

Now, it had been long established that you really did not have the best awareness of your surroundings. This continued to be the case now because you were sure you would have stopped immediately if you had seen Theodore leaning against the doorway of the kitchen, looking over at you.

Unfortunately for you, you did not notice him.

Theodore leans against the doorway, his eyes fixated on you. They always would be, he couldn't not look at you even if he tried to.

A fond smile is tugging at his lips, watching as you lightly sing along to the song. It's offkey, and your impromptu dance moves incorporated with your haphazard baking skills is laughable, but Theodore can only look at you and feel simultaneously so happy yet also so terrified. Terrified because he acknowledges how such a simple sight can't get that smile off his face, and the fact someone has the capability of doing that to him seems daunting. He was scared because, for a brief second, he imagined walking over and helping you. You'd look up at him with that smile of yours.

God, that smile.

You have that little impish look in your eyes, ready to poke fun at him. He does the same with you. The worst thing is if he hadn't fucked up so royally, you could have been doing that.

Instead, he pushes off the doorway to go and help you. The first part goes as expected, you see him and you yelp, spinning around. He knew your ears would turn red, as they usually did when you got embarrassed. Theodore knew you like that.

He knew you'd look at him akin to a deer caught in headlights because your mind would go blank for a second. Theodore knew you like that.

He also knew you well enough to know that, despite his own hopes of your once confused and mortified face breaking into a wide grin, it would instead fall and you would avert your eyes.

Theodore knew you like that.

He hated it.

“Oh. Hey.” You utter, clearing your throat. You berated yourself for always acting so obviously on edge when Theodore was near. He looks down at you with an indescribable look in his eyes before he speaks.

“Hey. Need help?” He asks, and you look around at the messy kitchen, before shaking your head.

You actually did, but you'd be damned if you had to spend more time with Theodore, alone. You'd either end up dead silent or stammering some embarrassing declaration. You couldn't tell which one would be worse.

“Alright.” He mused, looking down at you. He doesn't make any move to leave though, and you're hyper-aware of the fact that he is very close to you.

His hand comes up, cupping the side of your face gently as his thumb brushes against your cheekbone. His hand is there for a second too long, crossing the boundary of what it should have been. Again, it seemed as though everything you and Theodore did crossed that boundary.

“You had flour on your cheek,” he says, and you nod, drawing away your face. You turn around, praying to the gods above that they'd stop torturing you and make Theodore leave. You keep your back to him as you continue cooking, and he seems to finally leave, making you release a breath you didn't know you were holding.

You hasten your cooking after that and you're out of the kitchen in no less than 20 minutes with the cheesecake stored in the fridge as you make your way to Pansy’s room. You absolutely would not go back up to yours, as you were sure Theodore was there.

Exactly how long did you plan on running from him?

Hours have passed lazing away on Pansy’s bed, bored out of your mind when she finally returns.

“Finally.” You sassed, sitting up as she raised a brow at you.

“Why are you waiting here?” She asks, and you shrug.

“Can I not miss my friend?” You quip and she eyes you, knowing there must be another reason. She chooses not to probe further, however, joining you on her bed.

“We ought to get ready. I did tell the boys to dress nicely, we’re dignified people.”She chided as she got up, walking over to her closet.

You giggle at her swift change of actions and lean back on her bed, looking over at Pansy.

Her love for micromanaging you often was a negative, but now it could very much be a huge positive.

“Pans… You always know just how to style me right. Can you run up to my room and choose a look for me? I'm hopeless.” You groan, putting your hand on your chin in an exaggerated display of hopelessness. Her eyes light up, as though she was a little kid playing dress up, and she nods.

“Finally, you've come to your senses! I know exactly what I'm getting, wait here.” She gasps, scampering upstairs. You grin, having successfully avoided Theodore once again.

(The answer to the previous question? You'd run from him for a very long time, seemingly.)

Despite her reassurances, Panys arrives a solid half an hour later, a scarlet lace dress clutched in her hands. An impulse buy, the dress was shorter than what you usually wore. It had a fitted bodice but a flowy skirt, though it only reached your upper thigh. The long sleeves that extended down into flowy bell sleeves had to be your favourite feature of it, alongside the bustier style bodice at the front. She grins as she passes over the dress, alongside a pair of black boots.

“Dressed nicely but not too fancy. Plus I've been dying to see you wear this, so up and change.” She demands, pushing you up. You grin lightly at her antics as you take the dress, disappearing into the bathroom to change. You run your hands down your body as you admire yourself in the mirror. A hell of a good impulse buy, the dress looked incredible. The low cut was far out of your comfort zone but boundaries were meant to be pushed, right?

(No, they were not.)

Pansy gasps as you step out, pulling you over as she admires the dress, words of praise leaving her lips.

“You look so good! Oh my god, wear this everywhere.” She gushes, and you smile shyly.

“Thanks, Pans. Really. And you look incredible too, like positively mouthwatering,” You say and she grins, doing a small twirl in her satin black dress. After styling your hair and doing some light makeup, you make your way over to the dining room, which had already been set up beautifully.

The table, adorned with a crisp white tablecloth, is set meticulously with polished silverware, crystal glasses, and porcelain plates. A centrepiece of fresh flowers in varying shades of red and white adds a touch of elegance, their fragrance mingling with the soft glow of candles placed strategically around the room.

Pansy's attention to detail is evident in every aspect of the setup. Delicate linen napkins, folded artfully, rest atop each plate. You begin to feel excited for the evening, walking over to the kitchen as you look for everyone else. Theodore, Lorenzo and Mattheo are all in the kitchen, sorting panicking over the starters as they rush around like headless chickens. You step in and Lorenzo spots you, a wide grin breaking out on his face.

“Wow wow wow. Look at who we have here.” Lorenzo says admiringly, calling over the attention of the other two boys. You grin, ironically doing a small little pose to shake away the awkwardness of their gazes on you.

“Stunning!” Mattheo announces, slinging an arm over your shoulder as he ruffles your hair. You groan with disdain as you jab him in the side.

“Ow!” Mattheo complains, letting go as he frowns, rubbing his side.

“The bloody devil, you are.” He mumbles, glaring at you, A small laugh escapes your lips.

You affectionately pat him on the cheek, before turning to Lorenzo.

“What do you need help with?” You ask them, and Lorenzo shakes his head.

“Nothing. You go and rest, we’ll come serve them soon.” He says, and you nod.

You've been avoiding Theodore's gaze the whole time you've been in here, but you stupidly can't resist looking up at him and instantly regret it when he staring at you so intently. His eyes meet yours and he seemingly snaps out of it, swallowing harshly.

You quickly walk back to the dining room.

A solid 4 hours or so later, you're all lounging in the living room, stomachs full with what was a surprisingly good meal. Whilst the starters were good, Blaise, Pansy and Draco had really knocked it out of the park with the main, a mouthwateringly good risotto that you helped yourself twice to. The cheesecake seemed to be a crowd-pleaser though, with Draco having three slices.

With a glass of whiskey loosely held in your hand, you take a sip, leaning back into the couch. Whilst you tried to fit the aesthetic and sip some wine, you couldn't bear the taste and (truthfully) wanted to get drunk tonight.

It was a lazy and subdued atmosphere, and you didn't even notice Pansy, Blaise, Draco and Mattheo all retiring back to their rooms. You yawn as you get up, stumbling slightly (you had drunk quite a bit actually). You sleepily bid goodnight to the remaining two ( as vaguely as possible because god forbid you say Theodore's name) and make your way upstairs (in one piece.)

You walk into your room and kick off your boots, wandering over to your bed as you begin taking off your jewellery. You look up a mere few seconds later when Theodore walks in, seemingly equally as drunk as he looks at you. He shuts the door, yawning as he pulls off his knitted jumper, leaving him with his white t-shirt on. He throws his sweater somewhere to the side as he flops down onto his bed with a sigh, rummaging through his pockets as he produces a lighter. You can't help but openly stare at him as he does so, alcohol freeing you of what little inhibitions you had.

