kink meme 1.0

[likedillinger]

By popular demand...

Our First Ever
Knights of Legend Kink Meme

 

What is a kink meme? Pretty self explanatory, actually. You request a pairing and a prompt/kink anonymously, and someone else (or several someone elses for that matter) will be able to fill that request- also anonymously (unless they choose to do it logged in). Fun way to get fic, fun way to find fic to write, and good if you're embarrassed to post! Fun for the whole fami- oh. Er, maybe not. You know what I mean! (Note that while this is called a kink meme, the rules are pretty fast and loose. Nonexplicit fic is also allowed, but there is generally a focus on kinky stuff or some form of character relationship of a sexual or romantic nature.)
 

***

Rules

♦ Post requests and responses in the comments to this post.
♦ Be respectful. 
♦ Both a pairing/character AND a prompt/kink must be posted.
♦ One pairing/prompt per comment please.
♦ You are encouraged to try and write one prompt for every request you make.
♦ We are slash, femslash, het, three-and-moresomes etc. friendly.  Also pegging.
♦ No pairing bashing. No need to wank over ships.
♦ Long and short fics (drabbles) welcome. Multiple responses encouraged!

Have fun!

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

buffy/rafael, pegging

[killingtodeath]

They stayed up most nights, talking about anything, everything. Even spending so much time together, it was strange how they so rarely ran out of topics. She was learning more about his past, and she accepted it in a way that he never expected. And he was showing her that he was still interested in being part of her future, whatever that meant.

Buffy and Rafael were the long shot, but now? Well, it wasn't a sure thing, but it was nice, whatever it was. There's a lull in the conversation, laughter dying out as they lounge back on Buffy's bed. Leaned on his elbow, Rafael rolls his body towards her, free hand reaching out to carefully tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. She blinks, slightly confused by the sudden affectionate gesture, but smiling still, tilting into the caress.

"Carina, there is nothing we would not do for each other, no?" The question comes from nowhere as far as Buffy's concerned.

"Y...es? You know those sort of questions are usually followed by things of the less good variety, right? It's the kind of thing that feels like there's a but behind it. Is there a but? There has to be a but." Buffy, stop saying but. This is terrible foreshadowing.

He chuckles. And instead of answering, leans in to press his lips softly to hers. It does little to explain what he means, but should hopefully make her less nervous that something bad will be coming next. And in part, maybe he needs this to work up the courage to speak again.

"I want you to do something for me." He barely breaks away from her mouth, words so quiet against her lips. "I'm not sure how to ask."

"You can ask me anything." She responds, chasing his mouth to press another kiss. Whatever he wants to ask? It comes with this and that's good enough for her.

"I have had certain... desires for some time, but did not know who to share them with. But I feel that they would be safe with you, Buffy. The bag I brought. I think it may be the time to open it." He told her that it was just something he had bought in town, had dodged the question. She had wondered about it, but had dropped it after he deflected the question. Now she was all the more confused.

Rolling over and out of bed, she grabs the bag and holds it by the handles, opens it wide to peer inside.

And promptly drops the whole thing on the floor.

"There's a- I think you might have gotten your bag switched at the store." She looks down at the bag, now fallen over, contents spilling out. A bottle of lube rolls out, coming to a stop against her foot.

"There is no mistake, carina. I purchased these items. For us."

"Yeah but you've already got- I mean I don't need two- Not that I don't appreciate the thought..."

"I think you misunderstand." He finally stops laying around in bed and gets up to take out the sex toy, revealing that it's not just a dildo, but a harness to strap it on. On someone without a penis. On her. "It is for me."

Oh.

"Oh." Buffy swallows hard, staring at the strap on before dragging her gaze to his face. "You mean you want me-? And then you-? You realize this isn't really the kind of thing you just spring on someone right?"

Rafael gives a slightly embarrassed sort of laugh. "I did not think there would ever be a way to ease into it."

"Think that's what the lube's for." She quips back without a second thought. Immediately her cheeks redden. "Uhm. Okay. So... say I'm not opposed to the idea. Do you mean you want to... Now?"

"No time like the present, no? Tomorrow may never come. I am tired of waiting to ask for what I want." Another time, Buffy might realize that this is the exact perfect time to voice that vaginal sex would be something she is tired of waiting to ask for. She would also like to be fucked. Hello? Bueller?

She can't say no to him. Not when he's got his puppy dog eyes on her. It's slightly disturbing how easy it is to convince her, but if it's what he wants and if he only feel comfortable with asking her? She's not going to turn him down. And part of her may be pleased that she's at least able to boldly go where not even Jade went before. So she answers by closing the distance between them and kissing him, giving her answer with lips and tongue and teeth.

