WeenisBeenis

18+ ONLY. Sideblog for me to post my fics. I do not take requests. They/He/She.

[weenis-beenis]

Masterpost

Konstantin Levin:

Someone Better

Jud Fry:

Not-So Lonely Room: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5

Snidely Whiplash:

Zowie

[andisupreme]

At the company retreat, one extremely drunk girl asked what my pronouns were. (Eventually, it took her a while to word the question.) After the whole conversation was done, she goes- "YEAHHH GURL, Get on with--with THY bad self! See what I did?? They/them/thy."

I was almost holding back tears from trying not to laugh as I told her yes that's great you nailed it honey. Thank you very much I am feeling the love.

Anyway I've been assigned Thee/Thine at Supportive Drunk Girl

[zorgishborg]

Hi there! I just wanna say how much I ADORED your Jud Fry fic! It was so good, I’ve read and reread it multiple times in the last couple of days and I’ll probably read it again soon! (And I didn’t even know anything about Oklahoma before this!) What I’m kind of dying to know though is what do you think the reaction of the town will be now Jud moves in with someone else? Will they resent the Reader for taking him in? What’s the reaction to Jud actually being take fucking care of for once? Love all your other writing too btw! Had a blast reading the Konstantin and Snidely fic, instant faves!

Thank you so much!!! Im so happy to hear you liked my works :]

I actually do have plans to make some follow up fics to Not So Lonely Room, sadly I'm just very busy so it'll be a while before I post anything :/

But I will say following the events of the fic, the reader and Jud become fully ostracized from the community, she's just as bad as him to them, as she's "housing a monster". And from an outsider's view, seeing them grow and be happy with on another is incredibly odd.

I have *so* many ideas about these two and have even developed the reader into an oc of mine (though in future fics she'll likely remain a reader insert) and if you ask anyone who talks to me, they'd tell you I have quite the epilogue for Jud, cause I think he deserves a good ending

(If ur interested in discussing more feel free to dm me, I love to talk im just kinda shy)

[writingsofhubris]

And all I can do is pour some tea for two

[AO3] Rating: Explicit WC:  5362 Tags: Wax Play, Rope Bondage, Japanese Rope Bondage, Rope Suspension, Knifeplay, Food Kink, Porn with Feelings, Cameras, erotic art Fandom: Monday Mornings Ship: Harding Hooten/Reader Disc: Hel oves Art in all forms, right? Why wouldn't he love suspension? Beta'ed by the wonderful @weenis-beenis and plotted with the amazing @chopstickpizza THank you for your help, dears <3

Harding Hooten had well earned his right to your trust at this point. He was half convinced if he asked you to perform a burn excision with only his words to guide your movements, you would be on par with the day you’d first left Chelsea; you would do so with efficiency and with minimal questions. Harding knew that as much as you were ensnared in his webbing, you had snared him. The years of separation had only cemented one fact to the surgeon; he had missed his chance when you emailed your resignation in. He'd long since accepted your loss to the unit; your skills had rivalled even Dr Wilson, though few people would have dared to tarnish the other doctor's ego like that. No, the truth was found in whispered comments in the halls during consults. 

Harding still remembered walking down a hall one day, just to hear your name spoken around the corner. 

"...would manage to retain the brain function Ty would overlook. And the patient will never trust Ty as much…" the conversation floated away as the doctors began walking. His heart still swelled when he thought of the accidental eavesdrop. They'd be correct, and when you were asked to perform the surgery, you managed a flawless no shave operation. The patient had even dared to ask Hooten if he could be released early, as he claimed to feel better than ever. Despite even Harding's assessment, the patient stayed for a few more days. 

Harding reached his fingers out, and took hold of the rod your arms were tied to. Your body stopped spinning, and you could feel his eyes on your body, almost akin to his fingers drifting over your body. It was physical, despite no skin meeting his. The hitch of breath that fell from your lips echoed in the silent room. You were entirely on display for only him. Tied over your table, he had a perfect view of your entire nude body, scars and all. 

It'd taken Harding slightly longer than normal to ensure the ties wrapped around your body, knots that rested neatly against your skin. You were trussed up for him, arms wrapped over a thick, smooth, straight wooden length. Ropes crossed your back in complicated patterns, spreading the support of the ropes over your body. Your chest was left as free as Harding could manage, but your shoulders held crossings of knots. 

He'd taken great care with your thighs, binding your calves to thighs, disallowing any attempt for movement. Your legs were the highest part of your body, spread to frame your pussy, in full view. You didn't know how much space was between your head and the table, the blindfold cutting off most of your vision, and the dim light from the candles unable to leak through the edges. You were entirely at Harding's mercy, not that you minded one bit. 

His rule was simple. Once he hoisted you around, the only reason the rods could touch the table was to help turn yourself for his viewing. If they rested too long, you would receive a punishment. One rule, that was it. You'd agreed; still on your back and spread, waiting for him to attach the final ropes to you, and pull you to the ceiling. 

Harding returned with a fragrant plate of food, before he decided to hoist you. And you had been spinning since. Slow, silently, with only your slow breathing to mark the revolutions. Every twenty breaths, your rod would tap against the hardwood of your table, a quick reminder before they straightened once more, level with the wood for Harding to watch. 

And watch Harding did. He was silent, other than the soft slumps of water, interspersed with his own tap of metal fork against ceramic plate. 

It was delicate, soft tapping from you both, starting a comforting rhythm to lose yourself to. 

Harding stood almost silently. At this point, you were hyper aware of any change in your surroundings, and his taps against the floor were in a cadence he'd used for years. 

"Open." The order threw you for a loop, trying to remember what words were, and what they did. 

Your lips opened for him, tongue sticking out and pressing against your chin, wide as you could spread. A small piece of strawberry was placed in your mouth, his finger trailing over your top lip. "Close." 

The flavor pulled a soft moan from you, texture just right. Then, he started slowly spinning you, watching your body in the dim light again. 

The rhythm changed. 

19 breaths, Harding's fingers pressed between your lips, a tap of the rod your arms were tied to. He'd shock you on some of the refrains, pressing a kiss to your cheek, arm, lips, anywhere he could manage to throw off your counting. Morsels of fresh fruits, deep chocolates, each were pressed into your surprised, waiting mouth. Even at one point, Harding urged your mouth open with his fingers, only to seal your lips together, a taste of wine flooding into your mouth. Not nearly enough to need to swallow, just a mixture of dry wine and Harding's saliva coating your mouth. 

When Harding pulled away, he was greeted at last with your first break; a long whine and an attempt to arch against the suspension. 

"H..Harding…"

"No." His voice was resolute. No argument would be allowed, even as you squirmed for seconds more. As soon as you settled, his hand moved to your throat, warm fingers ran over the hard cartilage of your throat. "Colour?" 

"Green." He was proud of how breathy your voice sounded. He'd already wrecked you, and all he'd done was kiss you a handful of times, and play with your tongue when he fed you. 

"Needy. You need to understand what patience entails, pet. When we get too excited, too eager to run before we walk…" and the truth behind his hand was revealed. His hand grasped down and cut off any air that you could have pulled into your chest. "We stumble." The only sound was crackling candles and choked gasps. "We loosen ourselves from established patterns, and open ourselves up to mistakes. What did you forget?" His hand released your neck, just to stroke it gently. Your mind raced in fear before you realised. Your arms jerked to steady the pole once again, tapped down onto the table top in the midst of your begging. 

"Keep them level," you whispered, trying to press your face against his arm, a contort of your neck that strained the muscle. 

"Keep the pole level. Did you?"

"No, sir." His middle finger stroked up your pulse point just then, and you knew he was counting each beat against the pad of his finger. 

"Continue, pet." And continue you did. 

The rhythm changed. 

20 breaths. In and out, and a tap on the 20th exhale. 

The water in the kitchen started to run, the distinct click of dishes being cleaned. You didn't try to keep track of how long he was in there, instead focused on your twenty breaths, and the tug of the ropes against your body. 

Harding was quiet when he returned. You didn't realise that he had even finished cleaning his dishes when you felt a sudden, hot pouring of liquid over your sternum. The hot liquid didn't run off like water, instead cooling slowly on your skin. It wasn't hot enough to be painful, but the liquid congealed against your skin and didn't budge. 

Wax. Drips from a candle fell, high enough to only sound menacing. It wasn't overly hot yet, just a warm sensation that reminded you of how Harding would tap your skin to get your attention during scenes.  

The trails of fire only began on your chest, though. You could never accurately guess what Harding was planning on doing at any given moment during a scene, his movements quick and assured. 

The rhythm changed. 

A few drops of wax would fall from Harding's fingers, only to feel his fingers run through the wax, taking his time to draw something onto the thin skin of your stomach, patterns and lines appearing and disappearing from your mind before you could realise them. Harding was sure in each swipe, sure in each movement, sure in just how to tease each spot on your body. 

From his own view, it was a poor attempt at beauty. Nothing could ever hope to match your skill, your own innate beauty both from your hands or what was in the mirror. No, Harding knew better than to try and find a perfect recreation of the newest painting you'd just unveiled, but an impressionist imitation could be feasible. Simple colours swirled just so, wax replacing pigments, sure finger replacing brush, canvas of skin instead of fabric. A work of art, painted with wax on your stomach, offering the reasoning behind the way he had you tied. A perfectly angled canvas to allow the wax to drift from your belly button down towards your collar bone. Colours mixed and matched, swirled by his fingers. 

He let one of the taper candles dip close to the pools of wax, melting a small portion and sending a small shock of heat through your sternum. A softer heat pressed near your hip, and you cried out, trying to curl despite the ropes. 

You felt his hands on the outside of your elbows, holding onto the extended joint. His thumbs worked into the small area between elbow, rope, and pole, resting and stabilising you. Harding's hands didn't shake, didn't falter as he guided your left arm down, allowing the tip of the pole to rest against the table. His left hand slid from your elbow back to your neck, trailing his fingers over the skin he'd so recently grabbed tight. Or perhaps it had been a half hour since then. At this point, time didn't mean anything to you, and hadn't since you lost your weight to the ropes. 

"New rule." Harding’s voice was deep, gravely from the disuse during dinner. "No lifting the rod. Do you understand?" You nodded, his hand squeezing for just a second against your neck, before smoothing both hands over your shoulders, to your back, and up your thighs. The movement rang through your body like the peels of a bell. 

And then, his hands were entirely gone from your body. Suspended, held still by the pole, and now you weren't even able to count the rhythm anymore. 

Harding let his fingers slip between your folds, though he didn't deign to flick against your clit. You might have chalked it up to the angle, until you realised his fingers were circulating just a centimetre around it. He refused to offer you that touch of pleasure. Harding knew exactly where you wanted his fingers, and refused you the barest bit of pleasure. 

He was playing with your body, bringing you the most frustrating sensations he could possibly manage. You tried to tilt your hips closer, so his finger slipped, but he was too sure on his skills. The warm digit explored each crevice, before a new sensation started; ice, placed directly on the hood of your clit, freezing and nearly painful. But a pulse of pleasure shot from the connection of his fingers. 

The ice wasn't stationary, manipulated to  slide over your thigh. You lost track of the ice, simply enjoying the feel of cool against your skin. It moved over spots that previously had felt too hot, spots that now chilled, heat leeched from your body. He was playing with you, nearly toying with you, trying to get your sounds to ring too loudly in the dining room. 

Heat and cold started to alternate on your body, splashes of wax falling into rivulets over the ropes wrapped around your calves and thighs, ice trailed after a splash of wax on the bottom of your stomach; it turned the wax brittle effectively, and tugged lightly at the hair on your stomach. It was just a taste of pain, just a suggestion of what he could do.  

Harding’s hand finally pulled away, leaving the thin sliver of ice cube rested against your clit. It was cold, much colder than you'd expected to feel tonight. 

"Do not let that drop. Be a good pet, and hold it just there."  The command was soft, a demand that asked for your submission. Another cube of ice once again found the wax on your lower stomach, and when it ran over your skin, you were proud of the fact you didn't jerk at the unexpected sensation. 

That pride disappeared moments later, when the heat from your pussy finally finished melting the ice. 

Harding could tell the exact moment the melted ice ran between your folds. He saw your thighs shake, you pussy clench down, and the sliver of ice that was left clattered to the table. Everything stopped; the ice in his hand, the heat from the candles, your breathing. Nothing moved. It wasn’t until Harding’s palm rested on your hip, and his first two fingers tapped three times on your hip that you allowed your lungs to expand again, pulling in the air harshly. It was noisy, messy, and you whimpered when the air escaped again. 

“You almost managed, pet. So very close to meeting my expectations, but you fell short.” The words rang right through you, finding a grip and refusing to let you go. Shame echoed deep, and you were glad the blindfold was able to catch the tear that slipped out. 

Your whimpers turned to a shout, next. All at once, everything seemed to be thrown into motion. The air, too cold, your breathing, almost too fast, but most importantly, wax poured directly onto your nipple, a sharp spring of pain. Your back tried to arch, to pull away from the pain, but it was futile. The patter of dripping wax was consistent, a painful, hot punishment. 

Your other nipple was offered the same treatment, dripped and collected on the bud, trying to cover every sensitive inch. Your skin was sensitive to each droplet, needing the ice to press against your skin and soothe the ache the wax created. 

Instead, you only received a repeat of the treatment, but it felt even hotter this time. He was your comfort, and you desperately wanted to arch into him, to press your face against his chest, his stomach, even his lap to find some kind of comfort in him. First and foremost, he would be your comfort. You weren’t sure just where he was standing, and trying to arch into him would be futile. Your only attempted offering was whines that almost sounded like Harding’s name, almost sounded like pleas.

Harding took pity on you at last. 

The wax started to drip onto the underside of your breasts, a sensitive spot still open for his eyes. The shell of wax from earlier finally was extended to the wax covering your nipples, hiding your body from the air. 

The last drop of wax was finished with a pass of an ice cube, trailing over the edges of the wax. The wet line trailed over your sides, pressing quickly against skin uncovered for his view. Harding lent forward, and blew a stream of air over one of the trails. A kiss was pressed to the skin, comfort in that second that was needed more than breathing. 

Another whine, and his strong, cold, and slightly damp, fingers found their way between your legs, once again playing with your folds, exploring and nearly massaging. He knew how to play with the need that almost felt like a monster between your legs. You were lucky enough this time; Harding’s pity seemed to extend to your needy hole, slipping two fingers into you immediately. 

“You’ve been very good for me, sweetheart.” Those fingers are slowly working into you, slipping open and trying to spread. “Loud, begging for me… You’re desperate and that’s no way to see you.” A sharp push into you, stretched around his fingers. “Can you say that? Can you say you’ve been a good slut for me?” The question took a few moments for you to figure out, enough time for Harding to slip another finger into you, spreading you and making it even harder to think. 