Something about the sight of Theodore laying on his bed, lazily smoking a cigarette with his slightly messy hair and those damn eyes….

You could see his muscles shift every time he brought the cigarette up to his lips, and you didn't realise smoking could be so erotic.

For some awfully stupid reason, really I mean, you had to question your own sanity, you get up, walking over to Theodore. You're alarmingly quiet as you approach him, and don't say a word as you stand there. His eyes flicker up to you, and suddenly you realise:

Alcohol + tension + two rash people

Is not a very good mix.

You reach down, plucking the cigarette from his fingers. Theodore observes you with a small smile, those sinful eyes of his boring into you as you take a drag, before passing the cigarette back to him.

“He was right,” Theodore says after a second, looking up at you, You tilt your head. If you were already slow at making these connections, the alcohol only made it worse.

“Hmm?” You hum.

“Mattheo. You did look stunning today.” Theodore says, voice low.

Instead of doing what you usually did (some awful combination of looking away, panicking or just remaining quiet), a lazy smirk tugs at your lips as you look down at Theodore.

“Yeah?” You question, and you're 100% sure you watch his eyes flicker down to your lips.

Theodore's eyes widen slightly, a mix of surprise and excitement flickering across his face as he absorbs your murmured words.

Tentatively, as though testing the waters, he sits up, back propped up against the headboard as he looks up at you. His hand tugs at the sleeve of your dress, pulling you down, His hand rests on the curve of your hip, massaging light circles, and you go dizzy at the feeling.

You make no effort to move.

Rather, in a bold surge of confidence that quite literally materialised from nowhere, you swing your leg over Theodore's lap, straddling him. His hands immediately find their place on your hips, as though they're meant to be there, and he's looking at you through half-lidded eyes.

You knew this was a bad idea, but the alcohol spoke prettier words than your rationale did.

“You certainly know how to make an impression.” He murmurs his fingers trailing lightly along your thigh. You resist the urge to shudder at his touch, goosebumps erupting on your skin as he touches you. You lean closer, admiring the features of his face as you speak, mere inches away from one another.

“Well, I had someone to impress.” You say. He lets out a small, wry laugh, though he's far too consumed with looking at you.

Close the gap. Do it.

You do.

With a surge of hunger, your hands fist his shirt, pulling him in. His hand cups the back of your head as he meets your lips in a passionate kiss, mouths melding together. He holds you tightly, his grip both possessive and comforting at the same time.

The bulge of his clothed cock presses against your wetness, grinding against you with a desperate need. A small meek escapes your lips and it’s as though Theodore immediately swallows the sound, tongue slipping into your mouth as you continue to make out. It’s simultaneously lazy yet desperate - hungry.

"Fuck," Theodore murmurs against your lips, his voice laced with desire. "You're driving me insane." He mutters, trailing open-mouth kisses down your jaw and neck. You moan, arching your back as you tilt your head back, giving him easier access. He wastes no time in sucking and kissing the delicate skin of your neck, tongue soothing the places he nips at you, your skin blossoming red and purple.

His hand trails down your body, his fingertips tracing along the swell of your breasts. A low groan escapes your lips, hands coming up to thread through his hair. You tug lightly and feel him smile against your neck. With deliberate slowness, he undoes the lace on the back of your dress as he continues to press sloppy kisses to your skin, undoing the top as he tugs it down. He pulls back, eyes hungrily taking in the sight.

He flips you over with alarming ease, pinning you down onto the mattress as he hovers above you, holding your hands down by the side of your head as he begins kissing down your neck to your breasts.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs, large hands coming up to cup one of them, the other holding your hands in place. He squeezes one of your nipples, pinching the bud lightly between his fingers as you gasp, arching off the bed. The sound is music to his ears, and he grins, his eyes remaining on you as he leans down and takes the other one into his mouth, tongue running over the sensitive bud as he pulls away, blowing lightly.

The contrast sends you into a haze, and a whimper escapes your lips. Theodore wants to devour the sound, he simply can’t get enough.

“Do you know how fucking long you’ve been on my mind?” He mutters, voice laced with desperation as he leans back down to kiss you, bulge grinding against your clothed cunt in a way that had you desperate for more. You can’t even formulate a response, because you’re all too consumed by Theodore. Everything about him.

He sits up slightly, hands resting on your thigh as he runs his hands up and down, his fingers disappearing under the hem of your dress.

You feel his fingers brush against the damp spot on your panties and swear that Theodore Nott will be the death of you.

Seemingly satisfied, a small smirk tugs at his lips, observing your reactions as he slowly pulls them down. He throws them to the side, and words cannot describe the look on his face as his eyes hungrily rake over you.

You needed him, every bone in your body ached with a visceral need for Theodore. Your hands come down to his belt, tugging at the buckle as you look over at Theodore, eyes glazed over as you were driven mad with your need for him.

He undoes his belt, the sound of the metal buckle clinking as he throws it onto your bed, unzipping his slacks. You can make out the bulge of his erection against his boxers and your heart skips a beat. You’re filled with this primal need to just have Theodore, you need as much of him as physically possible.

You tug his boxers down, freeing his strained erection from its confines. You swallow harshly at the sight of his cock, the tip glistening. You lean up to meet his lips in a kiss, your hands wrapping around his length as you give him a single jerk. You suddenly realise why Theodore was kissing you the way he was because the low groan that escaped Theodore's lips had you mad for more.

“Look at what you’ve done to me.” He murmurs, pushing you back onto the bed. He hiked the skirt of your dress up over your hips, eyes straying down as he spoke.

“You’ve unravelled every thread of control I have.” He says against your lips, teasingly running the head of his cock between your folds. A low moan escapes you, desperately seeking more friction.

“I’m going fucking crazy for you. I ache for you every second of the fucking day.” He mutters, and you pull back from the kiss, looking up at him.

“You have me now.” You respond.

His lips surge forward and meet yours in a kiss with renewed intensity, slowly thrusting into you.

You both let out a collective low groan as he slowly thrusts into you, and you can feel every inch of Theodore within, stretching you out so good you feel as though the simplest movement would split you open. A plethora of gasped curses escape your lips, but Theodore silences them instantly, coming down to kiss you deeply. He buried himself inside you fully, savouring the way you stretched to accommodate him, clenching tightly. He gives you a second to adjust before slowly pulling out. He rocks back in again, his moments slow and measured, but strained as though it’s taking every inch of self-restraint to not ravage you there and then.

“More. Don’t be nice.” You moan, and Theodores swears he won’t ever be the same again. One look at you, hair splayed out against the mattress, your back arched off the bed. It’s a sight he’d never forget.

“Don’t say shit like that. I’m already close to losing it.” He utters, voice strained as his hand grip your hips harshly, surely leaving imprints.

“Good. Ruin me.” You whisper, a fucked-out grin on your face.

Theodore groans, pulling out slightly before slamming back into you. You gasp, cursing as your hands grip Theodore's sheets. He sets a ruthless pace, fucking into you hard. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, though you’re sure it had to be muffled by the moans leaving your lips. It was only then that you were thankful for having a room all the way on the top floor. You both were too drunk to realise Muffliato did exist.

“God, you’re so fucking tight. Taking me so well. It’s like you were fucking made for my cock” Theodore groans, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. Your hands come up, running along his back as you lean up (to the best of your ability) to meet him in a kiss.

Theodore's forehead presses against yours, breaths mingling as he shifts slightly, before thrusting back into you. You can feel every inch of his cock brush against your walls, and you can’t help the pathetic plethora of moans and whimpers escaping your lips when he brushes against that spot, stoking a fire in your stomach.