They tumble into bed, leaving the strap on and the lube off to one side of the bed while they return to making out like teenagers, tearing clothing off of one another until they're both completely nude and she's breaking away to reach blindly for the the lube. Finding a bottle, she slicks up two of her fingers, but after a glance back at the toy Rafael had bought, she adds more to coat a third. She's being thorough!

The sound he makes when she slips her middle finger inside of him should not be legal. That beautiful accent, whispering things that are quite possibly obscene. It's more Italian than English at this point, but she doesn't care, so long as he keeps moaning like that in time with the movement of her finger. She waits until his hips are moving more than her hand before she slowly works in her index finger as well, curling and scissoring her fingers. She's making it up as she goes, but she definitely knows that he'll need to be looser to take on the real deal. Buffy's ring finger joins the party and Rafael grips the sheets of her bed tight, tensing up for a moment. She's gentle with him, coaxing him through it with encouraging words. Her other hand reaches to stroke him, hoping that it might help.

"Buffy... please." The desperate way he asks for her makes her pause, realizing only then just how warm she feels, how she's clenching her thighs and shifting her hips in time with the thrusts of her fingers. She's into this. She's not sure if it's the act itself or just him, but... Buffy's no longer on the fence.

"Hang on." She pulls away slowly, unable to stop from smiling at his disappointed moan at the loss of her. Standing beside the bed, she steps into the harness and pulls it over her hips. Looking down, it feels bigger now that it's on her small frame. It's no longer a dildo. It's her cock. And it's big and black and bobbing as she climbs back into bed. Rafael can't take his eyes off of her, mouth hanging slightly open as he watches her return. He only nods mutely, even if she didn't ask a question. A quick glance from Buffy down to Rafael's lap tells her without a doubt that he's still interested. "Turn around."

He obeys, flipping over onto his hands and knees. the height difference here will do them no favors. Buffy guides his knees further apart until he's at a better angle. Reaching over, she grabs the lube again and runs her hand over her cock. She has to think of it like that. It somehow makes this less weird. She's mesmerized by the sight of her hand stroking along the firmness, pumping her fist one more time than necessary just because she likes the way it looks. Focus, Summers.

Approaching him, she steadies a hand on his hip while her other hand holds the base of her cock and presses the head against his entrance. She thinks to try to say something encouraging here, but literally nothing is the right thing to say when you're about to fuck your pop star not!boyfriend in the ass with a strap on.

Rafael takes care of the vocalization part once she presses towards him, filling the room with a long moan as Buffy works on filling him. There's just a lot of filling going on. She's careful to move slowly, letting him adjust with shallow thrusts before pressing deeper. Soon, she's buried to the hilt, gripping both sides of his hips and holding him close, unmoving.

"You okay?" She says finally, finding her breath coming in shorter pants. Her stimulation has been minimal but she's getting off on his reaction right now and he is delivering. The curly head of hair beneath her nods before he shifts his hips, moving against her. Using a bit more strength than she probably needed to, Buffy grabs at his hips and pulls him firmly back, keeping him still. "No. Let me do it."

Rafael groans, breathing out a strained si at the end of it. Buffy keeps a hold of him, working her hips back and forth at a steady pace, finding her rhythm. Beneath her, Rafael continues to use that beautiful voice of his to cry out for her, the sounds rising in pitch and volume. Buffy's well aware of her Slayer strength and only using enough of it to give him a time he can't find anywhere else. Her hips snap against his ass in a way that's both gentle and brutal.

Even without knowing all of his nuances in bed, she can tell that he's close, or that he would like to be. She's not sure if he can manage to get off like this or if he needs a hand. She decides to make the decision for him and bends to reach for his cock, finding it painfully hard, uselessly humping against the mattress in time with her thrusts. Her small hand grips him, sliding along with the help of residual lube. The combination of the sensation is exactly what Rafael needs. A few more thrusts and he's spilling all over her hand and onto her sheets. Buffy's hand and hips slow in unison. She watches as Rafael slumps forward, supporting more of his weight on his arms, trying desperately to catch his breath.

"That was... You were..." Words are failing him and this time it isn't because of his questionable grasp of the English language. As Buffy pulls back out of him and sheds the strap on, she's quick to join him back in bed, brushing back damp curls from his forehead.

"You're welcome." She can't bring herself to just ask him if he would pretty please fuck her brains out. Thankfully, he seems to read the disappointment lingering in her eyes.

"Give me a moment to compose myself and perhaps we can explore other desire we may have. The night is still young, I think."

Buffy perks visibly. "Definitely young. So young. I actually don't think I need to sleep at all for the next week, if you want to just spend it in this bed with me instead." He laughs at her eagerness, leaning in to kiss her softly.

"Do not tempt me, carina."