“I’ve been a good slut for you, Sir,” you whispered, thrashing as much as you could in those moments. The rod tapped on the table, giving you away before you could’ve even tried to not. Harding’s fingers slipped out of you with a soft tsk. 

“Open, pet.” Harding’s fingers were again in your mouth, and whilst strawberries had been on his fingers before, all you could taste was your own wetness. No more natural sugars, only the taste that Harding swore was better than the nectre of the gods. You did just what he’d wished; licked between each finger, cleaning and swirling your tongue as much as you could. 

Harding’s fingers pulled out of your mouth, even when your teeth tried to catch his fingers with a small bite. You knew better than to bite hard, and keep him caught. It was only enough to try and keep him close. His fingers found themselves back between your legs again, pulling your lust back to the centre of your attention. A sudden wave of pleasure, entirely unexpected, ran over you. All it took was Harding’s fingers to slip into you, thumb still on the sensitive bud, and you were clenching around him, a sudden orgasm that left your thighs trembling. 

His fingers worked you through the pleasure, allowed you the needed come down from the unexpected orgasm, before his heat entirely disappeared. His footsteps were too quiet to place, Harding was simply too prepared to be able to be found out. The silence settled into the room around your breathing, a cocoon of security. 

Until the click of a camera shutter reached your ears, the whir of a photo printed immediately and the tap of the photo being set down on the table. 

“Though you are the one skilled with a brush, I do tend to know something about art as well.” Another click, this time you could place it to the head of the table, where he had been sat. Another click, from behind you. “I’ve never questioned your skills as an artist, from the first moment I saw your work in an exhibition. Of the names I had been expecting, I didn’t ever expect yours to be on the wall. It spoke for you, clearly from you, in ways I had never been able to see before. It showed sides of you that I didn’t realise existed, ones that were so explicit to who you are, I didn’t believe that I had ever missed such elements to your person.” You heard the click of a shutter again. “Once you left Chelsea, I accepted my mistake; I’d let you go without even an effort at keeping you here.” Click. “It was fortuitous to me that Scott forwarded me an email in regards to an art exhibit. An art exhibit to celebrate an artist who’s name I hadn’t seen in… How many years was it?” The math rang through your mind in a flash, faster than you’d normally manage it. 

“Ten.” Your voice was cracked, disuse clear in the effort. 

“Ten years, pet.” You heard the squeaky floorboard press down as he walked closer. “I went ten years without seeing your name, just to receive an email.” You felt his fingertips press against a clean spot of skin, between two ropes. He took a short pause, just to admire the way his hand looked on your body. His other hand moved to your hip, open palm resting with two fingers tapping against you. A deep breath was pulled into your lungs, and wax pulled against your body, the hair caught making it painful. “When I walked into our bar, and saw you already laughing…” There was a pause, a second of inaction from Harding, before he pressed a kiss to your thigh, one of the few spots without wax on it. His tongue darted out with the sound of your moan, his cold tongue pressing against your hot flesh. It only lasted for a moment, and one of his hands pulled away from your body. 

The next contact was still just as cold; the icy metal of a blunted knife. Careful, dedicated strokes started at your knees, separating skin and wax. Flakes fell over other spots of your body, chipped and messy. 

“To state I was shocked would be quite an understatement.” The knife and his hand left your body, only for you to hear another click of the camera. He was doing that just for your benefit, you knew it. A showman, through and through. 

The knife once more found your skin, slipping between layers and cleaning you off. His trained hands were unwavering as he drug the edge over your skin, careful to not press any further than needed. His hand was expert in cutting the wax off your breast, up your sternum, dancing patterns over the shape of your body. It was soothing, welcome in a way that you hadn’t expected after the pain and straining of the candle. The blade ran over your body slowly, oriented just so against your skin. Harding allowed his hand to follow, flicking off the small bits of wax that were still waiting on your body. He cleaned you as well as he could, ignoring the ropes coated in the substance. 

A kiss was pressed to your knee, and Harding was gone in the next moment. You could hear his steps now, clearly not trying to hold them back. Then, you felt yourself start to lower, slowly descending until your shoulder first tapped the wood, then your back, and your legs. Your arms were pinched slightly in this position, but you could manage it for now. 

Another rhythm sounded around the room. The intonation of a vibrator, humming jovially against flesh already. Harding's sigh rang through the room, and the lewd image of his cock against a hard piece of vibrating plastic flashed into your mind. Your hips canted off the table for only a moment, trying to find that pressure that you needed in you, against you. The thought of Harding already needing to touch himself, needing some kind of release that only you could really give made a pulse of lust rush through you. 

Harding finally moved to you, and his hands first connected with the skin of your thighs, ensuring the spread for what he needed to do. The vibrator, now turned lower, was placed against your clit, humming flooding your senses. Your moan was choked off, the sudden wave of pleasure shocking your system. It was painful, and your hips were hitching closer, trying to find more, receive more pleasure. The sound of tape unspooling hit your ears, familiar to you; he’d gotten a roll of medical tape, and secured the small bullet against your clit, leaving his hands free to do what he might. 

“You can beg all you would like, sweetheart, but you only receive what I am willing to give you.” You whined, knowing he was right. Harding guided your body carefully, though he was forceful. He positioned your body with his large hands, flipping you over effectively, the vibrator still secured against you. The moment allowed you enough time to try and offer yourself more to him, give him a view of everything he was allowed to take. One hand still on your hip, and he pulled you back, guiding his length into your hole, slowly dragging you back to him. He didn’t falter in the motion, didn’t hesitate to press deeper into you when you started whining at him. His hand shifted, palm once again opened on your hip, and first two fingers tapped against you. 

It was the simple motion that made you realise you were tense. A deep breath in, and with only Harding in your mind, you were able to take a breath, and relax. Harding let himself thrust in and out of your wetness, allowing the strokes to wet his entire cock with your slick, gliding against you. He pushed you against the wood of the table, pressure hard. You couldn’t move an inch if he didn’t want you to. 

Then, his lips were on your shoulder blades, kissing and breathing hard as he tried to manage the composure he’d been maintaining this entire time. His hips stilled, fully thrust into you. The only sound was the vibrator, which only got louder when he reached around and turned it up further. Pleasure and pain spiked at the action, and you forced yourself to listen to Harding’s voice. 

“Who owns you?” 

“You, sir.” He nuzzled against the skin on the back of your neck. 

“Say it.” 

“You own me, Harding. Just… Just you.” You tried to push back into his face, any more affection that you could manage. His face pressed into you regardless, muting his moan. The groan still vibrated through your body, even through the clothes you could still feel him wearing. 

It seemed to take him a monumental effort for Harding’s hands to move from your hips to the rod your arms were still tied to. He pulled you up, now only supported by your knees, and his hands. He started slowly, allowing the vibrator to press between his balls and your clit, pressing just a little harder into you. It brought forth that bit of pleasure you needed, rocked between the need to be filled, then to be filled to the brim, ricocheting through you. 

It was too much, and not nearly enough all at once. Everything combined together, the blindness, the sensitivity of your skin under his hands, the strength he had as he pulled you back and forth over his cock just by the rod. 

your orgasm rushed over you, tightening around Harding’s dick, clenching down with a shout. If it wasn’t for Harding as he thrusted into you, you would’ve thought you passed out for a moment. But the overstimulation of his cock in you forced your attention on him. 

Feeling you tighten seemed to have cued something into Harding, as he lowered your shoulders back to the table, taking a pause for just a moment. His hands moved to rest on the table, leaning his weight onto your ass and pushing your body into the unyielding wood. 

“Such a good pet, so well behaved for…” His words cut off into another moan, and he pushed his face into your neck, harsh breath fanned over your skin. “Me. Just mine, just for me.” Harding nuzzled into your neck once again, before he took his chance to bite your trapezius, leaving a mark just from him. It hurt, just as much as it always did, but your attention was taken over by the feeling of Harding cumming, pressing deep in you. 

Harding only took a few more moments to enjoy your warmth, stilled and perfectly buried in you. 

Once you started to whimper, the pain in your hip vastly too much to ignore, Harding kissed your neck, and pulled out. His hand reached around you, to slip off the vibrator, the tape tugging against your pubic hair. This was always your least favourite part; slipping out of the roles, the shift back to reality. 

Harding's hands were soft on your skin, rubbed over the spots where the rope had sat. The ropes were easy to his hands, his mind. First your right arm, then your left, the overly long pole slid to the free side of the long table. 

“I’ve got you, darling,” Harding whispered, a kiss pressed against a red mark from the pole. With your hands at last free, you made an effort to grab at Harding, hold onto something, anything, but your muscles screamed in protest. 

“H..” 

“Right here, love.” He shifted you around, pulling you from the table, and onto his lap on one of the chairs. As one of his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your body against his fully, the other worked at the ropes on your legs. Bits of body hair stuck into the wax, pulling harshly. Your face pressed against his neck, trying to stifle the whimpers of pain. You used his body to shift the blindfold off your eyes, only to see the muted light from candles burn down almost to their holders. 

Harding didn’t need to hear your words to know what was happening; His fingers slowed, sliding off the hardened ropes without thought, only to slide his hand over your legs, soothing any more distress the hair follicles might have. 

He moved your hand to rest against his chest, curled up comfortably, and just rested against his collarbone. 

“Pet? Can you sit up for some water?" You had to take your time, processing those words, before you nodded, trying to follow the command, but entirely unable. You shifted your head to the side, and a glass of cool water was pressed against your lips. A couple sips of cool water was all it took, and you sighed softly. Throat wetted again, you were able to breathe easier, more confidently. 

“Can I bring you upstairs for a bath?” It took a moment for you to understand the words, before you nodded, curling into his chest. Harding would take care of you, that much you were certain of. He was a good man, a man who would support you whenever you needed him. He would be there, that was sure. 

Most of the evening tapered into a hazy drone, Harding holding you, getting you to eat some food, some water.

Cleaned as well as possible, and the only issue being your sore muscles, you were laid down on the bed with him, He was prepared. Hardy was always prepared for you, well prepared In advance when he would try such involved scenes. 

Harding's arm was around your shoulders, pulling your torso to rest against his chest, pressed just securely enough to tilt your head into him. 

"Water, darling?" His voice was soft. Harding's voice was softer than the finest blankets, warmer than a fire roaring in front Of you. Your head managed to nod, and he guided the glass of water to your lips once more. You learnt back in the bed, curled into Hardy’s arms, secure in your bed. He was warm, he was comfortable, he was the one that you wanted to find yourself in the arms of every night. 

“Can I show you something before you go to bed, darling?” Your eyes cracked open, confusion clear on your face. 

“What’s that?” Hoarse voice, even still. He offered you a small rectangle, and you realised quickly it was a picture of the wax he had poured onto your body. A moment more of looking, and clarity pinged into your head. 

“My…” You looked up, brow furrowed. 

“Your newest painting. I recognized myself quite quickly when I first saw it hanging up.” It was an imperfect recreation, but as close as he could have managed with the wax. it was beautiful, and you looked into his rich eyes, before your hand cupped his cheek. You pulled his lips close to yours, and the press was all you needed to relax fully. 

“Can you hold me?” His response was shuffling around, and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. 

“Of course.” Your head pressed into his chest, smelling his scent, the clean pyjamas, and the security that Harding offered you every day. “Happy anniversary, my love.” Your left hand was taken into his, and his lips pressed against the ring that had sat there for five years. You sluggishly copied his action, before rubbing his hand over your cheek. 

“I love you, Harding.” 

“I love you, too.” Your name was a caress in his voice. “Sleep well, my pet. I’ve got you.” 

You were glad you’d taken him up on his offer for the spare room those years ago.

Tags! @randomfandomtrash28 @emotrash1 @unitedfandomsoftheworld @arandomnerdsblog578 @overlookedfile @yesalwayswelles @niffysboxers

[faemorningstar]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44113204

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Posting this here before I am overwhelmed by the cringe... I was convinced I could write this movie better, so I did.

Summary: Princess Thamina of Alamut and her handmaiden, Suha, have a sacred duty: to protect the Dagger of Time at all costs. As such, they are forbidden from any earthly attachments such as family and romance, but when the Dagger falls into the hands of a young prince and they are taken on a dangerous journey that brings them through the Valley of the Slaves, they find two things that they never thought they would never live to see: love, and ostrich racing.

[writingsofhubris]

OK for the friend I didn't realize I needed but I'm so flattered I got, @zorgishborg . The amount of pegging we've talked about over the last few months cannot be under stated. Hugh needs a good at elast 8 hour edging session. Set him up with a fuckign amchine? Ough. Happy new year my lovely friend <3

Your thrust into him produced a moan from deep in his chest. Konstantin struggled against the rope around his wrists, tightened to the headboard for just a moment.

Another thrust of your hips, and the air caught in his chest was released.

“Just like that, baby.” Your teeth caught your lip, and you couldn’t help shifting over him. Your hands on either side of his sides, you were only a few inches from his lips. He arched up, trying to search for your lips with his own.

One of your hands moved from propping you up to his lips, slipping your thumb between his lips.

“Not yet, not yet,” you whispered. His eyes squeezed closed as he pushed his hips down, trying to feel the toy further into his ass. Your hips swirled in a circle, trying to hit his prostate again. His groan fell from his lips just as you did, and your own sigh echoed.

“Let go, Koysta.” Your lips finally met his chest, sucking a mark into his breast. “Cum for me, be my good boy.” Another struggle for his hands, and he did the only thing he could; he twisted in your grasp, a whimper fell from his lips.

“I’m close, just…”

“A little more?” Your hips drove harder, a hand slipping up between the mounds of his tits, sliding home against his throat. “Say it, my love. You know what you need to…” He cut you off before you could finish your beg for him.

“Please, please, I'm yours. I”ll do anything to cum on your cock, you’ve taken me inside out.” A kiss to his nipple, and you bit down just next to the spot.

“That’s it, sweetie.” You let your thrusts get faster, and a finger teased along his shaft. “Cum for me, Koysta.” It didn’t take long for him to finish, that single touch making his shaft twitch and a sudden spread of cum spewed from his cock. Each thrust of your hips timed perfectly with a spurt of cum on his stomach. His stomach tensed, tight in his passion, his legs pulling your body deeper into his hole.

Koysta finally settled with a soft sigh of your name, his head lolling back on your pillows, arms at last settled against the bondage against the pillow.

Your lips pressed against his tits for a few more moments he needed to steady his breathing.

“Happy new year, my husband.” Still buried in him, you stretched your body up to press your lips against his, only to feel his lips curve up against yours.

