Stupid hollnov fic based on @hrgifs post about Shane taking off his fitbit during sex.
A guide on heart rate zones here, but your Z5 would be pushing yourself at 100% effort, and your LT is like 80%, something you can maintain for a longer period but is tiring exertion.
They’re cuddling after a round of really great afternoon sex when Ilya’s hands trail over Shane’s wrist and the band of his watch. “Fuck, seriously?” Shane groans, looking at his wrist. Not again.
“What?” Ilya asks.
Shane shakes his head, scrubbing his hands over his face. “It’s fine,” he mutters. Even though it’s not fine. Even though he fucked it up again—
“Shane.”
Ilya’s fingers curl gently over his own, and Shane keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Just my watch,” he mumbles. “It’s stupid.”
“Okay… what happened?”
Shane sighs, their hands falling away. He looks up at Ilya’s concerned face with rosy cheeks. This is embarrassing, he knows it’s stupid, he just can’t believe he forgot again—
“Promise you won’t laugh.”
“Okay,” Ilya says. “You are fine? Not hurt?”
“No no,” Shane says. “Nothing like that. Um… I forgot to take my watch off again? So now all my stats for the week are fucked.”
Shane can see the moment what he’s said computes. He can see it, because Ilya’s face does that huge smile-all-the-way-to-his-eyes thing.
“Ilya,” he says, biting back a smile, himself.
“Not laughing,” Ilya insists, trying and failing to press his lips together. He puts a hand over his own mouth, instead.
“Today was supposed to be a Z2 day!” Shane tries to explain, trying very, very hard not to laugh. “This totally fucked my week.”
“Mm, fucked your week, yes.”
“Shut up,” Shane grins. He turns to the nightstand and grabs his phone, opening the app. God, this is so fucking annoying; his phone is gonna scream at him about rest and not fucking pushing himself until the end of time.
Ilya plucks the device from Shane’s hands, smirking at his squawk of protest. “Let’s see…” he trails off. “Hm, mostly 180, hitting 195—this is your Z5 yes?”
Shane snorts. “Uh, no, sorry. 180 is at the lower end of my LT and 195 is only just in my Z5.”
“Liar.”
“Check my other stats,” Shane says simply, settling back more comfortably in bed. He watches Ilya scroll, his frown becoming more pronounced the longer he looks. He’s actually pissed, Shane realizes as Ilya quickly taps through to something else, reading intently. It’s… kind of stupidly cute? He kind of looks like an angry hedgehog. “Looks like you’ll have to work a little harder,” Shane sighs. “Z5 when I come doesn’t count.”
“Says who?” Ilya demands. “And watch isn’t accurate. It records smaller numbers all the time.”
This is really bothering him, Shane thinks, almost giddy. He grins uncontrollably. “I mean, this watch usually overshoots and gives me a higher rate, but.” Shane shrugs in a way he hopes comes off unbothered. “Also, coming literally can’t count. That’s like, just the end result of all the build up and shit. Any major spike is probably 60% emotional at least—”
“And you are saying that, what, I did not work hard to give you those emotions?” Ilya demands.
“No…” Shane says slowly. “But that’s not a physiological metric, that’s an emotional response.”
“I have no idea what this word means.”
“Like something that your physical body does that can be measured.”
“That’s bullshit,” Ilya says. “All sex has influence from emotions. Even when there is no emotions, that is an emotion. And when I fuck you so good you hit your Z5 it fucking counts!”
“I mean, technically…” Shane trails off, glancing at Ilya.
“You are enjoying this,” Ilya realizes.
“What? No.”
Ilya nods to himself. Drops the phone in the sheets. “Okay,” he says. “Fine, you think I need to work harder? Start a new workout.”
“What?” Shane laughs.
Ilya rolls his shoulders. “Start it. I will give you the most intense orgasm of your life, it will break the stupid fucking watch, you will not say anything anymore.”
Shane stares at him.
“You are ready for me to destroy you?” Ilya asks.
“Uh…”
“Shane.”