[(Anonymous)]

alanna/jaime, hatesex

jaime/alanna hatesex | this is probably riddled with typos and nonsense

[immuno]

Four bloody days.

For the past four days straight, he hasn’t once stopped questioning her, and Alanna’s quite had it. She grabs a sword from the pile of armaments they’ve accrued and throws it on the ground between them. A loud clattering noise interrupts Ser Lannister quite in the middle of his tirade.

“Enough.” Hefting a second sword into her hand, she draws it from the scabbard and extends it towards him, using the tip of the blade to point down to the dropped weapon before him, gesturing up for him to take it. “If it’s my sex alone that you have such considerable distaste for, then I hope your hate poisons you. But if you have cause to call my leadership into question, then I ask that you stake your blade on it and prove yourself my better.”

He knows to expect her to outmaneuver him this time, and Jaime believes that means he can catch her. The righteous wench would get hers and come to see that it had been only by fluke and dishonesty that she had bested him to begin with. He rips his great sword from the scabbard. He steps in, moving quickly and slashing twice for her. Alanna jumps back and his second hit barely grazes off her leather armor, scraping the exterior without truly piercing it.

She follows up quickly with a staggering slash of her own sword, horizontal across his chest and slicing straight through the leather pads. It brings her in close enough for him to reach. She side steps his first overhead slash, but the diagonal cut upward that follows catches her painfully in the side.

“Luck isn’t on your side today, wench. You’ve slowed down.” Alanna stabs her sword straight into his lower ribs rather than reply. He swings his sword and catches her in the shoulder again, causing her to pull back just in time to parry his second swing. He lumbers towards her and she takes the chance to spin her sword out from under his, twisting steel against steel until she can drive hers down against his shoulder. Each blow strikes a particularly painful position, and Jaime is left heaving his breaths.

He charges her then, sweat pouring down his face, and she’s certain he means to kill her as his sword slashes across her chest. Her breath comes out slowly and she opens her eyes, wondering when she ever closed them, only to see his face inches from hers. The padded leather armor falls away from her chest, severed by the blow. He plunges his sword into the wall beside her head.

This time, he doesn’t get the last blow before he forfeits. Blood mingles with sweat, pouring off the both of them, and their heavy pants mirror one another’s in the silence that follows.

“You’re a godless coward, Jaime Lannister,” she can’t stop herself. His breath on her face makes her stomach turn, and she’s sick to know that it could just as easily been her head he’d pierced his blade through. The most infuriating thing about him is that he’s right about her temper and her tact and Solace has seen it. She’d fought Jaime after he’d yielded and she loathes that he can bring out that untempered part of her when she’s worked so hard to become like steel.

Rather than reply, he surges forward to corner her against the wall with a kiss. There is no tenderness in it. He devours her like a starved animal, tasting the copper of blood in her mouth, and the bitterness of her hate. He knows too well what she thinks of him—that he is foul, a stain on her blessed order. His hands grip her upper arms, pressing her back into the wall, and he feels her muscles tighten as she clenches her fingers around the hilt of her blade. In that moment, he’s honestly not certain if she’ll run it straight through him. God knows she could.

Instead, she surprises the both of them by throwing it down and wrapping her arms around his middle to draw him closer. They break to gasp between kisses. The sharp, acrid stench of sweat comes off of her as he rips her shirt open, feeling her body jerk between him and the wall. Realizing he’s caught her off guard, his teeth dig into her lower lip.

Her fingers find a stranglehold around the straps of his armor, tearing blindly at it. The wench can’t seem to find the fastenings on a simple chest plate, so he draws his hands back to remove it himself, shucking the armor. Gratitude is overlooked by opportunism, and Alanna takes a step out, twisting to pin him against the wall. She sees no end to the battle, only a change in form.

By the time they have divested one another of the rest of their clothing, both of them have wrestled their way onto the floor. The fight for dominance continues, with Alanna only just barely winning by twisting around him like a blasted snake.

“Squeeze the life out of me now, and you’ll cheat us both of a far better end,” he hisses in warning, grabbing her forearm and dragging it away from his throat. Her palm smacks down onto the carpet beside his head and she gives him no reply but to drop her head down, mouth searching for his in an unkind kiss. Each push, every pull, every kiss stings of guilt and loathing, pouring out from her like a font. It takes him a moment of watching her rip open the laces of his breeches to realize that it is not for him, but for herself in doing this.

Somehow, the thought sits wrongly with him.

Her hand settles around his cock in time for him to push it down, giving it no thought as his blood sings for the satisfying finality of it. Their bodies burn as one together, and he thrashes from beneath her, turning her onto her back in a burst of sudden strength—or, more likely, in a well-timed moment of distraction. He grabs her thighs with bruising strength, spreading them wide and pressing himself between them. Something indiscernible comes from her throat, half-choked on the wings of a ragged breath.