“Happy New year, my sweet love.”

[curbitkirby]

I got one!!! So reader is a werewolf, a hunter of the night. Lurking in the shadows, cursing and has a massive distrust for humans when she see Armand. His eyes, filled with sadness and care, look so beautiful and lonely. He looks so kind. She can’t help but want to cuddle with him, human or wolf form. She wants to protect this man from everything, holding him close to her. Just endless cuddles and reading from a nice book in the soft nighttime.

Honestly? Goals.

Also, I am a SUCKER for a Feral woman/someone trying to restrain themselves because they're 'different', like it is one of my top kinks so I will definitely be revisiting this one down the line...

Tw: werewolf, widower!Armand, angst

Oh, he's so handsome-

And warm, you think as he wraps a blanket around your bare shoulders. Tall, dark, and handsome, he guides you over to a squad car, the flashing lights blinding and the sirens piercing as he barks orders-

But not at you, never at you. For you, he uses a different voice, a softer one, a coaxing one, as he presses you for information.

He wants to know everything about you. Where you're from, where you're going, your name and birth date-

And perhaps most importantly, what you were doing wandering the woods naked.

Your stomach twinges as you drop his gaze.

He doesn't ask again. Just waits for you to come forward with your truth. It doesn't come.

Still, Armand opens his home to you.

The house is nice. Roomy, clean. You've never been in a house like it before; usually being boxed in makes you anxious, but not this house. This is a home. This is his home, and you feel welcome, because you are.

It becomes a routine. Sliding up next to him at night, nestled under the covers as he reads some old mystery novel aloud. His fingers rub gentle circles into your back as you peer up at him, unable to tear your gaze from his pretty, if exhausted, face.

The first few nights he had sighed and protested, but not anymore. It was hard to resist your earnest infatuation, hard to deny himself the simple pleasure of touch.

Besides, Armand rationed, on the nights you didn't sleep with him, you were struck by nightmares. Genuine ones, ones that left your face tear stained and wane.

The closes the book, sets his glasses aside. 

You take the opportunity to kiss him. Just a peck. A teeny tiny little peck on the crest of his cheek.

Armand stiffens. A hint of lust creeps into his scent, under the soft waft of soap and cologne, subtle but real.

Your mouth moves from his cheek to his jaw, the and he sighs as your lips find his throat. The warm throb of his pulse makes you ache.

"We've been over this."

Of course you have. The same fight every night, as he turns his face from yours, as your hand dips inside the neck hole of his pajamas. You can feel his heart beat against your palm and wonder if it beats you, the way yours does for him.

"We can't," he stressed, tired of your earnest eyes and gentle affections. They make him heart sick- "I can't. I'm not ready."

The wife. You've seen the photos, of course. The house is a shrine to her, this mysterious woman you couldn't replace.

Armand swallows thickly as your expression falls. "It's…it's not personal. I don't…think I could ever…with anyone." His gaze falls to where your hand rests on his chest. He hates it when he has to hold you at bay, but it wouldn't be right, it's too soon, much too soon-

Still, he enjoys the warmth of your body so tightly pressed against his, the way your hand drifts, leaving his chest to take his hand and squeeze it as your chin falls to his shoulder.

"Don't hate me."

You mewl as he kisses your forehead, a quick jostling touch that surprises you.

"Please, sweetheart."

Hand in hand, you guide him onto his side. As you lace your fingers with his, you slide  behind his much larger form and snuggle in. All is forgiven, at least until tomorrow night.

[weenis-beenis]

Not-So Lonely Room

Werewolf!Jud Fry x F!Reader

Chapter 5

prev / beginning

Ao3 link

Word Count: 6441

18+ Minors DNI

Tags (for the whole fic): Werewolf AU, Fix-it, Fix-HIM, Laurey and Curly and Eller slander here, Suicidal Thoughts, Discussion of suicide, Abuse Involving Food, Restriction of Food, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Smut, Some Canon Dialogue, Slightly Altered for Ease of Reading, Blood and Injury, Bathing/Washing, Intimacy, Scent Kink, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex

Note: Special thanks to @molina-fix for beta-ing this fic

    You were alone with him.

    Of course you had been for the last two hours now, but this was different.

    Jud stood with you in your bedroom, the door closed behind you, nude, impatient, and entirely alone.

    You brought him to your bed, growing jittery in your movements, and had him sit. You gave him one quick, nervous peck on the mouth before lighting the lamp on your nightstand and running over to your dresser to riffle through your drawers. You returned with one of your many first aid kits, laying out all the gauze and dressings you needed on the blanket beside him. You had several kits scattered throughout your small home, the largest of which was in your cupboards in the kitchen. You could have easily taken care of him at your dining table like you did most everyone else who came to you, but you wanted him here. You craved the intimacy of your bedroom.

    Settling between his spread thighs, you went to work delicately trailing your fingers around the now clean wound on his side, checking for any signs of infection or areas you may have missed while washing him, and sighed when you found none.  Jud’s hands found your waist again, his fingers idly dancing up your sides as you quickly and carefully bandaged him up. It came to you easily, the practiced motions of cutting and applying gauze to the wound, sticking it with adhesive tape. You added extra adhesive, more than you may have normally, body thrumming with energy as you thought of what was likely to come once you finished. You needed that bandage to stick.

    “There,” you whispered, setting the dressings on your nightstand before allowing your fingertips to brush against his hot skin again.

    His head fell to your chest, hands shaking at your sides. “Thank ya,” he muttered.

    You rested a hand on his shoulder and brought the other up to play with the hairs on the nape of his neck. “Yer welcome.”

    Strong hands fisted the soft fabric of your dress, pulled you close so he could nuzzle your chest. He groaned low and contented as he rubbed his face against your clothed breasts, moving higher and higher until his mouth found the first hint of your exposed collar bone, where he licked a stripe along your bare skin. You whined, the need mounting between your legs and roiling low in your stomach near unbearable as he mouthed at you, trailing kisses up to your neck, tongue lathing across the sensitive skin of your throat as he lifted you onto his lap like it was nothing, all the while moaning loud and low at your taste.

    Your hands wandered his torso, exploring his strong and soft chest and stomach. You were eager, curious with your touch. You found his body pleasant. His strength was obvious but he wasn’t all sharp edges and hard planes. He was warm and comfortable and inviting, with an abundance of textures for your exploring fingers to familiarize themselves with. And he ate up all your attentions too, leaning into your touch, using a hand to drag you further into his lap, into his being, his lips continuing their trek up to your jaw. You shivered, felt the heat of his cock through the bunched up layers of your skirts. The hand not preoccupied with palming your hip came to the front of your dress, fiddling with, but not undoing, the buttons.

    He captured your mouth in his, kissing you deep and slow, swallowing your breathy moans when his hips jerked against yours. He parted from you just barely, a mere hair’s breadth away, and muttered, “Yer all wet,” against your lips. You flushed, lost in a heady daze. He tugged on the front of your dress, damp from where his wet skin had pressed against it before.

    You swallowed, wiggled your hips against his, the whisper of friction only worsening your arousal rather than sating it. “Y-yeah, seems I am.” The hand at your hip moved to ruck up your skirts, leaving your bloomers as the last barrier between your sex and his. You gasped. “Should- should take this off now, shouldn’ I?”

    He answered with a hum, popping open the buttons of your dress. His other hand came to cup your clothed breast, massaging it as he kissed and licked and sucked every inch of fresh skin he exposed while working your top open.

    Breathless and desperate, you fisted your skirts and ground against him, while he lapped heavily at your skin. You whined at the feeling. He was everywhere, pressed close, wrapped all around you, and it still wasn’t enough. He huffed and groaned into your chest, rutting against you with aggression and urgency. He was overwhelming, drawing whimpers and gasps from you with his needy touch, in the way he grabbed and clung to you almost fearfully.

    Once finished with your buttons, he impatiently pushed the fabric from your shoulders and took a breast in hand. A nervous giggle bubbled in your throat as he pawed at you, especially once you saw the way his teeth were bared. He hardly seemed to notice, his other hand pulling at your skirts idly, anxiously.

    “Jud,” you cooed, twirling a strand of his hair around your finger. He growled, dragging the rough pad of his thumb across your nipple. “Jud!”

    He halted all movement, fear flashing in his eyes as he looked up at you. Hisfingers trembled on your skin and the fabric that pooled around it. Gently, reassuringly, you skimmed your fingers down his cheek, tilted your head, and offered a small grin. He looked dazed, lost, torn. His hands struggled to stay idle. Your chest squeezed, almost painfully so, and you began to wonder just how long it had been since someone had shown him a shred of kindness, of decency. How long since he had been touched, simply felt another person?

    Too damn long.

    Folks avoided him like the plague when they could, and had for a long time now. Jud hadn’t felt proper human touch in months, much less had someone to hold in his arms, had arms to be held in… Never had anyone opened themselves up so eagerly to his curious hands, to his desperate touch like this. And it scared him.

    His desires and fears warred within him, grappled and entangled in a volatile mess that not only threatened to ruin the evening but also the life he held in his hands if he couldn’t keep the monster from rearing its ugly head. He clutched you tight, grit his teeth and gripped your dress tight enough to tear, trying to ground himself in your presence enough to clear his head. There was a hissing in his ear, the fearful animal instinct to take you like the beast he was, to take what he could get as quickly as he could before you realized you hated him just like everyone else did. Like he deserved.

    But then your soft fingers were on his cheek, caressing his skin, running over his ridges and scars without fear, and he wanted to worship your hands, wanted to worship you, wanted to feel every part of you he could, lick every fucking inch of your skin, taste and touch and breath in all of you. He wanted to absorb your kindness into himself, feel it on his tongue, touch and love and thank you in all the ways he didn’t know how to say… And yet he knew just how easily he could scare you away no matter what desire he let lead him. He couldn’t let that happen. No, no, no  he couldn’t let that happen. He needed you to stay. He needed you to let him stay. His grip tightened.

    “Jud.” Your voice pulled him from those circling, cacophonous thoughts. “Look at me.” He hesitated, and only after a great, trembling pause did he crack open his eyes, looking up into the ones shining down on him tenderly. Lightning flashed through the window at his back, illuminating you in a brilliant white for the briefest of moments. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Jud.” You thumbed his cheek and he melted into it, eyes fluttering shut.

    “Thank you.” His mumbling was near inaudible as he nestled further into your palm. You were so warm, so kind, so loving. And God did he want to grope and paw at you, to rut into you like an animal. He fisted your dress again, wanted to tear it to shreds, wanted to feel your bare flesh against his.

    “Hey, hey,” your voice called out to him again, “My dress.”

    Jud winced when he looked to his hands, loosened his too-tight grip on the soft fabric. It was a nice dress. You looked good in it too. And he ruined it, all creased and wet and dirty. A real nice dress, and he had soiled it. Probably the best you had too.

    “Shit,” he mumbled in his bleary haze, sneaking a hand under your skirts and smoothing it over your thigh, “Went an’ got all dolled up fer t’night and ain’t even had nobody to go with ya. Shoulda gone with ya. Stupid.”

    A soft laugh tore him from his grumblings. “Don’ worry ‘bout it-” Truth be told he hadn’t quite realized he’d been voicing his thoughts- “Slim took me for a spin a few times… must admit I was hopin’ I’d get the chance to be spun ‘round by you once or twice.”

    He sat bolt upright, holding you just that much tighter. There was a sharpness to his eyes that had moments ago been foggy and wet. “Slim?” His eyes narrowed. “Ain’t that the feller what bought yer basket?”

    “Yeah…” Your voice was little more than a whisper, an uncomfortable stab of shame in your chest, though you didn’t know what for. For talking to him when you had thought he was well meaning? For letting him dance you around? For those few moments you had considered giving up on Jud for a taste of normalcy?

    He bared his teeth, flashed those sharp canines, his fingers twitching to dig into the meat of your thigh and breast. To remind you whose lap you were sat on. A pang of something deeply familiar shot through his chest and he grit his teeth, bowing his head from you. If you and Slim were…

    “Y’all friends, then? Cause I ain’t here ta-”

    You laughed at that, sharp and scoffing. It speared him through the chest. He winced, that pang squeezing his heart once again, harder and tighter this time, before you guided him by the chin to look back at you, where you smiled down at him brightly, your eyes just a little sad. 

“I don’ care none ‘bout him, Jud. He jist danced with me ta be polite, is all.” Your voice was barely a whisper, soft and tired sounding. You almost told him why you didn’t care for Slim, the way he tried to keep you from him, but you didn’t. “Jist have ta see him one las’ time tomorrow,” you mumbled thoughtlessly.

It was as though Jud were somewhere else entirely, staring straight through you. “Yer seein’ ‘im tomorrow?” His fingers curled tighter.

You kept your touch as soft and soothing as you could manage, the hairs raising on the back of your neck as his frustration built. “Have to, he bought ma basket fair an’ square. Cain’t not go with ‘im.”

His grip became uncomfortably tight, gaze fixed on your sternum and eyes dark, lacking in that warmth you had become so fond of. “Kill ‘im,” he muttered, “I’ll kill ‘im.” His fingers dug in tight enough to bruise.

You shifted nervously, or tried to, in his iron grip, and he only fixed you more firmly in place. “Now Jud,” You tried to keep your voice even, but you were starting to feel much like you had in those moments before he turned, suddenly and forcefully reminded of the strength he possessed. “I promise it ain’t a date, alright?”

He stared straight ahead.

“Hey.” You tilted his chin such that he’d have to look at you again, touch light but certain. “I don’ care ‘bout Slim. It ain’t gonna be a date, an’ I’ll make that perfectly clear, alright now?”

His eyes finally met yours when you traced a finger over the curve of his bottom lip. You felt it tremble under your touch, caught the wet gleam in his eyes, the stutter in his breath.

“Let’s put it this way,” you whispered, “Who’s here in my bed right now: Slim, or you?”

Mercifully, that seemed to quell him. His grip loosened, and you breathed a sigh of relief before giving him a gentle smile and stroking the long scars running along his cheeks. There were many injuries you knew how to care for, but there was no healing that pain. “I like ya, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

    Hesitantly, he leaned forward, waiting for you to change your mind and run from him like everyone else. But you didn’t, and he captured your lips in a delicate kiss. You returned it with the sort of gentleness you wished the world had shown him.

    Large, rough hands caressed you softly, apologetically. You felt it in the way he handled you so carefully. Sorry for the aggression and impatience, distrust and fear. You kissed him harder, let him know that you wanted him just as bad. All was forgiven.