Right. Shane scrambles to press the right combination of buttons on the watch, nodding eagerly as Ilya drapes himself over his body, pressing kisses to his collarbones and neck. “You ready?” Ilya teases. “You have post-fuck snacks and smoothie?”
“Won’t need them,” Shane says, shaky, as Ilya sucks his earlobe into his mouth and bites. He hears his chuckle and shivers.
***
Shane hangs half off the bed, panting and bright red and reaching for Ilya as he pulls himself, exhausted, into his arms.
“See?” Ilya says breathlessly, patting Shane’s cheek. “No problem. I am a sex god.”
“And a personal trainer, apparently. Jesus fuck.”
“Mm.”
…Shane does need post-fuck snacks and a smoothie. And his heart rate ends up at the higher end of his LT and dips into his Z5—though Shane is still not convinced that all that edging counted.
But whatever, that’s a conversation for another day.
okay, let's poll-write some silly smut together!!! 🍾 And yes I am absolutely making this entire approach up as I go along, I have no idea where it will wind up, so we'll find out if it works 😅
Starting the ride off with...
who's finally gotten a few minutes to himself to jack off?
A tiny idea that’s been rattling around my brain for days, growing louder by the hour.
Mark finally got what he’d been aching for:
Mark’s voice cut through the room.
“What do you want from me?”
Gary looked up sharply. Mark was standing a few feet away, arms folded tight across his chest like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will. His eyes were bright, defensive — hurt layered over something far more dangerous.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Mark went on, his voice shaking now. “Saying nothing. Looking at me like that. Then walking away like it doesn’t mean anything.”
Gary exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t know that?” His voice was low, strained. “You think this hasn’t been tearing me apart?”
Mark laughed bitterly. “Then say it. For once. What do you actually want from me, Gary?”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and electric. Gary took a step forward, then another, until they were close enough that Mark had to tilt his head up slightly to meet his gaze.
“I want you,” Gary said finally, the words rough, like they’d been scraped from somewhere deep. “I want you in ways I’ve been pretending I don’t for years. And I’m exhausted from pretending.”
Mark’s breath caught. “You don’t get to say that and expect me to just—” He stopped as Gary reached out, not touching him yet, just hovering, as if asking permission without words.
“I know,” Gary said softly. “I know I don’t deserve that. But I can’t keep standing on the edge of this with you.”
Mark’s jaw tightened. “Do you have any idea what it’s like?” he asked, voice low, raw. “Watching you. Wanting you. Wondering if I imagined it every time you got too close.”
Gary’s hand finally settled on Mark’s wrist, warm and sure. “You didn’t imagine it.”
That was all it took.
Mark surged forward, shoving Gary back a step, hands gripping his jacket, not gentle, not careful. “Then don’t you dare hold back now,” he warned, breath hot against Gary’s mouth.
Gary answered by pulling Mark in and kissing him — not soft, not hesitant, but full of everything he’d swallowed down for too long. Mark made a quiet sound, something between a gasp and a groan, and kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers fisting in Gary’s shirt like he needed the contact to stay upright.
They broke apart only long enough to breathe.
“This is dangerous,” Mark muttered, forehead pressed to Gary’s.
“I know,” Gary replied, thumbs brushing Mark’s hips, grounding, possessive.
“You’re going to ruin me,” Mark said, not pulling away.
Gary’s mouth curved faintly. “You already ruined me.”
Mark huffed out a laugh, shaky and breathless, then tugged Gary closer again, their bodies fitting together like they always had, like they’d been waiting for permission. The air between them felt charged, full of promises neither of them was ready to say out loud.
When Mark finally rested his head against Gary’s shoulder, the anger had drained from him, replaced by something softer, something dangerous in a different way.
“Don’t disappear on me after this,” he murmured.
Gary tightened his hold. “I won’t,” he said without hesitation. “Not this time.”
And the door behind them clicked shut, cutting off the rest of the world as they let the moment take them where it had been trying to go all along.
“No marks above the uniform,” Eli said more firmly than he'd ever said anything to the admiral.
It was a low bar.