“Theodore- Fuck! ‘m gonna…” You babble, and he lazily smirks, slowing down slightly as one hand tangles in your hair, tugging at it lightly. He experimentally plays with it for a second before harshly tugging your hair, eliciting another moan that felt like it came from the depths of your body, the line of pain and pleasure blurred.

“Hmm? You’ll have to speak up.” He hums, teasing you with shallow, slow thrusts.

You let out a whimper at the loss of contact, frustration gnawing at you as you look up at Theodore.

“Fuck, stop being such a tease. Please just..” You whimper, trailing off and he tuts, his grip on your hair tightening slightly as he forces you to look up at him.

“You have to tell me what you want. I don’t speak in half sentences, sweetheart.” He says, voice laced with an almost animalistic pleasure.

You groan, nails digging into Theodore's back as some slight form of retaliation.

“I’m gonna cum- please.” You say, breathlessly, and a small smirk tugs at his lips, his hand loosening its vice-like grip from your hair as it trails down the side of your face, his thumb running along your bottom lip.

“Good girl. Since you asked so nicely,” He muses, no longer teasing you with shallow thrusts as he wastes no time slamming back into you, cock brushing against your cervix. You moan, eyes rolling back as the heat in your stomach rises rapidly; the sensation of Theodore fucking into you was pure perfection.

“Theo…” You moan, breathlessly. He responds to you moaning his name with a harsh snap of his hips, nails digging into your hips as he grabs them tightly.

“Say it again.” He grunts, his thumb coming down to rub harsh circles against your neglected clit, sending a surge of electricity through you.

“Mmm- Ah, Fuck- Theo-“ You moan, and you’re sure you would have done it without him even asking.

“You close? Gonna cum on my cock?” He groans, and you’re sure you’ve become mush because you can’t respond, can’t think, your mind and body reduced down to one simple thing.

Theodore. Theodore, Theodore, Theodore.

You teeter impossibly close to your climax, nails scratching down his back. The sheer ecstasy was too much, and you felt like you couldn’t handle it but also like you needed more and more.

His eyes take over you, as if even though you're both inebriated, he tried to commit every little detail to memory, the way you moaned, mascara streaked around those eyes of yours.

His thrusts grow more intense, fingers working their magic against your clit as he brings you to your release. His relentless thrusts push you close to the edge over and over again,, eliciting a strangled moan from your lips as you feel his thrusts become sloppier, indicating that he was close. With what little strength you have left you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer as his lips descend down onto you, ravishing you with messy kisses. It takes one last thrust for you to be sent hurtling over the edge, a cry of pleasure escaping your lips as your orgasm crashes through your body with frightening force. Your walls clench around Theodore's cock, eliciting a low groan from him as he chases his own release, eyes never leaving yours.

It’s positively sinful, but he’s sure he’s never seen a prettier sight.

“Fuck-“ He grunts, his movements becoming erratic as you feel him twitch inside you. your legs don’t give in, though you’re surprised you have the strength as the rest of your body convulses with the sheer intensity of your orgasm.

“So fucking perfect.” He gasps, and with one final thrust, he stalls, burying himself deep inside you as he groans, hands momentarily tightening their grip on your hips before relaxing slightly. He utters your name with reverence like a sinful prayer, coming down to press lazy kisses to your lips as he releases deep inside you.

You reciprocate the kisses, and embarrassingly whimper at the loss of contact as Theodore pulls out of you, collapsing down next to you. You’re both breathless, panting as you come down from a high you've never experienced before. The post-orgasmic haze lingers over you, making you feel impossibly sleepy. Your eyes flicker over to Theodore and it’s evident that he feels the same. Your eyes widen slightly when you see the red spattering along his neck, not realising when you had done that.

In any other situation, you both wouldn’t have done this in the first place. But the effects of the alcohol had you both giving into temptation, and you didn’t fully comprehend just how badly you both had fucked up.

You roll over, pressing a teasing kiss to the hollow of his throat as he tugs the blankets over the two of you, an arm wrapping around your waist as he pulls you into him. He rests his face in the crook between your neck and your shoulder, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder with an arm wrapped around your waist. You let out a small sigh of contentment, wrapping an arm around him as his hand massages your back and side lightly, the tender feeling sending you further into that sleepy state. The sheets smell of Theodore, and you find yourself (as you often did) consumed by him.

You and Theodore both fall asleep in each other's arms, holding onto one another as the night passes by.

You had fucked up, truly.

If only you knew the consequences your actions would bring in the morning.

You couldn’t even blame it on the alcohol, for it was a known saying that drunk words are sober thoughts.

The same undeniably applied to actions too.

@llpovi @camille-1019 @lovelyygirl8

#harry potter #slytherin #slytherin boys #tom riddle #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #slytherin boys fic #blaise zabini #theodore nott #pansy parkinson #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott angst #theodore nott smut

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saintmeghanmarkle · 2 months

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Eco Warrior Duchess Sussex merching winter gear like an idiot by u/Lensgoggler

Eco Warrior Duchess Sussex merching winter gear like an idiot So, I live in a country that gets cold. Very cold sometimes. Similar to Canada.And I own one puffy coat. ONE. I bought it 5 years ago. Most people here do not own many of similar function coats - and I assume it's true for Canada. Nobody owns 3 new identical coats simultaneously. Why? Because these are fucking expensive, and buying many is just plain stupid and pretentious. We also don't tend to own that many identical thickness new hats, gloves and boots. Same reason - expensive and pointless. When it comes to winter gear, everything has to have a function. Kids tend to have two or three sets of things because they tend to get wet and/or dirty, but not adults.Blue, boots #2Beige, boots #1 with furBlack, boots #2But Duchess Meghan, the eco warrior, with a new website and last name, wears three different new puffy coats and two pairs of similar but different boots (the beige set had boots that have fur) in three days. She also wears the coats unlike people in actual cold places (we zip them up usually, or wear a thinner one). She wears a scarf like nobody who is actually cold does - but of course, if she wore it the way it'd actually be warm, you couldn't see it... And on two other occasions she has no scarf at all, so it's not scarf weather for her? She must have an immune system of steel. To Harold's credit, he seems not not give two hoots about what he wears. Has put on Invictus puffer after getting to the event, and has a nondescript layer underneath, and a very basic hat, if any. I wonder what goes on in MM's head... "This is my husband's work thing, I'll tag along and wear all kinds of different getups because this makes me appear successful and awesome because I have sooooo many clothes and accessories!! I am such an inspiration!" I didn't list the 'Valentine's Date pap shot' because it looks like she rewears the red monstrosity from the NY trip. I wonder what happens to the coats back in warm California. Will she return them? Donate them? Rewear them? I'm pretty sure WME has got nothing to do with MM anymore. Because this is a very bad look indeed, anyone with a brain would see that. A 42 yo woman obsessed with her clothes and faffing about at an event she has nothing to do with. post link: https://ift.tt/b4M9Swr author: Lensgoggler submitted: February 16, 2024 at 10:10AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

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numptypylon · 10 months

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He did something bad…

I imagine this is either post-posession or post-Dark magic use.

More faffing about with markings, because it’s fun in this style, and I want to practice drawing people from behind, that’s not a pose I’ve done… ever, before last week. I did Janai previously, and will do Rayla and maybe others too. You can find the others in the [lineless art] tag on my blog

#callum #tdp #the dragon prince #numpty art tag #lineless art

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tj-dragonblade · 10 months

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[FIC] Of Cutoff Shorts and Classic Cars

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling (Hob x Dream) Rated: E Word Count: 4337 Tags: PWP, cutoff shorts, classic cars, unintended uses for classic cars, Top Dream, Bottom Hob, Top Hob, Bottom Dream, they're doing a lot and switching up okay, sex with (some) clothes still on, sweat is sexy, Dream has a human kink, for Hob in particular, rimming, anal sex, felching, shapeshifting for sex, Dream has a vulva, vaginal sex, cream pie, eating the cream pie, cunnilingus, squirting, squirting facial, Hob Gadling 600 Year Reigning King of Eating Pussy, Dream of the Endless is a Horny Little Weasel

Notes: Inspired by this pic and Discord conversation surrounding it. Written in conjunction with Smune prompts 'rimming' and '"What are you?"' (which I altered slightly, shh). I also had to study the half-naked Ferdie gifs from Silo so much for the first bit of this. Oh, the hardships we endure for our art…

Summary: Hob has made some Very Distinct Wardrobe Choices on a warm day. Dream approves.