    The fingers of one hand curled in his nearly dry hair, so thick and soft, and the other found purchase on his broad shoulder. You pulled yourself closer. Smothering him wasn’t your goal, but you craved the feel of his skin, to indulge in those dreams, those fantasies, that had plagued you since the day you met him.

    The two of you could hardly stand to part from one another, panting between the hot slide of lips, losing yourselves in the lightheaded intoxication of sharing each other’s breaths. He slowly began to pick up where he had left off, mouth growing ravenous as one hand inched its way toward the apex of your thighs and the other tweaked your nipple between thick fingers.

    Your hips rocked against his, deeply, desperately, pulling moans from your throats, but it wasn’t enough with your underwear in the way. You needed the feel of him sliding between your soaked folds, but all you got in that moment was the chaffing grind of his hot length through damp fabric.

    He grunted, mouth slipping to your cheek as you rocked against him again, searching for relief to the molten desire rolling through you. He kissed and mouthed his way down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. The wet heat of his lips and tongue on your skin only worsened your plight. You ground down on his lap again, clenching around nothing as he made his way to your chest.

    His lips found your nipple, wrapped around the bud and dragged his tongue over it to hear you gasp, keening and arching into him. The lapping of his tongue grew sloppier with every pass while he groaned and jerked his hips, crept his fingers higher up your thigh as his mouth grew desperate.

    You whined as his already rather indelicate touch grew even more so, soaked in the low sounds he made against you. Your fingers appreciatively combed through his hair, and your eyes fluttered shut while he slicked your stiff and aching nipple with his spit. Right when he moved to your other breast, lathing just as messily and passionately at it as the other, you brought your fingers, already occupied with his hair, to scratch behind his ear much like you had on the ride to your home.

    “Fuck!”

    You jumped at the outburst, but before you could even retract your hand, his fingers closed tight around your wrist and brought it back to where it had been. Nerves frayed from an evening of various anxieties, you hesitantly scratched at the same spot. Understanding washed over you and eased your tension when you heard the faint whine at the back of his throat before he leaned further into your hand.

    Curiosity, ever your motivator, spurred you to scratch harder, the way you might when petting a dog, and you were rewarded with a deep wanton moan, his hips jumping to meet yours. He groaned and moaned and whined for you, heat rising to your face as you drank in the shameless sounds he made.

    For a moment you simply watched him, head lolled back and eyes squeezed shut, panting and growling and bucking up into you desperately. It was delicious, seeing him lost in pleasure at your hand.

    He shifted suddenly, strong arms hoisting you up by your ass as he fell backward onto the mattress, bringing you down with him. You collapsed on his chest in a mess of giggles.

    Then you were on your back, rolled over and completely caged in underneath his large frame. You blinked up at him, an excited shiver running down your spine. His eyes were so pretty in the orange lamp light flickering on your nightstand, so deep and warm. And for once there wasn’t anything gloomy swimming in them, no pain or fear staring back at you. His pupils were blown wide, lips softly parted, red scars bared to you. Open, honest, and needy.

    You took his face in your hands again and pulled him down for another kiss, thumbs stroking his cheeks, over scratchy stubble and rough skin and crests of angry scar tissue. You loved the feel of him, worn and coarse and in need of care. You wanted to care for him.

    Reluctantly, he slipped from your grasp, allowed himself the luxury of one more quick peck before easily picking you up and tossing you to the head of the bed. Another rush of giggles left you as your head landed amongst the pillows and he surrounded you once more, burying his face in your neck to take a deep breath through his nose. A small whine escaped as he exhaled, swiftly covered by a groan as he did it once again. Large, eager hands pushed at your dress, jammed the fabric past your hips. You helped, shoving at your skirts and drawers until you could kick them off the bed, laying yourself just as bare for him as he was for you.

    Jud sat back and traced his hungry, curious gaze over you, his impatient desires seemingly placed on hold for a moment while he grazed a calloused finger over your soft skin. For so long, all he had were those pictures tacked to his walls, he had nearly forgotten what the tender skin of another felt like on his fingertips…

    Your breath stuttered as his touch ghosted over the curve of your breast, and pulled his thoughts from the path they were wandering down.

    He nuzzled your neck again, nosing your throat, taking deep, deep breaths, panting wetly on your collarbone. He simply couldn’t get enough of you. “Ya smell real nice,” he murmured before licking a stripe up to your jaw.

    Your eyes fluttered while he lapped at your skin, your fingers skimming up the vast expanse of his back, carefully skirting the bandages at his side, delicately tracing every scar you could reach, until they came to tangle in his dark hair.

    You breathed him in as he abused your neck with his licking and sucking and nipping, humming at the smell of cinnamon and cloves lingering on him. “So do you,” you whispered, quietly thanking yourself for picking a perfumed soap.

    The way his movements stuttered at your praise didn’t go unnoticed, and you smiled, smoothing a hand down to his shoulder. He groaned and moaned unintelligibly, his low timbre rumbling through his chest and into yours. Those big, thick hands groped and grabbed at your sides, breasts, thighs, everywhere he could, all while your curious fingers took a slow course down his chest and stomach. Where you were delicate and savoring, he was hot and coarse, even in his attempts to keep himself reined in. He was as tender as he could manage, trying with all his might to be as gentle as you deserved.

    Nails combed through the thick trail of hairs leading down from his belly button until your hand wrapped around the base of his cock. You swallowed, the weight of him in your hand both arousing and intimidating. He grunted, grazed his teeth over your collarbone. Cautiously, you stroked him as his lips slowly trailed down your body, his hands following suit. You shivered as they wandered down your waist, your hips, your thighs, his mouth pausing in its trek to focus on your chest.

    Groaning at your languid touch, he took a nipple between his teeth, worrying the already raw bud, taking in your whines and the way you squeezed his cock in time with his gentle bites. His tongue soothed over it in brief apology before turning and giving the other the exact same treatment, chuckling at your pathetic mewl.

    Thumbs traced the line where your thighs met your hips, your muscles shuddering and jumping as his fingers crept toward your sex. He pulled off your chest with a wet pop, sitting back on his heels, and hissing through his teeth as he slipped from your grasp. Dark eyes caught your own as pushed a thumb between your dewy folds, both of you moaning as he collected some of your wetness on his finger and dragged it up to your clit.

    “Hell,” he groaned, repeating the motion one more time, just to watch you shiver, before leaning down to press a kiss to your sternum.

    His hungry mouth took to its course once more, thick fingers toying with your dripping cunt while you gasped and whined, craving more from his meandering touch. He wasn’t so patient this time, eager lips and tongue and teeth working down your stomach swiftly and sloppily until he hovered over your wet heat. You whined when he removed his fingers and clamped his now slick hand down on your thigh.

    A hot puff of air whispered over your clit, sent a shiver rolling down your spine, anticipation thrumming under your skin for him to just do it, to just put his mouth where you needed it. Instead, he took a deep breath through his nose, eyes fluttering shut, a groan rumbling in the back of his throat.

    “Jud!” You snapped your legs shut around his head, turning to hide your flushed face in the pillows.

    His deep laugh coaxed you back to looking at him, his face smushed between your thighs. “Cain’t help it.” He said with a smile, flashing those canines once again, and shoved his nose in your cunt.

    You squeaked pathetically, mortified, hot from head to toe, and yet still a little flattered by the attention, however odd it may have been. And despite yourself, even as the desire to bury your face back in the pillows and pull away from his shamelessness grew, you found yourself indulging. You ground against his nose, addictive sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine as the strong ridge rubbed your clit. You did it again, and again, and again, rolling your hips into him as he took in your scent, your cheeks burning with shame. Jud, on the other hand, was unapologetic in his pleasures, moving in rhythm with you, moaning and groaning and digging his fingers into the meat of your thighs.

    Once he seemed satisfied, those lovely eyes of his found yours, he smiled, and licked a long wet stripe between your folds, from eager hole to throbbing clit. You gasped and jerked and arched, breath stolen by his brazenness, and spread your legs wide, spread until they burned so he could fit between them, opening yourself wholly for whatever delights that tongue held for you. And he took to eating you as though you had just presented him the most devine meal in creation, throwing your legs over his shoulders and burying himself in the slick heat of your cunt. His curious tongue lapped at you eagerly, messily, exploring every dip and curve of your sex with urgency.

    A quick flick of that ambitious tongue had you mewling, and so he took to lapping at the bundle of nerves, hoping to draw more pretty sounds from you. His reward was well earned, you jerked and panted as he rolled his tongue over the bud fervently, tension coiling low in your belly. Thick hands locked your legs around his head, strong arms holding your squirming body in place. His hair was soft between your fingers as you fisted his dark locks, torn between the desire to pry him from you or to grind his handsome face into your cunt as the stimulation became almost too much.

He granted you little reprieve, broad and sloppy strokes of his tongue wandering to your entrance, sometimes teasing in, before finding its way back to your swollen clit. His eager mouth had you hurtling towards your peak, shaking and writhing as well as you could in his firm hold, pussy dripping, and not from arousal alone. It was like he was a starved man, the way he drooled over you, wetting your already sopping cunt, your aching thighs. Your fingers curled tighter against his scalp, broken praises and cries of his name tumbling past your kiss-swollen lips. The inexpert but passionate curl of his tongue, the grip of his calloused hands, the rasp of his short-cropped beard on your delicate skin: all so deliciously overwhelming as he lapped at you, salivating and moaning as though he were enjoying himself as much, if not more than you were. And the sounds he made between your thighs were obscene, sucking and slurping undercut with constant rumbling moans that left your ears burning and further tightened that coil within you.

Stoked by desperation and curiosity, you peeled your eyes open to risk a glance downward, at his massive head slotted between your legs, crooked nose smashed against your mound, mouth working your aching cunt for all it was for, your arousal painting his face, his cheeks, his beard, shining on his nose in the flickering lamplight. He ground his hips into the sheets, searching for relief as he ate you with reckless abandon. Watching his lips and tongue suck and lick at you tirelessly, relentlessly, focused entirely on savoring your taste and wringing pleasure from you, finally snapped that taut coil.

You gasped and shouted his name, bucking and flexing and squirming in his hold as your orgasm burned white hot through your body. He rode you through the waves of pleasure, diligently licking and sucking up all the wetness that spilled from you until it all turned to uncomfortable overstimulation.

“Jud,” you whined, trying to wriggle free from his iron grip.

He kept at it like he hadn’t heard you.

“Jud!” You tugged at his hair when uncomfortable became painful.

With great reluctance, he let you pull him off, making a sound that you could’ve sworn was a whimper.

Breathless, you collapsed against the mattress, allowing your heavy eyelids to close while you caught your shaky breath. Warm and soothing hands, rough as they may have been, softly traced up your sides, drawing a long, low hum from you. Then his mouth was on your cheek, still wet, smearing your release over your skin as he kissed you. He whispered your name, the sound strained as he began pawing at you.

When you cracked open your eyes again, his were staring right back. Thick hands snaked beneath you, splayed out on your back, pulling you all the closer, until your chests were flush. You felt him pressing into your thigh, hot and hard. He called your name again, restless fingers flexing and digging into your shoulder blades. You offered a tender smile, cupped his face in your hands, and drew him down for another kiss.

He matched your softness with ferocity, grunting and shoving his tongue past your lips. You tasted yourself on him, whining as he massaged his tongue against your own. He clung to you, groping and devouring ravenously. He shifted you in his enveloping grasp, smearing precome across your inner thigh. You whimpered

“Let me-” he grunted, ‘I need…”

You wrapped still shaky legs around his hips, the heat of his cock now pressed to your still sensitive pussy ignited that needy flame within you once more. “Then have me,” you gasped.

With a stuttering thrust, his length slid between your soaked folds. “Fuck…” He repeated the motion, thoroughly drenching his cock in the mess he had made of your cunt. He did it again and again, cursing and grunting, making you whimper as his fat cockhead incessantly tapped at your abused clit, sometimes catching the rim of your entrance.

You whined his name, hips jerking away as he fucked your tender folds. You ached, both from overstimulation and the need for him to fill you. He finally conceded with a groan, lining himself up with your neglected hole and slowly pushing in. You took the tip with great ease, so wet and eager, but with every inch he stretched you further and further, spreading you open for him.

    He nosed your cheek, stealing quick pecks between your mewls and sighs, his low moans rumbling through you both as he bottomed out. You guided him by the chin to look at you, making to kiss him once more, but paused to study his face. Another bolt of lightning cracked outside, flashing bright in the room, showing off all his rough features to your affectionate gaze. A smile tugged at your lips. Jud. Jud. Big, scary, mean Jud. The most dangerous man in town, in your bed, warm against your skin, holding you tenderly.

    You traced a finger down the curve of his strong, crooked nose. You liked it. You liked a lot of things about him.

    “I like you, Jud,” you whispered, combing through his beard. Another flash of lightning lit up his handsome face. “Yer a good man.”

    He swallowed, gaze dropping from your eyes to your throat. He let out a soft, “Oh.”

    Your hands trailed down to wrap around his back, shifting your hips so you held him closer. “I mean it.” You caught the wet gleam of his eye in the dim light of the lamp.

Strong arms cradled you impossibly close, the both of you wound in a tight, sweaty tangle. “I like you too,” he mumbled, covering his soft words with a kiss.

You smiled against his lips, heart fluttering in your chest, hips rolling against his encouragingly, trying to distract from the giddiness his admission left you with, and sighed at the barest stimulation it provided. Slowly, he moved in kind, savoring the feel of your tight heat as he pulled out. You groaned, even whined a little as the heavy drag of his cock left you feeling empty. He stopped at the tip, unwilling to completely part with your welcoming warmth. He took a moment, sucking in a deep breath and flexing his jaw, before easing his way back in.

“God, fuck.” Jud buried himself in your neck once again, restless mouth working your soft flesh as he started a languid pace with you. You arched into him, craving the press of his skin against your own, moving your hips in tandem with his. Soothingly, you caressed his broad and sturdy back, splaying hands over heated flesh and smoothing fingers over scars that were becoming more and more familiar to your touch. They were deep and angry, never to truly heal as his body split itself apart over and over again. You squeezed your eyes tight and pressed your cheek to his, gave in to the sensations of him, the smell and the sound and the feel of him all around you, inside you, loving you sweetly despite what you had been warned about, despite what you may have assumed about him yourself.

    It was sacred, what you shared in that moment, free from the perceptions and judgments of others, under the cover of a stormy night, confined to the privacy of your bedroom. Your movements were easy, unrushed as you soaked in one another. He panted huffing breaths against your skin, murmured your name between gentle kisses. You heard a few thank you-s slip their way in amongst the fog of steady, slow building pleasure, but you knew better than to respond, to speak word of it, content to lock the knowledge away in your heart, only to be visited again in private moments when you needed the comfort.