Savit grabbed Eli roughly by the hair and dragged his face up toward his—but never quite to his level. “What, think that alien can't smell me on you?” he asked with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Maybe it couldn’t.
Eli glared at him and Savit relented, releasing his grip. “Fine,” he said, brushing his hands on his white tunic. “If you’re good, I won't have to leave any marks.”
That was banthashit and they both knew it.
Savit tilted his head at Eli’s hardening expression, a knowing smile curling his lip. “You know your safe word, Lieutenant Commander,” he chided. “Perhaps try using it for once, yes?”
Eli did know it.
It was the word Savit had assigned him.
It was a safe word in name only, really, because it was also the one word Savit knew Eli would never, ever use when they were together like this:
Thrawn.
But all the same, Savit always fucked him like he was trying to rip that name from his throat like he dragged music out of an orchestra.
Fandom: The Witcher
Pairing: Jaskier x Reader
Word Count: 779
Prompt: “You look so good with my hand wrapped around your throat.”
Rating: T
a/n: Just going down the list of the smut prompts as practice til I get requests. This time I left the line exactly as it was written. It’s really just implied smut but I still like it. It is once again featuring Jaskier because that’s where my brain is at these days but it will extend to other characters in other works someday.
“This is never going to work,” you grouse from behind the screen Jaskier paces in front of, eager to see you in your new attire.
“You are going to be the loveliest woman there, no one will ever doubt for a second that you belong there,” he insists, picking up a secret, final piece you don’t know about yet.
“I’m going to come out but don’t you dare laugh,” you say, your tone miserable.
“I would never laugh at you, sweetling, now be brave and let me see you already,” he says impatiently.
You shuffle past the privacy screen and can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes just yet, positive you’ll hear laughter or worse, judgmental silence, soon enough. When Jaskier had suggested you go undercover as a noblewoman at a party to help them with their plan you hadn’t really believed it would get this far. Then Jaskier had shown up with arms full of packages and you were shuffled off to the room to get ready and now you stood before him.
Jaskier knew words. They were the tools of his trade and he was proud of his vocabulary. Yet it fails him as he takes you in. Your h/c hair falling softly down your back instead of up in its usual, practical ponytail. The way the emerald colored gown contrasted beautifully with your s/c skin and helped your e/c eyes shine. He doesn’t know what to say and finally you look up at him.
“This was a stupid plan, I told you it was, I’ll take this off and then we can tell Geralt to convince someone else to do it,” you say as you begin to walk back to the screen.
“No!” Jaskier stills you with his hand and gently pulls you back around to face him.
“I’m sorry I just… I didn’t have the words. Y/N you look…”
“Like a noblewoman?”
“No, that is not nearly a grand enough descriptor. You look like a Queen and a Queen needs one final touch to fully assume her role,” he says, holding out the item he’d hid from you while you were out shopping. It’s a simple enough item, a velvet choker with an emerald green stone in the center that goes perfectly with the dress.
“Oh Jask, it’s too beautiful, you shouldn’t have,” you say, touched that he had seen something so beautiful and thought of you.
“I should have and it is not anywhere near as beautiful as the lady who wears it. May I?” he asks, gesturing to your neck. You scoop up your hair and hold it out of the way as he steps behind you and carefully slides the choked around your neck. As he works with the little laces to secure it you become aware of how close he’s standing to you, how intimately his fingers caress the back of your neck. When the final string is pulled taut his hands don’t fall away quickly as you expect but instead you feel him press a bit closer until his whole body is aligned with yours. His hands trace the choker, brushing up against the velvet of the fabric and the warmth of your skin. He can feel your heart beating faster in your throat as those long, nimble fingers caress the choker, ensuring that the emerald is sitting truly centered. You look up in an attempt to distract yourself and find that you are both facing a mirror. You see the look of utter infatuation in his eyes as they intently scan your face and neck and décolletage, a look you’d thought you’d seen before in glimpses but always played off as a trick of your brain. His eyes glance up and you catch each other’s gazes in the mirror, his hand stalled around your throat.
“Jask…” your voice trails off, fearful of breaking the moment but struggling under the weight of the tension.