On AO3

~~~ "Hello, Ho—"

The greeting dies on Dream's tongue before it quite finishes forming, the sight of his friend, his lover, utterly arresting as Dream manifests behind him. Hob is wearing—is not wearing—he is clad in sturdy workman's boots and nothing else, save a pair of well-worn jeans that have been. Cut, so short, they hardly preserve Hob's modesty. The full length of his legs is on display, his calves and thighs rich with thick glorious hair; the backs of his knees. Glisten, with sweat, in the heat, and.

And.

A substantial curve, of cheek, is peeking from beneath the hacked-off denim, particularly prominent when Hob is. Bent over, the side of an automobile, tinkering beneath the hood. 1970 Triumph Stag, Saffron Yellow, the collective subconscious informs him, but he can hardly concern himself with retaining that information as Hob straightens up and turns.

"Dream!" His smile splits his face wide, and normally Dream would bask in that bright welcome, let himself smile in return, but not.

Not when his eyes are drawn, inexorably, tidally, to the sweat-damp curls adorning Hob's chest, to the. Trail, of hair down his stomach, the sweet dip of his navel, the trim soft curves where his waist flows into his hips, the bulge in the worn denim riding low just beneath.

"Dream?"

It is an effort of monumental proportions, to return his eyes to Hob's face. "Hob." He licks his lips, feeling both as though he is. Parched, inexplicably, while his mouth also waters. "Your. Clothing."

It fails to be the question he means to ask. Hob takes his meaning nonetheless, glances down at himself and then skyward with a brief smile. "Seemed sensible for working out back on the car? It's hot."

"Yes. It is."

Hob of course means the weather. Dream. Does not, and the inexorable fall of his gaze back to where Hob's shapely well-furred thighs emerge from frayed denim so short that the pockets hang visible underneath makes that obvious. Hob. Does not fail to notice, and the smirk, that colors his voice when he speaks, is warm.

"Well then. S'pose that's enough faffing about with the engine for today. Let me just—" He turns, reaches, and Dream can barely keep back the sound that would flee his mouth. The lines of Hob's arms, Hob's back, stretching up to close the hood—they are exquisite, sweat gleaming in the sun, a bead of it. Trickling down, the hollow of Hob's spine, disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts; Dream swallows a whimper, disappears his coat. He is hardly subject to the climate of the waking, but his body is aflame and he would do with less in this moment.

The hood closes with a metallic clunk and Hob turns, wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and Dream. Has reached his limit. "Come inside?" Hob is offering, and with barely a thought Dream is tasting the words from his mouth before they are fully shaped, his kiss wet and open and violently eager; is backing Hob against the side of the automobile, fingertips seeking the sloping lines of his hips, thumbs pressing over his iliac crest on either side. His touch dips beneath Hob's meager excuse for clothing and Hob's fists curl into the back of his grey t-shirt; Dream slides both hands to grip the meat of Hob's backside and squeezes, catching the whimper that rises from Hob's throat with his tongue.

"I am. Where I currently wish to be," he breathes, mouthing next over Hob's up-tilted chin, three days' worth of stubble rough against his lips; he recognizes that going indoors is perhaps the socially acceptable course but. The sight. Of Hob as he is, barely clothed, gleaming with life beneath the sun, is irresistible. He moves to the base of Hob's throat, licks flat against it, all the way back up, the salt-sweat taste of him absolutely delectable.

"O-okay then," Hob laughs, a trembling and pleasant sound, pulse eager under Dream's mouth, and Dream squeezes Hob's backside again, grinds against him with intent. The worn denim hides nothing; if he cared to draw back, to look, Dream is. Certain, that he would find Hob's interest questing out the leg of the scant garment. He grinds again, nosing along Hob's bared collarbone, the side of his neck; Hob's skin is warm with both sun and exertion, sheened in sweat and Dream. Inhales, taking in the heady scent, dizzy with the pleasure of it.

"God's bloody wounds, Dream—" It is a groan, Hob's hips pressing eagerly against his own in return, and Dream. Cannot restrain his want, sucks a rosy bruise into bloom on Hob's throat and nimbly moves to open Hob's fly, draws back and yanks the cutoffs down.

Hob gasps at the abrupt change. "What are you—?"

Dream seizes Hob by the arms, cuts off his question with another kiss, manhandles him around and bends him over the hood, above the wheel well. Dream then folds to his knees behind Hob, shoves the shorts all the way to the ground and wrests them off one leg completely, leaves them looped around the other ankle as he pushes Hob's boots apart. "Spread for me," he manages, face on a level with Hob's magnificently hairy arse, the scent of him nearly palpable.

Hob gives a breathless chuckle, widening his stance obediently even as he lodges a half-hearted complaint. "We're in the back garden, love—not exactly public, but not quite private either?"

Dream cards his fingers through the hair covering the backs of Hob's thighs, stroking up, up, over the swell of each cheek at last, parting them reverently. "None will see what we do, unless you wish it," he assures, mouth watering, and buries his face with an eager sigh.

"At least let me show—ohh—shower—nnghh—" Hob trails into a moan as Dream probes slickly at his hole, protest dying half-spoken, decimated under the eager onslaught of Dream's tongue.

"I would have you as you are," Dream gasps, drawing back briefly; he licks the taste of Hob from his lips, licks a long stripe from the base of Hob's scrotum all the way to the tip of his tailbone. "You are. Exquisite—" He licks again, deep and unhurried, tongue against hair and skin and scent—human scent, Hob's scent, rich and earthy, salt and sweat and musk and Dream. Cannot get. Enough.

He feasts, and feasts, his tongue thorough and enthusiastic, his mouth upon Hob hungry, starving, intimately gluttonous. He spends long moments sunk in this indulgence, Hob babbling encouragement all the while, until at last the heat in his loins clamors so loudly for satiation that he cannot ignore it. He shifts aspects of his form, tongue long and tapered, saliva slick and viscous, and returns to Hob's hole with focused intent. "Oh yes," Hob gasps, at that first incursion, eager and accommodating, and Dream squeezes his cheeks, scratches lightly at the hair on them, pulls them marginally further apart. His tongue delves relentlessly into Hob, working deep, gently unfurling him to full readiness; he does not stop until Hob is trembling, breathless, scattering pleas over the hood of his car—"Dream, please, need you in me, dove, please—"

And Dream obliges him, eagerly, rises up and vanishes his slim black trousers, keeps his boots, takes his prick in hand to line up and pushes. Into Hob's body, sinks in him to the root. He is stricken still for just an instant, arrested by the heat of Hob pulsing around him, the arch of Hob's spine as his head goes up and back, the sound that comes out of Hob's throat. Hob's hair is tied up off his neck in a messy bun and Dream. Itches to seize it, to hold his body in this arc, to drive into him hard and slow and deep until he is incoherent with pleasure. But Dream is not currently. Possessed, of the patience for such a tryst; he grips Hob instead by the waist, draws back, slams into him again and Hob drops his forehead to the hood with an appreciative groan.

"God, yes, please fuck me—"

Dream shudders at that, thrusts deep again, and again, sets into a frenetic pace that sends the need within him soaring, bursting with the delight of being given into, fulfilled. Hob is left panting, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth sunny finish of the hood, gleefully welcoming the fierce vigor of Dream's attentions and gasping out endearments and expletives on every breath.

"Holy shit—ahh—oh love—if I'd known I'd get—get this kind of reaction—I'd have shown you my—my car—ages ago—" The cheeky grin is clear in his voice, despite everything.

"It. Is not. The car," Dream gasps, between thrusts, the want in his belly molten and roaring and spiraling beyond any will he might have had to contain it. He gives it free rein, fucking wild and wanton into Hob's willing body, fully aware that he will reach his peak before Hob does, chasing it all the harder. The smell of Hob clings richly to his face, fragrant in his nose, his mouth; he leans down, licks the sweat from Hob's back, a sweet thrill of more beneath the sparking flaring joy of their coupling. He grips Hob by his beautiful hips, throws his head back and takes and takes and takes until his pleasure crests abruptly, erupting through his core and spilling deep into Hob.