    You cooed sweet praises in his ear as he filled you so wholly, so completely and deliciously. Every inch, every ridge and vein rubbed against you perfectly, left you breathless in the wake of warm rolling pleasure. If you hadn’t known better, you might’ve thought you had been made for each other. It was stupid to be thinking so romantically, feeling so passionately about a man you truthfully knew very little about, you knew that, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you were lost in the intimacy of the moment, of soft, tender caresses on calloused skin, unloved skin, that hadn’t been so clean in years.

    That slow creep towards bliss became rapid once Jud let himself go. A hand came to grip your waist and his pace grew quicker, thrusts hard and sloppy as he chased his own end. Rain beat against the roof, the sides of the house, thunder rolled and lightning crashed, all drowned out by moans and groans and the frantic slapping of skin on skin. His other hand cradled the back of your head. He nuzzled his cheek into your throat, holding onto you as though you’d vanish from his grasp if he didn’t. You matched his intensity, hips rising to meet his, fingers digging into the meat of his back and tangling in his hair.

    I love you. The words hung on the tips of both your tongues, and yet you couldn’t say it, because it wasn’t true, was it? You hardly knew a damn thing about each other, and everything you had learned could’ve been lies, meant only to coax one another into bed. But you had a hard time believing such a notion. You had seen a part of him you were never meant to see, and still you took him into your home. He let himself be vulnerable to you, laid himself bare, allowed you to care for him. You had offered him the same. The night had been a whirlwind of emotion, the culmination of mounting desperation and loneliness on both your ends. No, you didn’t love each other, were certainly not in love, but there was love shared in that house, in that room. There was tenderness and affection and forgiveness and the human connection you both had so desperately craved.

    I love you. Neither of you spoke it aloud, but breathed life into the words with the snapping of hips and featherlight kisses and panting breaths and wandering hands and broken moans.

    You cried out for him as the arousal pooling in your abdomen neared its tipping point. You felt his peak nearing too, his pace fast and stuttering, breathing ragged. He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, rambling as he desperately slammed into you.

    Your name was a psalm on his lips, holy and healing. You had saved him, that much he knew for certain. He was scared to think of what might’ve happened, what he might've done, if you hadn’t brought him back to your home, so he didn’t. He focused on you. On the way you moaned his name, the way you clung to him, fingers dug into his skin, your deliciously heady scent. He craved everything you had to offer, your being flooded his senses.

    He came with a grunt, burying himself deep inside you as he could one last time, the heat flooding and filling your stretched cunt enough to push you over the edge with him. You clenched around him, gasping and shuddering as he pulled that second orgasm from you, less intense than the first, but warm and filling, cascading through to the tips of your fingers and toes.

    Sweaty chests heaved against each other, the both of you greedily panting for air. The scratch of his chest hair against your sensitive nipples had you squirming beneath him, the fluttering of your walls around his spent cock left him groaning.

    After finally catching your breath, you managed to peel your eyes open enough to see Jud staring down at you, worry etched in his features.

    “What’s wrong?” You brought up a tired hand to cup his jaw, thumbing his cheek.

    He closed his eyes, leaning into your faint touch. “I-” You thought you saw a tear catch on his lashes. “I jist…”

    “I know.”

    You brought him down for one more kiss, trying your damnedest to pour every ounce of feeling you had for him into it. You weren’t going anywhere.

    Once you felt his breath evening out, you dotted playful kisses all over his face, over his cheeks and jaw, his forehead, his eyelids, ending with the tip of his nose.

    You smiled at him, big and genuine. “Stay with me.”

    He gave a quick nod, the both of you groaning as he pulled himself from you and collapsed at your side, leaving a sticky mess between your legs, smeared over your thighs. You tried to ignore it, clenching around nothing when his spend dripped from your used cunt. He curled his long body up against yours, taking your hand in his. You squeezed it back, eyelids drooping.

    “C’mere,” you mumbled, sleep trying to settle in the back of your mind. You drew him into your arms, threaded your fingers through his soft hair as he rested on your chest. Your steady massaging slowed, and slowed, and then stopped with the even rising and falling of your chest.

    Jud stayed awake for a moment longer, listening to the soothing rhythm of your heartbeat, the steady pounding of rain outside. Quietly, he reached a long arm over to the nightstand and snuffed out the lamp flame before curling up even closer to you, nestled in your soft, warm arms. Sleep came to him much easier that night in a not-so lonely room.

[writingmaz]

Writing Tips

Punctuating Dialogue

✧

➸ “This is a sentence.”

➸ “This is a sentence with a dialogue tag at the end,” she said.

➸ “This,” he said, “is a sentence split by a dialogue tag.”

➸ “This is a sentence,” she said. “This is a new sentence. New sentences are capitalized.”

➸ “This is a sentence followed by an action.” He stood. “They are separate sentences because he did not speak by standing.”

➸ She said, “Use a comma to introduce dialogue. The quote is capitalized when the dialogue tag is at the beginning.”

➸ “Use a comma when a dialogue tag follows a quote,” he said.

“Unless there is a question mark?” she asked.

“Or an exclamation point!” he answered. “The dialogue tag still remains uncapitalized because it’s not truly the end of the sentence.”

➸ “Periods and commas should be inside closing quotations.”

➸ “Hey!” she shouted, “Sometimes exclamation points are inside quotations.”

However, if it’s not dialogue exclamation points can also be “outside”!

➸ “Does this apply to question marks too?” he asked.

If it’s not dialogue, can question marks be “outside”? (Yes, they can.)

➸ “This applies to dashes too. Inside quotations dashes typically express—“

“Interruption” — but there are situations dashes may be outside.

➸ “You’ll notice that exclamation marks, question marks, and dashes do not have a comma after them. Ellipses don’t have a comma after them either…” she said.

➸ “My teacher said, ‘Use single quotation marks when quoting within dialogue.’”

➸ “Use paragraph breaks to indicate a new speaker,” he said.

“The readers will know it’s someone else speaking.”

➸ “If it’s the same speaker but different paragraph, keep the closing quotation off.

“This shows it’s the same character continuing to speak.”

[heartofhubris-a]

top ten molina characters that need to get dicked down

Otto Octavius

One look at this wet, greiving man, and I'll put down money that the man needs a night ignoring the fact he's constantly in pain and that he really really needs some release, and to see that he can have fun with the actuators

2. Harding Hooten

To quote @eroticaplush

He needs a break. Harding needs some stress relief. He's overworked and needs something to remember how to relax. Harding needs someone to lay him on the bed and ride him so all he has to do is hold onto their hips

3. Konstantin Levin

Between his adhd and the whole Kitty settling for him in the book, Koysta needs someone to pin him to the bed, wrists in their hands, and introduce him to his prostate.

4. Comte De Reynaud

I think that if you poked his arm he'd snap in half from stress. And he's gone how many years since his wife left? Yes, he would cum the second you touched his dick. But that would not be the only time he came that night.

5. Maxim horvath

In that exact same vein as Comte, Maxim's at least gone a century or so without a single orgasm to our knowledge. He doesn't really seem to have had a moment in the movie to take himself in hand, and frankly the world needs to know if Maxim's eyes would roll back into his head the first time he cums

6. Jim Bussey

we get about nothing for his character in this movie at all. But a hermit with a salt and pepper beard like that? Dead wife? Tragic man who looks like he's a damn space heater? oh man his hands would be clumsy and out of practice but there's gunna be some eager smiles and looks and messy kisses

7. Cliff, Orchids

just gunna point at the man and ask you if you think he's not repressed. And those GLORIOUS stairs? please please let him get fucked on them, or fuck someone on those stairs. He needs it, he deserves it.

8. Oliver Syme

Possibly controversial, but. From what I remember of his character, the asshole needs to have someone to butt heads with him, but in the way that he's interested instead of turned away. Wall fucking. That's the idea there.

9. Satipo

Ok yes he was in the movie for all of like 30 seconds and he did backstab Indiana however, did you see how eager his eyes were? Oh my god Satipo would be begging for directions and so fucking eager to please, he'd just want to do whatever he could to be called good or smart or sweet, give that boy some affirmations and affection and he'd be putty. And tie up his hands behind his back.

10. Snidley Whiplash.

I specifically want this one to be with someone more sexually experienced than him though so he can try and talk a big game and then get absolutely turned inside out by functionally a single finger. Let that villain be wrapped around my finger and every single one of his evil plans will be confessed to.

[writingsofhubris]

Pomegranate Seeds

[AO3] Rating: M WC: 1091 Tags: Body Ownership, Light BDSM Fandom: Sorcerer’s Apprentice (2010) Ship: M Disc: Your body was his, in every way. Maxim knew just how to play your skin, how to goad you into submission, and every time you were more willing than the last.

Maxim Horvath was a man of many years, a man who knew his limits and what made him weak. Veronica had always been the first of them, but somehow, he’d found quiet in your presence. 

Not just that, Maxim Horvath had found every little noise that you could make, from the arguments you could spin to the cutest of chirps when his fingers were roughly shoved into your underwear, stroking against your sensitive spots without a warning.

Keep reading

[curbitkirby]

Oh god just where do I even START?? Um... Uh- Cobblepot/reader cock warming with a side of size kink?? I'm just thinking of the many ways he likes to punish his naughty pussycat (pun attended eheeee). Like god the options are endless 😩 he has her sit on his cock and tells her not to move unless told otherwise... To which of course, she tries to defy him, to nudge her hips discretely but it backfires TREMENDOUSLY because she gets an iota of that pleasure before having it be halted immediately when Cobblepot catches on (how could he not). WHAT THE CONSEQUENCES ARE, IS UP TO YOU! BE YOUR NASTY, FREE SELF!

So this got really kind of emotional and is kind of a prequel to the Oswald gets shot on New Year's Day drabble...sorry lol

Tw: sex, noncon filmed sex, cheating, cervix touch mention

Ok, but like, let's be real, if you're gonna cockwarm, you're gonna commit.

He's not going anywhere until he's a gasping, quivering mess. Determined to make this as much of a punishment for him as it is for you, you dig your heels in and commit.

Oswald smirks as he takes you by the hips. Guides you down on his cock, holds you close, as the two of you sit behind his freakishly large desk. 

He feels so good, the perfect amount of stretch and deepness, all it takes is him bottoming out and you're panting like a bitch in heat. Head thrown back on his shoulder as you dig your nails into his thighs, you bite your tongue and clench down.

Oswald hisses through his teeth before he sinks them into your shoulder.

Big mistake.

A moan breaks from you and your hips quirk, stealing a few pathetic moments of pleasure before he slams you down to the hilt. Your squawk, toes curling as your thighs shake, your tight little cunt gripping him like a vice.

"Fuck, you think this is funny, kitten? A game?"

"Yeah," you mew, smirking just a little. 

A gasp breaks from your chest as his fat fingers find your throbbing clit. "Yes!"

"This is supposed to be a punishment, remember? For that stunt you pulled-"

You hum, teeth clamping down on your bottom lip as your head falls back. His shoulder catches it, the arm around your waist sturdy, strong, and you murmur as he starts to play with your pussy.

"What were you thinking, hm? Skipping around town arm in arm with that-"

You clench and his breath stutters.

"Bitch," he hisses, dropping his brow to the back of your neck.

"He's not a bitch," you giggle, clench your jaw as he keeps rubbing your clit, stern and rough. "I'm gonna marry him."

That freezes him. "What?"

"Bruce. He asked-" You quiver as pleasure knots your belly. "Over Christmas. I said yes."

Oswald blinks. His brow knots as your words sink into him. The thought of you walking down the aisle leaves him cold. "Oh."

Your heart breaks a little. What? No fight?  "Oh?" You echo, eyes fluttering as his fingers begin to stroke the bud of your clit, slowly, carefully-

Oswald's feet slip under yours and he spreads your legs wider, forcing you down another inch of his fat cock. You squeak at the prick of pain as he nudges your cervix, so deep it actually hurts, but his fingers soothe you.

"You make that noise for him, too?"

No, you didn't, but you don't dare tell him that as his meaty hands take you by the knees. Leaning back in his plush office chair, he forces you back with him, spreading your legs obscenely for the camera he has hidden in his mantel clock.

"Where's your ring, huh? Where's the rock Wayne gave you?"

You pant as his hips flex, grinding even deeper into your aching insides. "I-I-"

"Oh, I bet you'll look so pretty, being his perfect little housewife, locked in a cage with that moron-"

A moan escapes before you can stop it. "Ozzie-"

"What?" He snaps, throat hot and tight.

You nudge the tip of your nose against his cheek. Grabbing his hands, you smooth them over your thighs, your belly, before you wrap his arms around you. 

For a long while, the two of you stay like that. Curling into each other as he stays nestled deep inside, as close as he can possibly get to you-

"Why him?" Why not me? He thinks.

"He asked." 

The you didn't remains unsaid.

Your heart breaks a little, but it's the truth.

"I thought you didn't want to be a house pet." He sniffs, closes his eyes as your pussy flutters around his cock. "Didn't wanna be locked in some cage…what happened to the little hellcat I fell in love with, hm?"

"I'm still here-"

"He won't understand, kitten. He won't let me keep you."

You spin in his lap. The squelch of your pussy makes him groan. "So, what, this is just goodbye?"

Your tears surprise him, almost amuse him, but not quite. He thumbs one of them away, holds your cheek.

"Why can't I have someone? You have your girls-"

"It's not the same. You know it's not."

And you did. You know he doesn't love them, that he doesn't worship them like he does you. Worse, you know that Bruce won't love you the way Oswald does, he can't, because Bruce is a good man. He would always put Gotham above you.

Oswald would burn the city at your feet.

"I don't wanna fight," you whisper, hating the rasp of tears in your voice.

"So, let's not fight." He says it so simply, you're helpless not to nod. 

Leaning into his chest, you sigh as he wraps you up in his arms.

[weenis-beenis]

Not-So Lonely Room

Werewolf!Jud Fry x F!Reader

Chapter 4

prev / next

Ao3 link

Word Count: 6636

18+ Minors DNI

Tags (for the whole fic): Werewolf AU, Fix-it, Fix-HIM, Laurey and Curly and Eller slander here, Suicidal Thoughts, Discussion of suicide, Abuse Involving Food, Restriction of Food, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Smut, Some Canon Dialogue, Slightly Altered for Ease of Reading, Blood and Injury, Bathing/Washing, Intimacy, Scent Kink, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex

Note: Special thanks to @molina-fix for beta-ing this fic

    An hour and a half. That’s how long it took you to fill that tub, filling every pot you had at the handpump by the sink, bringing those to the stove, heating them up, hauling them to the tub, and dumping them in. Took quite a few pots to fill it up too, and you took the time to check in with Jud while you waited for them to get to temperature, offering water and snacks that he took gratefully and consumed voraciously.