“You look so good with my hand wrapped around your throat,” he says, eyes never moving from yours in the glass. He blinks suddenly and with a small, rueful smile removes his hand. You step apart far enough to face each other properly again and Jaskier picks up the jacket he had removed while carrying in the garments.
“You’re incandescent,” he says and spins towards the door, “I’ll tell Geralt we’re ready.”
“Your hand looked good there,” you blurt out suddenly. He pauses and turns back towards you.
“What?” he asks.
“Your… you said your hand looked good wrapped around my throat. I agree,” you say. A wicked smile crosses Jaskier’s face and he begins to slowly undo his half-buttoned jacket.
Anna thinking about what being with Kristoff means to her. Sort of for Kristanna Smut Week, though this is more smut-adjacent than smut. Thinking about and describing the act, not describing it in detail. Thanks for organizing @thehonestgoods!
Thank you for being my beta, @the-spastic-fantastic!
***
It didn't take away her heartbreak over the lies her parents told or that her sister chose time and again to push her away. It didn't erase those years of solitude and sorrow in an empty castle, the sounds of her footsteps and the chiming of the clock the only break in the steady and aggressive silence.
But it did give her joy. She gave herself up and he did too. She was no longer herself and she was also more than herself. They became something new; their bodies creating a family long before a baby came along. When she felt him tremble and gave her answering cry, it was the intimacy of the act that brought tears to her eyes. His trust. His generosity. The way he treasured her and said "Anna, Anna, I love you, Anna."
He would never be a closed door or a frozen statue or a flurry of snow floating away. He was steady hands that reached for her through forests ablaze and frozen fjords; arms that clutched her to his chest in relief each time they avoided catastrophe.
Contrary to what Elsa believed, Anna did not always enjoy danger; she had not been thrilled to jump off a cliff or over a crumbling dam or to grope, blindly and afraid in the dark, trying to find the sun. But the feeling of Kristoff’s arms around her, tight with worry, his hands firm on her waist, steadying her even as she could see them tremble once their contact was broken, that thrilled her. His hands under her arms as he helped her up or lifted her onto his lap or clutched her to his chest, his hands shaking, his breath stuttered, his eyes wide in terror. It was a rush of affection and love so strong that she didn’t know what to do with herself, didn’t know how to show him, even with their bodies pressed together and breathing the same air.
She had never minded. Hans had been a prince and completely horrible, so it wasn’t as if royalty was any guarantee of one’s true worth. She didn’t mind that he wasn’t a prince. But she loved that he was her king. They named him the Official Ice Master and Deliverer and he was addressed as Lord Kristoff even though he rolled his eyes at the title. When she became Queen, and when they were married, she could make heat rise in his cheeks by addressing him as King, the way he pulled at his collar and cleared his throat, the way he put on the right clothes and she delighted in taking them off when the event was over and she could again hear “What do you need” and this time, tell him without an undercurrent of fear or despair. No more terror or tears or loneliness. Only joy.
okay okay but. what about. Modern Hob meeting up with Dream in a dream, the first time he knows exactly where they are and exactly who Dream is, but after they've banged in the waking world, like a couple good marathon sessions right.
And Hob is clever enough to immediately catch on to a bit of how this works, and he's looking around the dream, experimentally tweaking some little details with his mind, and without even bothering to feign any kind of innocence or coyness whatsoever, pulls his not-a-stranger-any-longer into a kiss and asks "so what would happen if I imagined two of you in here?" with a filthy smirk.
Dream gives Hob that look of affronted dignity and informs him in a Lord Morpheus tone brooking no uncertainty that "There can only be one of me."
"Fair enough," Hob says, and his grin just gets even more cheeky. "Then what if there were two of me instead?"
And a second Hob Gadling appears-- maybe with his own favourite 'look' from a past era-- Dream kind of bluescreens because they're both giving him the same hungry look like he's a delectable snack and they haven't eaten in weeks (and I mean, let's be real, he IS a delectable snack), and Hob + his imaginary dream-double just absolutely go to town on him until everyone involved is completely Wrecked in the best possible way.