"Give it to me," Hob moans, a half-instant after Dream has already done so, rocking back, squeezing tight about Dream. "All of it, darling, give me everything—"

Dream shudders, holds him fast and pushes as far into him as possible, lets Hob milk him through the tremors of completion. Hob makes a needy sound when he finally pulls out and Dream runs both hands down the sweaty hair along his flanks and back up, soothing him, promising him. "Hush, my Hob," he croons, and bends to drop a soft kiss between Hob's warm damp shoulder blades.

He is not nearly sated, but he would like. Something different, as they continue. He reshapes his form, trades his spent prick for the soft folds of a wet cunt, feels the thrill of renewed arousal pulsing all through him as the shift completes. He drops into a squat behind Hob, parts his cheeks again and plunges back in, lapping up the spend that leaks prettily from Hob's pink and open hole. The taste of himself blended with the taste of Hob is heady, intoxicating, unbearably arousing, and Dream. Buries his face deeper, with a whine. He is throbbing and alive between his own legs, deliberately spread open by his position; he is most certainly dripping on the driveway. Hob is moaning and gasping on the hood of the car, pushing back onto Dream's face eager and shameless, cock leaking; he has not once tried to touch it, letting Dream do as he pleases, trusting that his pleasure will be seen to, and Dream. Aches, with how easy things are between them.

When he has sucked every last trace of his own spend from Hob's hole, greedy, voracious, he places a final kiss over the open emptiness that he leaves behind and stands, wipes his mouth on the neck of his t-shirt. There is indeed a small puddle, glistening on the driveway beneath him, and he feels the trickle of slick running now down his thighs.

Good.

It is what Hob deserves.

"Come," he purrs, pulling Hob up off the car, leading him the few steps around to the front of it. Hob is still in his boots, cutoffs still caught about his one ankle; his cock is standing at rapt attention and leaking steady threads of precome. He is hairy and sweaty and ready, well-fucked but still hungry, and Dream does not require breath but still he loses it at how utterly beautiful Hob is like this.

"Dream, love," Hob declares fervently, in supplication. "You've got me so worked up—I need you, I—"

Dream presses two fingers to his lips to cut him short, hoists himself to sit on the bright yellow hood with a smile. He vanishes his boots, leans back on his elbows and draws his knees up, legs spread wide, sopping cunt on full display.

"Then have me, Hob Gadling," he invites, and Hob whines breathlessly, steps up and yanks him closer by the hips, slick smearing on the car beneath. He wastes no time, sinking easily into Dream, spearing him with feverish care and a heartfelt groan, leaning down to kiss him as well. Dream gasps and it is lost in Hob's mouth, rekindled into a moan as Hob fucks smoothly into him again.

"You taste like me," Hob says delightedly into the kiss, hips picking up into a swift steady rhythm, gliding fast and easy in the wet grip of Dream's body. "I can taste you, too—mixed in—god, that's hot—"

Dream throws one arm around his neck to drag him nearer and plunges his tongue up into Hob's mouth, hooks his legs around Hob and digs one bare heel into the furry curves of Hob's arse, urging him on. He is absolutely aflame with his need, wonderfully swollen and wanting around Hob inside him, climbing higher up the slope of his pleasure every time Hob slams home. His head falls back out of the kiss and he pants, open-mouthed, a show of arousal meant to stoke Hob's fervor. Hob draws back somewhat and Dream shifts with him, hand gripping behind Hob's neck to keep him from going too far. Hob takes hold of his waist beneath the hem of the grey t-shirt and Dream plants his feet on Hob's hips, knees butterflied out to keep himself as open as possible, the angle deep and exquisite. He lifts his head again, locks eyes with Hob, fingers the flyaway hairs at his nape that have escaped their loose confinement and Hob whines, fucks into him faster.

"You're so beautiful," he gasps, and the words drop like molten liquid into the sea of Dream's arousal, wetness surging around Hob's prick. "Gorgeous—just like this—Dream, fuck—I'm gonna—"

"Yes," Dream hisses, still holding Hob's gaze from beneath his lashes as his head tilts back again, alive with the slick friction and the glorious fullness of Hob's prick, the imminent promise of Hob's spend within him. He lets go of Hob's neck, leans again on both elbows as Hob straightens up fully, arches back and slams Dream onto his cock again and again and again, breath a torn-off whine at the bottom of every thrust. Dream moans, flexes his toes against Hob's pistoning hips, anticipation thick and warm in his belly. "Fill me, Hob—to the brim, with your—ahh—with your seed—that you might. Taste, the fruits of your labors—"

Hob whines, shudders, rhythm faltering as orgasm bears down on him. "Is that what you want, sweet?" he chokes out, desperate, determined. "Fill you up and—ahh—eat you out?"

"Yes," Dream gasps, trembling with his need of it, "yes yes YES—"

Hob slams into him with a strangled cry, pulsing, rocks back and slams in again, pulling Dream's body as far onto his prick as it will go. Wet warmth blooms deep within Dream and he moans, squeezes tight about Hob, wanting everything. Hob's hands at his waist clench as his hips jerk again, and then one hand moves upward, shaking as it skates over the grey t-shirt and up to Dream's chest, his shoulder, behind his neck. Hob's mouth crashes down against his, both of them panting into the other before Hob adjusts, kissing him fiercely, wet and open and. Zealous, with his tongue, as if he would devour Dream whole.

Hob is going soft within him and Dream squirms; it is there that he would have Hob's tongue, despite the pleasure he takes in being kissed this way. It is not the first time that he has shaped his body thus for Hob, but it is the first time he has invited Hob to partake with his mouth, and he is quite suddenly desperate for it. When Hob's cock at last slips wetly from him, he breaks away from the kiss. "Hob—" It is more plea than demand; Hob heeds it either way.

"'Course love. Hang on." He straightens with a grin, shifts, scoots Dream unceremoniously further up the hood of the car until he's got room to lean down comfortably, to bury his face where Dream is wet and overflowing.

Dream cannot stifle the sound that he makes, does not even try.

"Oh, fuck," Hob gasps, reverently, after the first stroke of his tongue. "Holy shit—oh my god—" His hands scrabble at Dream, push his thighs wide, draw his feet up to brace on Hob's shoulders and then Hob dives back in, lapping and slurping at the mess in Dream's cunt with abandon. He does not surface for at least two full minutes, during which Dream is. Voiceless, with the pleasure of Hob's tongue squirming eagerly into him, laving and licking up and down the valley of him, Hob's mouth grazing and sucking upon his folds. When Hob finally does lift his head, his eyes are fever bright and half his face is glazed with spend and slick.

"I could eat you out for days," he pants, breathless and grinning. "Fucking—ambrosial, you are, can't get enough, and with me mixed in?" He shakes his head, stabs his tongue into Dream and licks heavily up between his lips with a sensual groan, curls gently across his clit in parting. His arms slide under Dream's thighs and wrap over the top of each, gripping firmly but gently, holding him open. "Give me more. Give me all of it—"

Dream seizes the messy bun of his hair and shoves Hob's face back down with a keening whine, bucks into Hob's mouth as it opens, Hob's laugh muffled into his folds.

It is Hob's turn to feast, mouth working over Dream with boundless enthusiasm and considerable skill, ravenous and insatiable. He makes short work of the last of his own spend and then he is lapping up all of Dream's copious slick as it continues to well from him in a beautiful over-abundance of stimulation. Hob's tongue teases generously about his entrance, between his labia, warm and wet and beautiful; Hob glides the tip of his nose against Dream's clit, again and again, driving him higher and higher, and Dream is consumed by the strength of his need.