    The more he relaxed, the more human he looked, though the process was rather slow. Even when you weren’t in there with him, you couldn’t help but peek over your shoulder into the living room. He hadn’t fought you once you began the whole process, slumped against the couch, drifting in and out of sleep, perhaps too tired to even bother with arguing.

    You also took some food out to his horse, who you learned was named Old Eighty, quietly slipping past the semi-conscious wolfman, out the front door, and untied her lead. She ate from your hand gently but eagerly, and you gave her a few pats on the neck as a thank you for her help before leading her back to that shed you had yet to find a use for, watching as distant clouds rolled in closer.

    After tossing one last bucket of cool water into the tub, filling it full, and easing its scalding temperature down to something hopefully more comfortable, you pulled a towel and several washcloths from your cabinets, eyeing the few soaps you had stocked. You picked a soft soap, something that would foam up the water, offer him some sort of privacy. He deserved that at the least. You opted for something scented. He needed scented.

    Snatching one last boiling pot from the stove, you set your equipment on the ground and dropped in the soap, mixing it around until a layer of bubbles settled on the top and a spiced smell filled the kitchen.

    By the time everything was ready for him, Jud was looking human enough that his nudity began to border on uncomfortable. Of course you had been the one to insist on a bath, but his… extremities had been obscured by fur then. Now the man on your couch was just that, a man, only much, much hairier than normal. You pointedly avoided looking anywhere improper as you took his hand, still clawed, but distinctly his, and led him towards the bath.

    Shaky legs reached over the edge of the tub, steadier than before, but still in need of your assistance. He hissed as his foot dipped into the steaming water and you winced, whispering apologies as he slowly eased in. You grabbed your stool as he settled himself, still too tall to sit without his knees bent, and took your place beside him, ready to give a thorough scrubbing.

    You dipped a washcloth into the bathwater and he startled.

    “You don’-” He leaned away. “Don’ hafta. I can take care ‘a m’self.”

    Your hands fell to your lap, a strange pang of… something plucking at your heartstrings. You swallowed. “I know, but if yer okay with it, I’d like ta take care of ya.” You weren’t sure why you had assumed to clean him yourself, he was a grown man after all. But still, beyond all your messy feelings towards him, you truly, deeply wanted to take care of him, to be allowed this one instance to treat him the way you thought he deserved to be treated.

    His head tilted curiously, blinking at you and looking like he had never been offered anything like that in his life. Perhaps he hadn’t.

    “I’d feel better if I knew ya got all properly cleaned up.”

    He looked away and gave a faint nod. You wetted the rag and nearly missed the quiet “thank you” he murmured. You replied with a just as quiet “welcome”, hands hesitating as you came to grips with how close you were to him, and how naked he was, and how you were going to bathe him. Naked him.

    Reaching out, you grazed the cloth over the inflamed skin of his side, jumping when he yelped.

    “Tha’s what ya get fer not keepin’ it clean,” you chided, trying to sound stern even as you hurried to clean the wound, for his sake and yours. His wincing and groaning left an ache in your chest, you just wanted to see it finished quick. Droplets of rain pinged on the roof overhead.

    He relaxed as you moved the cloth to his middle, resting back against the tub and allowing his eyes to flutter shut, so close to looking like himself again, the only hints of wolfishness left in the shape of his ears and his claws, which disappeared as you dragged the rag across his skin. Even fully settled, he was a very hairy man, so much so that you almost thought he still had a ways to go, but a quick glance at his rounded ears and thick fingers and you knew he was back.

    It took some work, trying to wrangle your focus on scrubbing the grime from his skin, to ignore the feel of his chest and stomach through the rag, the strength and the softness separated from your fingertips by only a thin layer of cloth. You tried not to stare, but your cleaning brought long, angry scars out of hiding. They ran all along his torso, his sides, his chest, his shoulders, and suddenly you saw them everywhere, littering the whole of his body, barely hidden by dirt and hair.

    Images of his face splitting open assaulted your mind, even as you tried to blink them away. You hadn’t been able to see all of it as it happened before, but you now knew those were the seams he burst from every time he changed, stitched together and ripped apart at those lines over and over and over again, probably until the day he died. You ran the cloth over one, red like it was fresh, because it was, wasn’t it? They would always be fresh.

    “How’d ya get that anyhow?” you asked him to distract yourself, nodding to the wound on his side as you took to cleaning his arm. A clap of thunder sounded in the distance.

    “Happened durin’ a turn,” he explained, head lolling toward you as you worked, “Keep wolves an’ coyotes offa Eller’s property when they happen… ‘least I used ta. I could usually keep ‘em at bay, sometimes they’d get me though. Got me purty damn good this time ‘round, looks like.”

    You nodded, eyeing the ghastly wound again.

    “They come ‘an get to the hogs an’ cattle- shit-” He winced, twisting so you could get to his other arm. “I was good ‘bout keepin’ ‘em out, but sometimes they’d snatch one’r two. Happens at other farms ‘round here too, an’ I get the blame fer it. Callin’ me a goddamn pig thief behind my back cause they all too scared ta tell me wha’ they think of me ta my face.”

    You took to scrubbing his hands, by far the dirtiest part of him, caked in dirt and you didn’t want to know what else. “So that why they been treatin’ ya like they do?” You ran the cloth firmly but gently over his fingers, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest at the intimacy of the gesture, and the way he stared at your intertwined hands with childlike wonder. “Cause they know ‘bout yer…” you faltered, “condition? Or cause ‘a the pigs?” Before he could answer, you patted the knee closest to you and gestured for him to stick his leg out.

    He did, turning his head almost shyly as he rested his leg up on the rim of the bath. You picked up your stool and moved yourself down to that end as he did. “Both an’ neither I s’pose,” he finally said as you took to cleaning his foot and calf. “Nobody really knows, but cain’t shake the rumors that been followin’ me fer years, s’pose they’re true though…” He grew quiet after that, but before you could think of something to say he spoke again, “Cain’t nobody say nothin’ ta me ‘bout it though, cause nobody ever seen me change before.” The hand dangling casually over the edge of the tub pinched one of the frills from your sleeve between thumb and forefinger. His eyes wandered over you without shame.  “‘Cept you now.”

    You flushed and kept your head down.

    He dropped your sleeve, voice turning into a low growl. “That fuckin’ McLain sure acted like he knew fer damn certain though.”

    “Acted like he knew?” you echoed, wringing out the wash cloth and wincing at the discolored water you could just start to see beneath the bubbles. You grabbed a fresh rag from the floor, wetted it, and continued up his leg. “What d’ya mean?” Rain pounded on the roof and the wind whipped up just outside.

    “He-” You both ignored the hitch in his breath as you ran the cloth up his inner thigh, perhaps higher than was appropriate. His voice was small when he continued, “He come ‘round the smokehouse las’ nigh’. Was tellin’ me ‘bout how easy I could hang m’self.”

    “‘Scuse me?” You had no choice but to look up at him now, and you were disturbed by how little what he had said seemed to bother him. You snatched up your stool and threw it down next to the wall, grabbing his other leg with a livid huff. “He what now?”

    Jud looked almost bored as he watched you, like he didn’t particularly care about what he was saying, but there, in his eyes, you caught a peculiar, glazed-over look when he recalled it. “Said everyone’d come ta my funeral an’ feel bad ‘bout how they been treatin’ me.”

    You took extra care to turn your furious scrubbing into gentle strokes as he spoke, working against the rage simmering low in your belly. You rubbed steady, soothing circles on his skin, your eyes never moving from his face.

    “Sounded purty nice there fer a second,” he admitted softly, dropping his gaze to the water. “Thought ‘bout it.”

    Unconsciously, your free hand reached out to him, laced your fingers with his as the other slowly but surely cleaned his calf. His eyes flickered back to you for a moment, flashing a certain vulnerability that left your heart aching almost as bad as his words had. He squeezed your fingers.

    “Ain’t ever gone through with it at least,” he mumbled, and a chill ran down your spine. Ever?

    “I’m glad,” you whispered, running the rag up his inner thigh again. You both glanced as one another when his breath hitched, quietly acknowledging it this time.

    “Me too.”

    You held his hand a little tighter as he continued, “After that, we argued fer a moment an’ he made a point ‘a showin’ me what a fine shot he was.” He scowled. “Made a quick ‘mark ‘bout havin’ silver bullets jist fer me.”

    Reluctantly, you slipped your hand from his, but not before giving it a reassuring squeeze, and wrung out the washcloth. Sitting back with a huff, you rested your elbows on the rim of the tub, watching him curiously. “So, yer a werewolf then, right? Tha’s what it is? An’ it’s true what they say ‘bout silver bullets?”

    “Don’ know what else ta call m’self,” he said, “Silver though? Been lucky ‘nough to not learn whether tha’s true.” He shrugged and pulled his leg back into the bath, the water rippling out and moving suds around as he did. You blushed, pointedly looking away from where your eyes wanted to curiously wander between his thighs…

    Instead, you held the cloth out to him. He took it from your hand, a hesitant longing in the way his touch lingered, calloused fingers brushing along yours a moment longer than necessary. He then looked down at the rag in his hands, then back to you, quirking a confused brow.

    “I think ya can take care ‘a yer privates on yer own, now cain’t ya?” You could hardly look him in the eye as you said it, cheeks burning hot.

    WIthout a second of hesitation, he reached down between his legs, and you jumped to twist yourself away from him. It was hard not to think about it… about what it looked like.

    “So… ain’t a full moon t’night.”

He hummed, a small sound that left a squirmy feeling in your chest, another, closer clap of thunder only made it worse.

“So that part ain’t true, ya don’ turn durin’ full moons?”

“Nah, turn ev’ry full moon. They’re the worst of it, cain’t turn back til sunrise.”

You swallowed, doing your damndest to focus on his words rather than letting your mind wander to what he was doing, where he was touching.

“But it happens when I get real upset too. Got purty good ‘bout controllin’ it, but sometimes it gets the better ‘a me.”

    The sound of water sloshing made you shiver, the image of his hand wrapped around himself… strok-cleaning… cleaning. You blinked away those wandering thoughts. “Can ya change whenever ya want?”

    “Don’ know.” He grunted, and you wiggled a little in your seat. “Never tried.”

    You idly smoothed the fabric of your skirt, forcing all your stray energy into your hands to keep your attention on the conversation. “Why’s that?”

    “Hurts like hell. Don’ like it much.”

    You winced, fresh memories of his body ripping and snapping and reforming flooded your vision again, stole the breath from your lungs, flashes of bare muscle and bone seared into your mind. Tears pricked at your eyes, and you suddenly felt very stupid for asking.

    A tap on your shoulder mercifully pulled you from the gore that plagued your thoughts.You turned, blinking the images away along with some errant tears to see Jud holding the washcloth out to you, calm and quiet. All in one piece.

    You took the rag and wrung it out, deciding it was time to stop with your questions. He had been generous with his honesty, offering a trust you really didn’t think you’d earned. You wanted to let him breathe, and maybe you needed that too.

    Picking up your stool and another unsullied rag, you sat yourself behind him. “Sit up… please.” Your voice was gentle, resolving to only treat him with softness for the rest of the night. At that point, you weren’t sure if you could treat him any other way if you wanted to.

    He did as you asked, offering up the broad plane of his back for you to wash. The scars were easier to see there, longer and deeper. You ran the cloth over them delicately, free hand mindlessly soothing over his shoulder, not massaging, but working out the tension through tender touch nevertheless.

    You were humming. You weren’t sure when you began, but you got a little louder once you noticed, if not just to barely be heard over the storm raging outside. You moved the cloth in rhythm with the tune. It was familiar in a way that had warmth blooming in your chest, like an embrace from an old friend, some sort of lullaby, you thought. You couldn’t remember the words for the life of you, but you carried the melody to the best of your ability, running the cloth up to his neck. Your other hand slowed until it stilled, just your thumb rubbing circles on his warm skin.

    Jud studied his hands as you worked, marveling at the state of them with a slight tremble to his lip, not a speck of anything left on them after your careful treatment. His eyes stayed fixed on his fingernails for a good long while. They had never been so clean.

    It was all too much.

    He’d been struggling all night, hurt, angry, overwhelmed, and it only worsened when you came and found him. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been cared for like he was being cared for now. The fact that you had taken the time to do any of this had him fighting back tears.

    It only made his bitterness towards Laurey worse. That he had obsessed over a woman who couldn’t stand him just because she had taken care of him that winter he fell ill was laughable. He thought then that her coming by to give him food was care, that placing her hand on his forehead to check for fever had been care. But that had been obligation. Couldn’t have the farmhand dying on them, not when he practically ran the place on his own. No, that was nothing compared to how you opened your home to him, took the time to draw him a bath, to bathe him yourself, to talk to him without judgment, without fear.

    Laurey had always been afraid.

    She had looked uncomfortable merely existing in his shack, her face scrunched up in disgust by the state of it. She had sat as far back from him on the bed as she could, close only enough to lean over and feed him as he lay there in a sickly, fatigued haze. And when she had gone to feel for his temperature, she reached out with trembling fingers, hesitant like he was a wild dog that could snap any moment. No, Laurey hadn’t cared for him really, never had. She only did what she had to.

    You cared. You cared and it was almost scary.

    He was drowning in the softness with which you treated him, suffocated in the best way by a love he just didn’t understand. He didn’t want to cry, to look downright pathetic in front of you, but it was almost too much for him to handle. Yet he couldn’t help but melt in your hands, lean into your touch, greedy and desperate for anything you were willing to give him.

    It was your humming that finally did him in. He could hear your smile in the way you carried that sweet tune. You were enjoying yourself. That’s when he knew it was more than some sense of moral obligation motivating you. Hell, you hardly knew him and still took him home, even after seeing the part of himself he hated most, wanted to make sure he was safe. A few tears slipped down his cheeks as your thumb caressed his damaged skin, and they kept falling.

    His hands, strong, powerful, and now very clean, clamped down on the sides of the tub, fighting to keep his shaking shoulders and shuddering breaths steady, and deeply thankful that telltale headache wasn’t setting in.

    He did well enough that you failed to notice his crying as you took to washing his hair, your smile widening as you worked the soap into his thick locks, enjoying the feeling of carding your fingers through it. There was no room to deny yourself any longer, your fascinations had turned into affections, had a long time ago. And now they were strong and deep, growing more intense with every moment that passed between you, every second your hands stayed on him.

You soaked in the domesticity of the moment, sighing softly whenever he made an appreciative noise as your fingers massaged his scalp. There was a moment where you jolted, surprised by the way you nearly leaned down to press a kiss to his cheek, and by how casually it was nearly done.

“Jud,” you finally broke the silence, a feeling of dread having settled over you as you realized just how deep you had gotten yourself into this, “You plannin’ on leavin’ the territory after this?”

He stayed silent for a moment, gathering himself and praying his voice wouldn’t break when he finally spoke, “Ain’t decided yet.” More tears fell. He wasn’t ready to face that yet. All he cared about in that moment was the softness of your hands and the sound of your pretty voice.

“Well…” The hesitation in your voice came as a surprise to the both of you. “Ya… ya don’ hafta answer right away now, understand?”

He nodded.

“Ya see- um, well, when I- when I moved out here-” Your stuttering would’ve been of greater concern to him where it not for the way your fingers kept on carding through his already thoroughly soaped up hair, soothing his scalp. “I been wantin’ a bigger farm. Y’know with cows an’ pigs an’ such, but it’s jist me out here an’... well I cain’t do it all on my own. An, I- I was thinkin’ maybe..” He took in a sharp breath. “Maybe you could come here an’ work fer me- I can pay ya of course! I got my nursin’ too, part ‘a the reason I cain’t work a farm on ma own, but I got money…”

Jud choked on a sob, gripped the bath tighter, and squeezed his eyes shut. You failed to hear the distressed noise or notice the tension in his body, too distracted by your own nerves and the blood pumping in your ears after making such a bold offer. Reluctantly, you pulled your hands from his hair to ask him to lean back and wash the soap out. He was quick to dunk his head underwater, thankful for an excuse to hide his tears.

You stayed behind him for a moment after he sat back up, too anxious to look him in the face when you spoke again. “Course if yer jist wantin’ ta hightail it outta here I cain’t blame ya.” You wrung out the cloth in your hands, twisting and squeezing over and over to keep any jitters at bay, “Though, I… I would prefer if ya stayed fer the nigh’. Jist want ta make sure yer gonna be alright.” You had trailed off to a whisper by the end.

Jud wept. Strangled by compassion and wracked with a sudden guilt, Jud wept. Beast. Monster. The strong wood of the tub creaked in his heavy grasp.

“Jud?”

He winced when you touched his shoulder, hissing in pain as though your hand were a brand scorching his skin. He could hardly gather himself enough to grit out, “I don’ deserve this.” The wood groaned in protest, his fingers threatening to reduce the planks to splinters.

Heart hammering against your ribs, blood running cold, you cautiously brought yourself to his side again. “Jud, Jud,” you cooed as calmly as you could manage, “What’re you talkin’ ‘bout?”

He avoided your eyes, turning his face from yours, but still you saw the fresh tears rolling down his wet cheeks. Your heart sank and you felt your own eyes begin to grow wet. You rested a hand on top of his, and his grip immediately left the tub to take your hand once more, holding on to you like his life depended on it. You matched his strength as best you could. “Please, tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You watched as his jaw flexed, mouth opening and closing with only half choked sounds coming out. “I don’-” he managed before another sob wracked his body. You held his hand tighter, caressed his knuckles with your thumb. “Ya shouldn’  be doin’ this fer me. Shouldn’a taken me in. I’m a danger to ya.” He spat the words with venom, but still he held your hand tight, large fingers curled tight around your own.

“If you were any real danger to me,” you reached down and picked up another cloth with your free hand. “I woulda been dead back there in the smokehouse. Hell, I woulda been dead back at Skidmore’s, wouldn’ I?”

He didn’t answer you, his gaze fixed firmly on the wall in front of him. More tears fell.

You shifted, setting the rag on your lap and clasping his large hand in both of yours. “I trust you.”

His eyes screwed shut, lips curling back as he let out another hiss through his teeth. He released the tub from his other hand, bringing it to clamp overtop yours.

“I trust you,” you repeated, and it was true. “Ya ain’t hurt me yet, an’ I don’ think ya will.” You shifted and pulled your hands from his, despite their weak and shaky protests, and wetted the rag. “Now can I finish up?” 

He finally cracked open his eyes and gave you a barely perceptible nod. You brought your free hand to cup his chin, fingers grazing over his bearded jaw before tilting his head toward you. He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering closed and letting out a shuddering breath. “I don’ deserve this kindness,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

You held him just that much tighter and his eyes opened again. “No,” you chided softly, staring into those beautiful brown eyes,” You’re more deservin’ than anyone else.”

Jud stayed quiet as you tenderly washed the dirt from the right side of his face, brushing away any stray tears that slipped from his lashes as his breathing evened. You moved the cloth in small circular motions, a smile touching the corners of your lips as you brought his tan skin out of hiding. First it was his cheek, then his brow, his nose, and finally his chin. You ran a thumb over his cheek, taking in the textures of skin and scars and hair before turning his head so you could wash his other side. He watched you from the corner of his eye as you worked, and you held his searching gaze.

Once finished, you both sat quietly for a breath, still watching one another, and you still holding his jaw in your hand. You dropped the cloth onto the others beside you, not bothering to wring that one out, unwilling to let go of Jud. You ran your thumb just under his lip, your gaze flickering between there and his eyes. You swallowed, taking in the tense, but not unpleasant, silence that had eased between you, filled by the sounds of pounding rain, violent winds, and soft breaths.

He moved without a sound, tilting his head so his lips brushed against the pad of your thumb, and you sucked in a breath. It had been so soft, so subtle, you might’ve thought you had imagined it were it not for the way his eyes nervously scoured your face for any hint of disapproval.

You swallowed, leaning down to plant a kiss on his cheek like you had wanted to do moments earlier. His large frame tensed. Maybe you had imagined it. You jumped back, your hold on his chin loosening.

He made a sound not unlike a whimper and pressed further into your touch, looking at you with pleading, wet eyes.

You pressed your lips to his cheeks again, enjoying the contented hum of appreciation that earned you. You did it again, and again, and again, dotting kisses along his hairy cheek, moving closer and closer to his mouth with each, until he suddenly turned his head and caught your lips with his.

You gasped, parting from him just barely in your surprise, but he was quick to close the space again. You melted into him, sighing as your mouths slotted together. It started soft, slow, filled with everything that had been left unresolved until then, with all the warmth and care you had been trying to give him, and with all the gratitude and affection he had wanted to give in return.

Reluctantly, you parted to take a breath, your heart stuttering in your chest, and beginning to feel quite warm under your clothes. Jud granted you little reprieve, crashing his lips to yours not a moment after. His hand reached out, tangling in your hair and pulling you closer. He held you as though you might try and get away, his mouth hot and desperate and clumsy against your own.

You panted for air when you could between urgent kisses, growing uncomfortably hot under the collar. You surged forward, cupping his face in your hands, your stool tilting precariously as you did. You could truly appreciate just how large he was then, in the way your hands felt so small holding his head. He pressed his chest to yours, big needy hands beginning to wander down your body. His wet skin soaked through your dress, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care, merely whining as his tongue slipped past your lips and his hands caressed your sides.

Thick fingers dug harshly into your hips, tugging you toward him and nearly pulling you into the tub as the stool tipped over beneath you. You gasped and startled in his grasp. A damp dress you could deal with, but you weren’t exactly looking to jump in with him. His hands retreated immediately, gaze dropping to the water.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, fingers drumming on the side of the bath.

You took a moment, trying to catch your breath from the dizzying whirlwind of touch and taste, heart beating a mile a minute, and itching to get out of that stuffy dress. “No, no, it’s alright.” You tilted his chin up. “We jist have ta take it a little slower now, alright? Jist a little gentler.”

He nodded, mouth hesitantly seeking yours again. You hummed contentedly as your lips met and he brought a hand, much gentler this time, to cradle the back of your head. You indulged in the kiss, allowed it to linger, before parting despite his low whine, offering one last chaste peck to the corner of his mouth and standing. 

You offered your hand, helped to pull him from the tub, and were once again presented with the towering vastness of the man. A very wet, very nude vastness. You swallowed, uprighted your little wooden stool, and had him sit on it, wetting your last washcloth in the spare pot of water you had brought to the bath. You began wiping down his face with the damp cloth, wicking off the last of that nasty bath water. You'd be damned if you weren't going to be thorough.

He was touchy the entire time you cleaned him, hands resting on your hips as you ran the cloth over his face. He placed kisses everywhere he had access, at your wrists while you washed his cheeks, up your arms as you moved to his shoulders, moving higher and higher as you worked lower and lower. And you were left nearly breathless by the time you got to his forearms, with Jud nuzzling and mouthing at your neck. He rubbed his fuzzy cheeks into the juncture of your throat and shoulder, panting hot against your skin and taking hold of you by the waist, though not tight like before. Still, you could feel the way he itched to grip you, and hard.

His antsy touch set your nerves ablaze, and you almost wished he would just grab you the way he wanted, potential bruises be damned. But there was also a twist of pity in your chest, seeing the way your care left him so wrecked, so desperate, like no one had ever laid a kind finger on him before.

He jumped when you placed your hands over his, looking up at you so needy and sad that your heart ached. You gave him a quick kiss and wrapped your hands around his fingers, guiding them away from your waist. His mouth chased yours for a moment after you pulled away, and he cast his eyes nervously downward when you stayed parted. A small pang of guilt hit. You didn't want to part from him for even a second if he was going to look so pitiful when you did.

Wetting your cloth once more, you took to his chest, wiping away any leftover grime hidden in the thick hair that covered his front. Your other curious hand followed behind the path of the rag, running feather-light over his chest and stomach. It was gone just as fast as it had appeared, you trying to remind yourself to behave, even as the cloth wandered down his stomach…

You looked. There was no ignoring it, sitting half-hard between his thighs. And your hand was close, so close you could touch. You wanted to. Instead, you looked away, deeply flush, and brought your hand to his thigh. You wanted to touch, to stare, and you thought that, with the way he kissed and grabbed perhaps… but no, he was still a stranger to you, wasn’t he? Maybe a stranger you were sweet on, one you had seen in a state that no one else had, one you felt you had grown rather close to, a stranger that you had allowed to kiss and grab, but things had escalated so quickly in already too vulnerable and too intimate of a situation. Best to just be safe.

Lowering yourself to your knees in front of him, you flushed that much deeper at the soft, low sound he made. You swallowed, dunking the rag back into the clean pot of water, and cleaned his legs, risking a glance up at his face. He watched you with heavy-lidded eyes and full lips gently parted. You smoothed your free hand up his hairy thigh as you worked his calf, his muscles jumping under your delicate touch, though you didn't dare venture much farther, caressing his skin and pointedly staring at his legs.

You sat straighter when you finished with his calves, moving your working hand up his right knee, and following with your eyes to where your other hand had wandered, without your intention, awfully high. You couldn’t help but stare, the tension and desire in the room thick and palpable. He was quite the sight, cock jutting up against his stomach, hard and straining, tip red, leaking, wet.

Locking eyes with him, the intense heat in your face spread down your neck. He looked back just as flush, though his features lacked any of the embarrassment you were quite certain adorned yours.

You turned your focus back to the task at hand, gliding the cloth over his thigh, drifting higher than you had before, tempted by the dark hairs that lead to his crotch, stopping mere inches away, and he made a low noise above you. Keeping your head down, you nervously moved to his other thigh. You wanted to be fast about it, hurry through that bit so you could get back to feeling his mouth on your body again, wherever he was willing to put it, but you simply couldn’t help your meandering hands, carefully exploring scarred skin.

Jud practically purred under your wandering touch, the movement of your cloth slow and measured as you raked your gaze over every bit of him you could see now, over handsome and disfigured flesh, abandoning your shame seeing as how he didn’t seem to carry any. Your hands wandered until you brushed against the softness of where thigh met hip. His breath stuttered and you watched the heavy rise and fall of his chest, his hands flexing at his sides. The man looked debauched and you wanted nothing more than to touch him, run your hands all over him, feel his hands all over you. A meek little squeak escaped your throat without your permission, and you dropped your eyes again.

Pressing a light kiss to his knee, you stood, draggin your fingers down his thighs as you did. He growled at your too-light touch, his patience, which you’d already gathered he had very little of, was beginning to wane. You winced. Teasing wasn’t your intent, never had been. You wanted to feel him, run your hands along his soft, strong body, but truth be told, beyond any fears of pushing too far, you were also nervous at the prospect of pursuing intimacies with such an intimidating man, even one you were this fond of.

Once you were on your feet again, Jud quickly took you by the waist, tugging you down towards him. And you could tell he was trying his damndest to be gentle, but those thick hands gripped you tight, wrinkled your fine dress. He crashed his lips against yours and you couldn't help but return his enthusiasm, fingers coming to run through his wet hair, clinging tight to him. He pulled you onto his lap, a seat you took happily, skirts bunching up as you settled on his thick thighs.

His mouth moved hungrily with yours, groaning and panting while he pawed at you. You moaned for him, let him slip his tongue inside to explore your mouth. His hands wandered, grabbed at your dress and dragged you further onto his lap, dissuading any previous ideas you had of overstepping. You felt the hot press of his cock against your clothed thigh and whined, moving your hands to his broad chest, unable to help yourself from running your fingers through the dense hair, occasionally interrupted by the scar tissue littering his skin. The growls rumbling in his chest were not unlike the sound of thunder outside as his hips jolted against yours, and you gasped, movements stuttering when he did.

He just managed to tear himself away from you, hands stilling on your hips, and burying his face in your neck once again. “Sorry,” he mumbled against your skin, nuzzling further against your throat, wrapping himself up in you like he was trying to disappear, and bouncing you nervously on his leg.

You wanted nothing more than to ask him to keep going, to hike up your skirts and grind down on him, let him mouth and paw at you. And you might’ve done it if your fingers hadn’t brushed against the wound on his side and snapped some sense back into you.

You sat back on his thighs, aroused beyond reason, mildly overwhelmed, and still distinctly aware of the erection pressing against your thigh. Taking a deep, clear breath, you placed your hands back on his shoulders. “It’s alright jist-” you swallowed, “Jist let me patch ya up first, alright?”

He nodded and you stood on less than sturdy legs, almost lightheaded and already missing the warmth of his body. You snatched the towel you brought for him and began to dry him off, far more rushed and not half as gentle as you wanted, but you didn't avoid his crotch this time, softly and perhaps a little torturously patting the area down, and enjoying the way he huffed at the contact. You ruffled his hair with the towel, drying it as best you could. You liked the way it looked as it was drying, dark and soft and thick, unladen with oil or slicked back with grease

He looked quite handsome, all nice and clean. You took a second, just a quick glance, to admire your efforts, admire him, with his sun-kissed skin out of hiding, covered in hair and scars but oh so inviting all the same. You tossed the towel to the side and kissed his cheek again before pulling him up off the stool. He reached for you immediately, but a gentle, if firm, hand on his chest stopped him. You knew if you allowed him to grab you again you wouldn’t be able to coax him back toward your bedroom to be patched up, though the idea of being taken right there on your kitchen floor did offer you a wild swell of arousal.