"More," he gasps out, hips undulating desperately into the press of Hob's attentions, fist still clenched in the knot of his hair. The stubble on Hob's face is a delicious rasp against wet delicate skin and Dream is febrile with the onslaught of sensation that is still, maddeningly, insufficient. "Hob—I need—" He is empty, devastatingly empty; Hob's tongue is glorious but simply cannot reach far enough inside him to satisfy. "Fill me—Hob—!"

"As you wish," Hob breathes, then kisses wet and filthy up the length of his slit and slides two fingers into him as he reaches Dream's clit. His tongue laves over it heavily, very nearly too much, then gentles as Hob strokes him tenderly from within. Dream writhes, head hanging back between his shoulders and mouth open, voice caught in his throat; he tugs restlessly at Hob's hair to urge him on, fraught with the mounting tension and his dizzying need for release. Hob chuckles, warm and fond and muffled in Dream's flesh, his fingers shifting into a proper thrusting motion and his tongue dancing prettily above; it leaves Dream shaking. Hob draws fully out of him, returns with another finger added and it is everything, so close to perfect that Dream could sob with it.

He lifts his head with effort to take in the sight of Hob diligently working between his legs, Hob's tangled bun threaded in his own pale fingers, Hob's warm and depthless eyes flicking up to meet his briefly over a particularly inspired twist of Hob's tongue. It is all so much, so achingly inexpressibly good; he can. Feel, the precipice approaching, and allows himself to be lost in the immediacy of it—in the glory of Hob's mouth hot upon him there, tongue tip drawing delicate flickering patterns all over the swollen bud of his clit; of Hob's fingers, three thick, blunt and perfect within him, pressing and thrusting exactly right and Dream cries out, back arching as his pleasure crests. His hand seizes tight in Hob's hair and his hips cant up and forward, into the source of it, thighs shaking; Hob shifts, curls his fingers sharply and Dream shrieks, fluid rushing abruptly from him, soaking Hob's chin and wrist, running all over the car beneath. Gasping, suspended in the pulsing euphoria, he rides the high of his climax, body taut and trembling until Hob's tongue on his clit becomes too much. He collapses then, pulling Hob up and off him by the hair; in the same instant Hob's fingers within him curl sharply once more and fluid jets from him again, splashes Hob square in the face.

Hob makes a noise of unparalleled delight and drops his head back down, Dream's hand falling loose in his hair. Hob's fingers are still in Dream and he thrusts with them again, curled deep and insistent, then again, and again, and again and again and Dream. Cannot hold back his keening wail; it is a sweet throbbing fullness that swells with every quick thrust until he crests again, different from clitoral orgasm but no less intense. There is fluid spilling from him steadily now as he trembles through it, not the jets of a moment before but a flow like a dam released and Hob's mouth is full upon him to receive it, lapping it up, drinking him down, careful to leave his over-sensitive clit be.

"Fuck," Hob gasps, fingers still working as Dream goes limp, wringing the last trickles of it from Dream's overwrought body; he's licking thoroughly, unhurriedly, savoring the taste of Dream as Dream had savored him, and Dream is. Sated, for the moment, pleased, a comfortable lassitude radiating through him like sunlight in the veins he does not need. Hob's lingering attentions only feed that warmth, easing him down from the heights with such enthusiastically tender skill that Dream is nearly purring when Hob lifts away at last.

He's panting, still; understandably so. He has given Dream exquisite pleasure and the evidence of it is glistening across so much of his face, wet in his stubble, his chest hair. He slides his fingers out of Dream and directly into his own mouth, sucking them clean with a pop, spreading them and licking every last trace of it from each. Dream watches him raptly; then, leaning up, he takes the hem of his grey t-shirt and wipes at Hob's face.

"I have made quite the mess of you," he observes; he cannot bring himself to feel. Particularly contrite about it, but wonders if perhaps he ought. "My apologies."

"Are you kidding?" Hob winks. "Nothing like a good soak on a hot day. Quite refreshing." He kisses Dream warmly between his damp and sticky thighs, lingering there without going further. "I really hope it's not the last time, either," he says, into Dream's spent flesh. "I loved it, and you taste amazing. And besides." He looks up, chin resting lightly on Dream's mound. "I'm very good at eating cunt, got a face built for it some say, and I'd love to put my centuries of practice to work for you." It is said sincerely, however boastful the words might sound alone, and Dream finds that he is. Eager, to experience more of Hob's skill.

"I would. Have you, again," Dream asserts, arousal beginning to whisper gently along his skin once more. "In every way that I might."

Hob flashes his beautiful blinding grin. "Well, I'm afraid my prick is done, for an hour or two at least. However. My mouth and my fingers and the toy collection upstairs are at your disposal, dove, and my arse as well—you can give yourself a cock again and fuck me six ways from Sunday if you like. But first—" he shifts, gathers Dream into his arms, scoops him off the hood of the car and straightens up, Dream's legs wrapping firmly around him, clinging. "First, I am taking you inside out of this heat. I do have aircon, y'know."

"I am. Unbothered, by the temperature," Dream allows, as Hob carries him across the garden. He smells of sex and sweat and sunshine, of Dream's release drying on his skin—a heady mix, and Dream nuzzles into the crook of his neck, inhales the scent of him, already craving more.

"Yes well. I am, and I'd have taken us inside to begin with had you given me the chance."

"I did not hear you complaining."

"Oh I wasn't, no. Still not." Hob chuckles, the sound rich in his throat beneath Dream's wandering lips. "Really flattering to be jumped out of the blue like that, actually, however unexpected."

"If you did not wish for me to ravish you on sight, your wardrobe was very poorly chosen," Dream offers, not at all contrite, and Hob laughs, a bright and beautiful sound as he maneuvers through the patio doorway of his house.

"Cutoff jeans that let my arse peek out and work boots, that's what gets you going. I will remember that."

"Mmh," Dream demurs, and sets his tongue to tasting the sweet scent of Hob's skin again as he's carried up the stairs.

The cutoffs in question, the scant garment that had seized Dream's attention and set fire to his lust, they are still hooked on Hob's boot; he finally shakes them loose somewhere on the way up before reaching his bedroom.

===== Started: 6/16/23 Drafted: 6/25/23 Posted: 7/3/23

We are probably not dealing with a 'Hob has a flat above the New Inn' situation, as I imagine backyards and garage space are unlikely to exist in conjunction with flats built over pubs in the middle of the city. Hob can have a nice suburban two-story house instead. As a treat. Also, here is Hob's car, for the curious

And listen, I don't imagine that most classic car enthusiasts would appreciate sexual fluids all over their paintjobs but this is Hob and I have to believe he'll cheerfully wash the thing every day if it means hot sex on the hood with Dream. Catch me googling whether vaginal fluid is acidic enough to damage clear coat and not finding an answer, shh

#Dreamling #The Sandman #Hob Gadling #Dream of the Endless #TJs Fics #Sandman #nsft

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lokisgoodgirl · 1 year

Note

The gusset is good, but I'm still stuck on the Ragnarok pants. I'm certain they unbutton/unzip like this. It's just less obvious. And I will die on that hill.

I mean...just look at this.

Clearly, there is some kind of fastener at the hip area. There's a gap on each side you could stick your fingers in... 😏 And my kinky little brain won't stop screaming about it.

He wouldn't even have to pull them down. Then you could hold onto that leather clad ass while-- okay, this is going in Realmwalker somewhere. It must.

Sorry for that brief interruption. Carry on with your day. 🤭

Apols its taken me a minute to reply to this @lokikissesmyforehead I just kept meaning to produce my....visual aids.

Behold, a fairly technically accurate Ragnarok costume within my possession.

So the leather pants in this speciman have, as you surmise, a concealed zip down the hip/thigh area. You are also correct that one would hypothetically not have to remove the trousers fully in order to...engage.

Now, whether Loki would be faffing around with something as uncouth as a zipper on his Ragnarok leathers is debatable. I like to think that they fasten to him like Dr Strange's cloak. Seamless. Complete with sassy personality.