Your fingers smoothed over his skin, enjoying that surprising softness of his chest and the texture of his hair under your fingertips again before remembering what you had stopped for. “I uh,” you swallowed, taking his hand in yours, “Come with me.”

[curbitkirby]

Happy birthday!!! 🥳🥳🎉🎉🎊🎊🎂🎂

You're writing is perfect, wonderful, and keeps me happy 🤗

And I'm pretty drunk right now. Anyways, I really loved some more hugh weldon fic. Maybe some breeding kink or bondage kink. Whatever float you're boat.

Heeeeey! Sorry this is months old, I kept fiddling and fiddling-

I've never really thought of Hugh with a breeding kink! Let's explore that a little.

18+

Hugh is...soft-spoken. Sweet, attentive, and just a little repressed.

"I don't, uh, actually, partake in pornography."

You blink. "What, like making it?"

"No, like- like watching it?"

Ok, maybe a lot of repressed. "You don't watch porn?"

That explains why his dirty talk was so awkward.

"No! It's all so...produced and...disrespectful."

"You can get softcore!"

He squirms on the couch. Sliding up beside him, you settle into the cushions as your fingers find his floppy hair, and you fluff it gently in a way you know he likes. His ears go pink as you kiss his cheek.

Lips brushing his earlobe, you can't help but purr, "We could make softcore."

The heat that flashes over his face is so strong you can feel it. He fumbles and scrambles, tripping over his words as your hand creeps over his knee. His wide eyes watch as it trails up his thigh. "I- I don't-"

"I'm kidding," you reassure him, slightly disappointed but not surprised. Your hand lingers, respectfully, an inch or so from from dick, and you rub soothing circles into the firm flesh of his thigh with your thumb. "But, ya know, if there was...anything you wanted to try..."

His dark eyes flick toward you, but his head stays forward.

"Any. Thing."

He swallows. "Anything?"

"Mhm." Your lips find the crook of his jaw. Then your teeth. The nibble breaks him.

"I want..." It's a sigh. "I want all of you."

Your teeth scrapes down his neck. Soothing it with soft kisses, you lift a hand to his chest. Undo a button, then another, then another, before you murmur, "tell me how."

Hugh quiets. His face turns, but you won't have it. Swinging a leg over him, you can't help but moan. You love how he feels under you, so broad and strong and warm-

Taking his face in your hands, you force him to look you in the eye. His cock twitches against the crease of your thigh, and you can't resist giving it a good grind. His eyes flutter.

"All of me, huh? What's that mean?" Anal? You wondered, a little apprehensive, considering the fucking battering ram he's currently pressing against your (silk boxer covered) mound.

Color comes back full force; up his neck, over his cheeks. "I want- I want-"

You slide his glasses up his nose with care. They're a bit foggy, and it's cute. He's cute.

His eyes flutter as you smooth his hair back. "Have you ever thought about us...long term?"

Puzzled, your head tilts.

"Us. Together." A shaky hand reaches for your knee. "What do you see when you think of our future?"

"Oh, well, you know me," the smile is wide, jaded and sarcastic, but it dazzles him. "I've always been a white picket fence kinda bitch."

He chuckles at the vulgarity, but it's awkward, uncomfortable, telling. 

Your lips twitch. "What?" 

"I know you're...unconventional."

"Mhm." You shift. Rub his shoulders, kiss him sternly, once, twice, and he chases your mouth when you pull back. You lick your lips. "Just tell me what you fucking want, babe."

"I want to fuck you," his hands find your ass. He gropes the supple flesh, greedy and rough. "I want to do it- do it, uh, unprotected."

"Unprotected?"

"No condoms."

That gives you pause. "Oh."

"When I think about you- on your back, holding your legs open-" he swallows as you bite your lip. "Just for me, begging for it, crying for it-"

You nod, unable to deny the twinge low in your belly. "Yeah, yeah, what else?"

His hands squeeze and knead your ass, your thighs, your hips. "I love it when you cry."

You bite your lip. Can't help the eager nod you give. Of course he loves you like that, you only cry after he's wrung you out completely, four or five orgasms deep, completely overwhelmed- "I do, too."

He lifts his brow to yours, nuzzles your noses together. His gaze is soft, tender. "I love you."

It's your turn to be embarrassed. "I know. And you know, how- how I…return that feeling."

His smirk is a bit dim, but it doesn't linger. Instead, his fingers skim up your back. Under your shirt, he undoes your bra with a bit of fumbling. Had you put one on just to feel said lovesick fumbles? Of course, but you'd deny it. Warmth spreads through you as he helps you shrug it off, how he sets it aside so delicately.

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you shove your tits in his face and hope he gets the idea.

Hugh does not. His gaze stays on your face, even as you huff. "Say you want me."

"I want you," it's said simply, honestly.

His dark eyes search your face. "Say you won't be with anyone else."

"Hugh, you know I haven't been with anyone else in months." You whine, bouncing your boobs with purpose, but his eyes still don't stray.

"And say you won't be."

"What, like, ever?"

He blushes. "Maybe not forever, that's…hyperbolic."

"Hugh."

"I just hate the thought of you being with someone else like this." His gaze finally falls, but not to your chest. Instead he looks at where his hand holds your hip. "Touching you like this, talking to you like this, I want it just to be me."

"Oh, baby, it is," your voice breaks as his hands dip into your silk boxers. "I promise."

"Let's make love, sweetheart. Let me fill you up…" His words are slow, daunting, as he leans in to kiss you. You shiver as his lips touch yours, his tongue caressing your bottom lip as he squeezes your bare ass, just hard enough to make you whimper.

Nodding helplessly, you part your lips and offer his tongue a bold stroke with your own. He tastes faintly of mint tea, and you chase him as he leans back. Peppering kisses over his face, you buck in his lap, grind against the bulge in his khaki slacks.

"Please, Hugh, I wanna get fucked, want you to raw me-"

"Raw-?"

"Fuck me without a condom," you order breathlessly. "There won't be anybody else, baby, I promise, but you gotta shut up and do it, okay?"

His cock grinds against your mound. One of his hands pry itself from your ass in order to shove your shirt up. Latching onto your tit, he worships your breasts; dotting them with quick little pecks, rolling his tongue over your nipples until they're hard and tight, throbbing from his attention.

A moan slips from your lips. Your hips roll, nestling the fat shaft against your slit. The pressure, the silk, against your clit makes you pant, and your teeth latch onto your bottom lip. "Hugh, please-"

His dark eyes flicker up to your face as he pulls off from your tit. "Beg." His fingers edge along your slit. 

This is new. Despite how your brows raise, your mouth begins to run, "please fuck me, Hugh, fuck, can't you feel how wet I am?" Your hips roll, and you huff as he keeps his fingers limp against your heated sex. "Don't you wanna give it to me, baby? Why don't you wanna fuck me, Daddy?"

The breath catches in your throat as his mouth collides with yours. His tongue shoves past your lips. Hot and wet, it slides against yours as his fingers find your clit.

It feels like a spark, low in your belly, as he begins to play with you. His touch is still a bit awkward, still a little rough around the edges, and you love him just a little bit more for it. Moaning, you wrap your arms around his neck.

"Yeah," you purr, nuzzling your noses together. "Like that."

[curbitkirby]

Don't mind me, just thinking about catwoman reader being prone boned by cobblepot molina. Being absolutely covered and surrounded by the size of him, smothered by him against his sheets, churning his cock deep and slow and relentless in her, one hand between her and the bed, his movements forcing her clit to rub against his large hand while the other is wrapped around her neck, just holding her firmly while he whispers filthy, lovely praises/insults (all of which turns reader on terribly ofc). Being a brat she'd writhe her hips and tell him to just fuck her, and who is he to refute her. He'd gladly oblige with no prejudice.

Ok, ok, ok, here me out-

You know this scene?!

Which leads me to the gloriousness that is-

Jealous Oswald.

18+

Tw: rough sex, sex workers, scratching, flirting with Bruce Wayne, degrading dirty talk, jealousy

He's never cared much for gossip, but this little cat and mouse game you're playing is everywhere. It's all over the papers, the news, hell, every broadcaster in Gotham is talking about that damn kiss. It was bad enough he had to see it in person, but to see it on repeat?

The night had turned so quickly. It had started off so promising; the press had been complimentary, the girl on his arm sweet and ditzy, fawning over everything and making him feel like a God before-

Before he caught sight of you.

You had been unexpected, you always were, and you pulled him in like a magnet, just like you always did. Even in a simple black dress, you were a rose among thorns, but it had been your face that struck him the hardest.

You looked so different without it. No black mask to hide your pretty face, you wore every emotion so brazenly-

He could see your smile from across the room. Recognized the way your shoulders bobbed; he could practically hear your sharp giggle, loves the sight of you covering your painted lips with the backs of your fingers. He had never seen you do that before.

Then he showed up.

He can still remember going cold when Bruce Wayne asked you to dance. 

He was everything Oswald was not. Charming, handsome, young, hell, he was even richer than Cobblepot-

Amber kept prattling on beside him as Bruce led you to the dance floor.

It made him sick, the way you looked at him. So entranced, no mask to hide how obviously you adored him-

Then he got to hold you. Hands gentle on your waist as you wrapped your arms around him. As you tenderly smoothed his hair back from his brow, your eyes searching his stupid handsome face-

And you had cried over him. Oswald had seen your tears in the one brief moment when you finally met his stare over Bruce's shoulder. He had never seen you cry before.

He didn't like it.

"Wasn't it worth it? Hm? Putting on that show? Crying over a man who doesn't even know you-"

You grit your teeth, but can't hold back your cries. Tears mar your vision, your make up smearing the sheets as he drags you to your fourth orgasm with slow, painful precision.

"Doesn't even like you," he hisses, digging his nails into your throat as he fucks you in long deep strokes, each one emphasized by the slap of his thighs against yours. "You're nothing but a number to him, nothing but a worthless, brain dead little slut-"

Fuck, he's so big, so fucking strong; he braces your body on one arm, holding you by the throat like you're nothing. A moan breaks from your chest as your clit grinds against the heel of his palm, the other arm snaked under your belly.

"Oh, you like that, don't you? Like being treated like trash-"

"Fuck, Ozzie-" You whine, arching your back as your toes curl. Cheeks flushed with heat, you huff, "Can you just shut up-?!"

"Why should I, huh? Why should I listen to you? Mewling-" he slams his cock into you with each insulting grunt, "pathetic- no good- bitch-" His lips brush your ear with every hiss.

His stomach pushes down on your back, every thrust chaffing your knees and palms as you grip the dirty mattress cover. 

"He doesn't even know you," he repeats, voice cracking, he holds you close, "doesn't love you like I do, couldn't, that fuckin' spoiled punk-"

The laugh bubbles up before you can stop it. The thought of Oswald being jealous of you dancing with someone when he had you pinned to a dirty mattress. Like he wasn't the one parading that knock out blonde on his arm all night, like he didn't have his hand on her thigh-

He pulls back, steps back from the bed and leaves you empty. The suddenness makes you whine and sob and pound the bed with your fist. With a frustrated yowl, you kick at him. "I hate you!"

"You love me," he pants hard, but his words are clear as he flips you onto your back.

For a long moment you just stare at each other. Sweat drips from his chin, his jaw, and you can't help but spread your legs a little wider.

Oswald doesn't take the bait. "You had no right to be there."

"I was invited."

"You knew I'd be there-"

"So, what?"

"You know I don't like when…our personal lives-"

"Personal lives? Ozzie, this is us. The real us," you tell him, smile wily and sharp as you get up on your knees. Your hands search out his shoulders, greedy and desperate as you pull him close.

His dark eyes lock on your mouth as you lean in.

"Don't act like you don't like it." Your eyes sparkle. "Like you wouldn't take being the Penguin over Mayor Cobblepot-" you sneer the title, "any day of the week, because that's who you are. What you are." There's a heat now, a compliment, a jab, as your nose nuzzles his. "What we are, Ozzie."

"We? There is no we."

You blink, cringe. That stings, especially in the face of your sincerity. "But you said you loved me."

"People say a lot of things in the heat of the moment."

"I'm not one of your girls, Oswald." Your mouth purses. "You can't look me in the face and lie to me, I won’t buy it."

He goes to turn, but you sink your nails into his chest. Raking hot red lines down his pale chest, you huff out a laugh. "Good luck explaining that to your girlfriend. If she cares at all, that is."

She won't, they never do.

"Stay with me," you implore, hating yourself for it, but wanting him desperately to just fucking stay with you for once. 

"Say it back," he challenges.

Biting your lip, you slide your hand down his arm to take his hand. "Okay."

Hope whittles at his heart.

"It back."

He snorts.

[writingsofhubris]

Drabbles - Ch. 3

Ch. 3 - Horvath [AO3] [Ch. 2] [Ch.4] <- Bunny -> Rating: E WC: 584  Tags: Cock Warming, Language Kink Ship: Maxim Horvath/Reader Disc: Cockwarming w/ maxim. Reader is teasing him while he is reading spells or making a potion (some shit like that) and he just gets tired of it and plops the reader down till he’s done where he can either leave them (the reader or both) hanging or finishing the job. + Language Kink

His hands pressed your hips down to his, his cock spearing into you with a familiar twinge of pain. A moan fell from your lips, head falling back onto his shoulder. Perhaps he’d finally let you get what you really wanted, that little bit of attention you craved from his fingers and cock. 

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[writingsofhubris]

Almost (Sweet Music)

[AO3] <- Bunny Rating: E WC: 1868 Tags: Morning Sex, Oral sex, gentle sex, gentle kissing, gentleness, over stimulation, (consensual) somnophilia Ship: Maxim Horvath/Reader Disc: Most of your mornings, you woke up alone. Maxim wouldn’t take the moments to tell you he was off, he didn’t find any purpose in waking you only for him to disappear. Maxim + Oral sex + sleepy sex = a happy heart of hubris

Most of your mornings, you woke up alone. Maxim wouldn’t take the moments to tell you he was off, he didn’t find any purpose in waking you only for him to disappear. Most mornings, you’d agree with him. His research was important, and you valued your sleep too much to argue with his choices. Why would you; with his topic having changed from the destruction of the world, his knowledgeable pursuits had caught him deeper than either of you had expected it to.

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