This is probably more in depth analysis that you wanted but hey, that's what you get with me👍and I fully endorse you including your theories in Realmwalker 🤣

Also if anyone ever writes a fic about Loki's adventures from the leather pants pov I would like to be tagged thanks

FYI: @gigglingtigger @maple-seed @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @coldnique @mochie85 @cheekyscamp @currish-rosewolfe

#the sisterhood of the travelling loki pants #leather pants #loki laufeyson #lovely asks

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oscarlovesthesea · 5 days

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Ok, it took a couple of days of faffing around but it's done - Dead Boy Detectives discord server, open to anyone 13+! Just click the link to join.

I'm going to take the liberty to tag the people who said they were interested, sorry for the ping! @aliteralchicken @hatterandahare @gendrsoup @dead-boy-edwin @tacchihara @sam-txt @painlandpalace @wandererimsternenmeer @sandwich-101 @izartn @gendernutralghost @nic-the-rat

#dead boy detectives #i am missing a couple of people with the tags sorry tumblr was being rude as usual #link is set to max out at 100 people so if that ends up being a problem we'll. deal with it when we deal with it.#ougggh tumblr is testing me i think half of those pings didn't work? I will. fight with this later.

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revenant-coining · 1 month

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Lonenuzlichic

[pt: Lonenuzlichic /end pt]

[ids: a rectangular flag with 8 evenly-sized horizontal lines with a thicker one in the middle. colors in this order from top to bottom: light grey, black, dull medium purple, pale purple, pale yellow, pale purple, light purple-pink, pink, darkish pink. in the center of the first flag is a darkish pink teddy bear symbol outlined in pale yellow. /end ids]

[id: a rectangular flag with 8 evenly-sized horizontal lines with a thicker one in the middle. colors in this order from top to bottom: light grey, black, dull medium purple, pink, pale yellow, pink, light yellow, blue, deep blue. /end id]

[ids: a rectangular flag with 8 evenly-sized horizontal lines with a thicker one in the middle. colors in this order from top to bottom: light grey, black, dull medium purple, grey, pale yellow, grey, light grey-blue, grey-blue, dark grey-blue. in the center of the first flag is a grey-blue ghost symbol outlined in pale yellow. /end ids]

Lonenuzlichic; a loner system subterm; a gender connected to being a cuddly loner. this gender is connected to cuddles, cuddly/cozy aesthetics, loneliness, the fear of being abandoned, & lectinity.

Lonefag/Lonefaggot; a loner system subterm; a gender connected to being a fag/faggot loner. this gender is connected to being a fag/faggot, faf/faggot pride aesthetics, loneliness, the fear of being abandoned, & lectinity.

Loneghostic; a loner system subterm; a gender connected to being a ghost loner. this gender is connected to ghosts, ghost aesthetics, loneliness, the fear of being abandoned, & lectinity. it may be connected to feelings pf melancholy, but doesn’t have to be.

etymology; lone(r), nuzlich/fag/faggot/ghost, “ic” meaning of or pertaining to

tagging; @radiomogai, @thecoffeecrew404, @en8y

[id: a rosy-pink line divider. /end id]

#🪼 creations #lonenuzlichic #lonefag #lonefaggot #loneghostic #loner system #lectence #gender #neogender #xenogender #liom #mogai #category: genders #long post #f slur reclaimed

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sunburnacoustic · 11 months

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@originofpwoper the video you'd asked for!

Caveats: while it is from memory (forgot my laptop at home yesterday and that's where my sheet music is), muscle memory is a whole other thing... I'm literally thinking with my fingers phew, I have some way to go! And so it's literally like: verse ✨💫 chorus 🌤⛅️🌥🌦🌧⛈🌩💨🌊☔️🌫🌪🚩🚫🚷⁉️❔⁉️〽️⛔️❌☄️ verse ☀️✨💫

Last 1 min is shit, ignore it; this was like 5h into practise, my fingers had had enough lol. That 2nd chorus doesn't even have that downward moving bit; it goes straight into the outro but I'm literally not there yet. Too many chords!!

#faffing about #(not tagging cuz 1. it's not really good yet 2. occasional face)

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druidx · 1 month

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Her Countenance was Light - Chapter 6

CW: None AO3 ; Chapters: 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. Tag list (ask for +/-): @aquadestinyswriting @hannahcbrown @jacqueswriteblrlibrary @babyblueetbaemonster

There is a giant tree ahead of her, an elm maybe – she isn't too good with arboreal identification – but it stands proud and alone in a grove of soft moss and tiny flowers. She can smell the tree, the earth, and the soft perfume of the flowers. She places bare feet on the forest carpet and takes a step– –only to be halted when there is a flare of pain in her head so bad it makes her vision go funny, and there is an alleyway around her. It smells like garbage and piss and the copper tang of blood. It smells like cold, still water, and thick mud. It smells like her city– –but she is also still in the grove and walking towards the tree. She can feel the softness of the moss on her bare feet, even as she can feel the bite of brick under her hand from where she sways. Something is in her way to the tree. It is dark and green, and she grits her teeth against the pounding in her head, because she wants to go to the tree so badly. It's calling out, like it needs her, or she needs it, and she takes hesitant steps forward. One foot drags along tarmac, the sole of her shoe grating, the other treads softly on moss and flowers feeling the prick of rock and twig. One hand touches mist-damped air, and the other the plastic of a bin. She smiles because she thinks she can make it. She will make it. She is so close, how could she not? A needle of pain lances through her chest, forcing her rigid and air-less, as the dark thing ahead whirls around and (no. no, no, no!) it flashes glowing red eyes and (nonono!) has some dark fluid on its hands and it opens its mouth, and she knows exactly what it will say to her and "NO!"

There is a puddle of water on the paper towel. Her hand is frigid and pale, hovering above it, despite the orange blush of the ice box light over her skin. Her shoulder hurts, her head hurts, her chest hurts. She feels dry and crackly, like newspapers left too long in the sun. Elo draws a careful breath. Her chest aches, but that is all. Muscles protest, but there is no actual physical damage to her. She withdraws her hand, and the muscle is stiff. She feels like she has been standing for hours, but a quick glance at the clock on the wall says that – whatever that was – has lasted all of one minute. She wonders if this is what Candice saw when she dropped the artefact. She wonders if this was the last thing that Evelyn saw before she died. Elo pauses, wonders why she doesn't feel as bad as Candice looked at the smallest glance of the thing. It's only then she realises her hand is clenched over, and there is something in her palm.

She twists her wrist, and with some trepidation, slowly unfurls her stiff fingers. There, in her palm, rests the artefact. It is not ice. It's not even wholly stone anymore, but a mix of stone and wood and coloured wire. She stares at it, and wonders how in all nine hells she is going to explain this one.

She wonders if, somehow, she can keep this hidden. If she could not tell Farren, not tell Snips, not tell Fugit. Could say that she couldn't find the thing when Snips grabbed her and she dropped it. But it's not in her nature to lie outright. She has bent the truth a little in her time, but aside from that she has a tendency to tell all. Even when she should at least sugar-coat a bad situation, she cannot, and is blunt and to the point in most things she says. She would struggle to keep anything from Farren anyway. They know each other like the back of their own hands – just as she knows when something's not right with him, he will know something is not right with her. No, she cannot hide this. Elo glances again at the clock on the wall, and somehow she has spent another five minutes just staring at the thing in her hand, in front of the ice box. She does the maths; she's been faffing around down here for a full half hour, and Snips will have finished with Matilde and Candice, and godsdamnit she doesn't have the time for this! The artefact gets stuffed in her suit jacket pocket, and the ice box door is slammed shut and she walks out muttering curses.

"Farren," Elo calls his name as she slips into her desk seat. Her partner looks up, a frown on his face. "There you are," he says. "I was just about to come looking for you. Wondered if you'd got into trouble on the way in again, since you weren't there when I came by to pick you up this morning." There is a hard edge to his words, and she grimaces. "I didn't know you were going to do that," she says quietly. "I left at first light – I wanted to speak to Snips before he left." The glare on her partner's face lightens as he mulls this over. Then he tilts his head with a half shrug and an eye roll – Fine, say his actions, it makes sense to him. "But, ah," she tries to continue. Farren cocks an eyebrow at her, as she struggles with her words. "Something happened. Snips and I–" Both eyebrows shoot up. "–not like that!" She shoots him an incredulous glare. He has the decency to look apologetic. "Snips and you… what then?" he asks. "We had a minor altercation," comes the clipped tones of their mortician over her shoulder. Farren leans back, balancing his chair on two legs, looking between the two of them. A subtle shift of his expression turns the raised eyebrows from something snarky, to surprise, then growing with dismay. He cares about them both, and he's not sure who he's supposed to feel sorry for now. "Come," says Snips. "There is an empty interview room we can use." He walks away and Elo watches. Snips glances back, a frown on his face – because, after all, she was the one who was supposed to be dealing with that. The artefact in her pocket pokes her as she stands to follow, trailing a confused Farren behind her.

Once they are inside the room, Farren shuts the door and leans against the frame, as he is wont to do. She stands to one side, as Snips takes a seat. Elo feels restless, like she wants to pace, but she has better command over herself than that – or at least, she thought she did, as the artefact is a weight in her pocket. She crossed her arms to get away from the sensation, and fixes her sight on the copy machine, just outside the window. "Right then," Farren says. "What's going on?" Between the two of them, Elo and Snips explain what has happened, and Farren mercifully manages to keep his expression neutral. "Just so I've understood correctly," he says, looking between the two of them, "in rescuing the object from the floor, it caused you, Elowyn, to speak a language you do not know. And Snips, you felt this was an appropriate reason to then attack her." His expression is steely, but Snips is not cowed. "I'm afraid I did so without full thought," Snips says, and Elo suspects this is the only hint of an apology she is going to get. "But to one such as myself, the language she spoke–" "Hebrew?" "Indeed. This language is sacred. It should not be used for casual conversation, nor, with some exceptions, should it really be spoken outside a temple. It most certainly should not be used for the blasphemy that she spoke." "I said buggeration," Elo tells him.

The mortician levels his gaze at her, giving a derisive sniff. "While that is the English simplification, what you actually said, in this language, had a far deeper and offensive connotation. It is one that is heavily frowned upon by one such as myself, and I was..." Here he pauses, shrugs, and somehow looks the more tired for it. "Well, I was many things at that moment. Shocked and appalled that something so vile would come from your mouth, of all people. Hurt that you would say it in front of me, and angry for you to use a language I consider sacred to speak in the first place. Then, I perceived that you mocked me, by continuing to transgress against me and my beliefs. I wondered what manner of demon had overtaken you this morning, that you would do such a thing." "A demon?" Farren says, his question incredulous but cautious. He doesn't want to cause further offence. Snips closes his eyes for a moment and takes a breath. "An... ill thought, a rankling in the soul, ah... Getting out on the wrong side of the bed, perhaps." He finally quirks a smile, a little twitch at the corner of his mouth, and Elo finds herself relaxing at that sight. "Okay," Farren says, thoughtfully. "But you know now that Elo never intended to cause discomfort, harm or hurt. And she did you a solid, by not letting the object touch you when it fell from her grip again." Snips nods, looking a little abashed at that, but Elo finds the tension is back in her shoulders. She did not 'do him a solid'; it's her literal, actual job, to protect people from harm. But Farren hasn't stopped talking, so she turns her attention back. "But what I'm curious at, is how just touching the thing made her speak a language she doesn't know." Farren gives her a look, and while it's not pitying exactly, there is a healthy enough dose of concern there that she does not like it. Despite it, she knows she has to tell them about what happened – about the totem in her pocket. "Did Candice hear her speak?" her partner asks, and she sees Snips look at her in confusion. She shrugs in response. "I don't know. We… weren't exactly paying attention to her reactions." "Did she say anything when you took her to Matilde?" Farren says, looking at Snips, and the mortician is frowning in thought. She has to tell them now!

"No, she was just in a state of shock. Perhaps when Matilde has seen to her, we could ask?" Farren nods, looks like he's going to speak again. "There's something else," Elo blurts. Both turn towards her. "I–" It will just be easier to show them. She walks over to the coffee table that sits between the two sofas, and without saying a word, drops the totem onto the table. The reaction from them both as she pulls back her hand is… not what she was expecting. Snips has frozen, his eyes are wide and she doesn't know what to make of it. Farren is breathing deep and slow and deliberate, as he takes measured steps forward. "Elo, where did you get that?" he asks. She frowns. There is something not quite right about this. "I took it from the fridge," she says, "I tried to put it back, but it. Uh." He's looking at her as if she's sprouted wings. "It… didn't… want me to?" she finishes lamely. "There is no possible way that Candice would have that in her refrigerator," Snips says with a surety that confuses her. "What... What do you two see?" she asks then Simps says, "You have the amulet case which has hung over the crib of my family for many generations. It is a very special item, which I had locked away in a bank until I had my own family." He swallows. "You should not have this item." Elo blinks at the pain and betrayal in his voice, but she keeps her own breathing steady. "And Farren, what do you see?" she asks, looking over. Her partner stands, tense and hands outstretched, as though he wants to take a weapon away from a scared child, but the expression on his face is one of confusion. "There is a vial that contains two fluids in front of you." He speaks slowly and carefully. "They are separated by the thinnest of membranes." He stops, trying to get his breathing under control. "If you mishandle it in any way, it will explode." She spasms. She tries her hardest not to, because that is exactly the reaction he is trying to avoid from the way his hands are reaching out. But it is an instinctive reaction at being told she is close to exploding, despite what her eyes tell her is not what it is telling them. "Shall I tell you what I see?" she asks after she had brought her jumping heart under control. "It is a totem or token of some kind. It is in three parts. The outer is a triangle of wood, and it is carved with symbols that I think are letters. In the center is a stone of blue, and it is carved on one side with a winged creature, and the other is a tree. The stone is held to the frame of the triangle with three wires – gold, silver and a green so dark it could be black." She rests her fingers gently on the surface. In her periphery, Farren jerks – because despite everything, he thinks she is touching a volatile explosive. "What do you hear when I do this?" she asks. "English," says Farren, as Snips says "Hebrew". She nods, then slides the artefact from the table, slips it back in her pocket, and rocks back on her heels. She glances at Farren, who is more relaxed now he cannot see what he thinks he is seeing. He stares at her for a long moment, then presses his hand to his face. "Oh, Bug," he says. "I know you're the queen of the strange, but I really think you've outdone yourself this time." Elo huffs out a laugh. You don't even know the half of it, she thinks.

#oc elowyn o'toreguarde #oc farren breakwood #npc grog snickersnip #writing #HCWL Chapters only #WIP 'Her Countenance was Light'#titan fighting fantasy #fighting fantasy #ttrpg fanfiction #wandering words #apologies for the weird spacing on this one - the editor had a flid and fucked up the paragraphs...

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