“Shut your eyes, my lady,” he taunts, taking it for nervousness, “and it’ll all be over soon.” In answer, she cuffs him on the side of the head, digging her heels into the muscle of his ass and drawing him in.

“Hurry up, you gormless bastard.” The head of his cock glides across her slick, and Jaime feels his eyes roll back, muffling a groan against her skin. However long it’s been, he had managed not to miss the sweet warmth of a woman’s cunt until presented with hers, and the ache springs forth with a painful suddenness. Repressed as she is, he’d have expected more resistance than he finds, but for all her righteousness, Alanna is no maiden.

Sinking into her does little to relieve the ache, only worsening the inferno raging beneath his skin. For all the raving she does about being the same as a man, she’s certainly not where it counts. Jaime straightens up, shifting his grip on her thighs so that his palms curve underneath them, and he uses that grip to yank her towards him roughly, thrusting his hips forward with bruising force at the same time. Her back arches under him, pink tits straining up towards him, as if begging for attention. Alanna raises her hands above her head, bracing herself on the carpet or simply recoiling away from him—he would not presume certainty.

Spurred on as she begins to allow hurried, pleading moans to spill past her lips, mingled with curses that would make the worst rogue blush, he continues to drive into her with brutal, relentless thrusts. Each rock of his hips causes heat to coil tighter within him, brings him a little closer to the point where his control finally snaps. His movements become erratic, instinctive, and blind. He drops his hands to rest on the carpet on either side of her, leaning forward over Alanna’s pale form as she continues to buck up off the floor, meeting him hit for hit just as she had done in the battle.

When her hands drop to try and finish herself the rest of the way, feeling the tension in his limbs building, he has to swat her away with one hand. His fingers search through matted, dark red hair for the tiny, hardened nub that he knows will have her shrieking in the only way he can stand to hear. The pad of his thumb circles it steadily, but he makes no move to slow his movements. If the wench is left wanting, it’s no problem of his—and yet, when she begins to writhe and her inner muscles seize up around him, he finds himself reevaluating his faith in the gods.

His lips search across a bloody slash just below her chest, left by his blade, saliva sealing it. When the edges of his vision darken, the perfect, scorching stranglehold of her cunt carries him the rest of the way. He thrusts into her until there is nothing left of him for her to take, and then he collapses on top of her, heavy and boneless.

Alanna suffers no such period of exhaustion, shoving him clean off of her with one sharp thrust of her palms into his chest.

Ah, well. The reprieve from her shrill voice was worth it while he’d had it.

[(Anonymous)]

finnick/myri, sugarcubes

[(Anonymous)]

charming's exile on whore island

[(Anonymous)]

des/buffy/rafael, threesome sex

[(Anonymous)]

finnick/rafael, rpf

finnick/rafael - piano man

[slay]

“That’s amazing.”

Finnick stops in the practice room, startled by the sight of Rafael at the piano. Music has always been a passion of his, but Rafael’s music is like nothing he’s ever experienced before. It’s not the over-synthesized trip-hop that NOVA usually peddles and tries to set him up with: this is something more, something beautiful.

The disturbance jerks Rafael from his reverie and his long fingers still at the keys. Turning to look over his shoulder, his dark eyes skate over Finnick silently a moment, just breathing him in. In some ways, he still felt so out of place in NOVA, wondering if anyone would respect his art as art rather than entertainment.

He had never guessed that his co-star might be the one to offer that. Finnick’s talent was wasted on the kitschy pop songs they had him singing. It as a tragedy, one that Rafael could only hope to remedy now that he saw it glowing in those sea green eyes.

Understanding.

“It was written for my sister, before she passed.” Because fans of the NOVA tour just get to invent Rafael’s backstory since no one knows any of it. “I would play it for her while she was sick. She told me it soothed her.”

In that moment, Finnick feels like he’s intruding on an impossibly private moment—rather than back off, he takes a step forward, drawn in by the mystery and burning to know what other secrets the half-elf holds.

“I didn’t realize Burt signed people who played like you do.”

A weary smile crosses Rafael’s lips, though some genuine amusement plays behind it. He ducks his head, “We are very few, I think.” He moves over on the piano bench. “Come. I play better with someone to listen.”

His fingers begin to dance across the keys again, and Finnick settles down beside him. Rafael begins to hum along at first, eventually picking up with the music in Italian. He looks expectantly at Finnick, who simply shakes his head.

“It is an English song, no?” At his prompting, Finnick recognizes the melody, instantly feeling stupid as he realizes that Rafael is playing My Heart Will Go On. As Rafael continues, watching him, Finnick begins to sing along without even meaning to. Before long, they get swept up into a booming duet, lost in one another’s eyes.

As the final bars trail off, Finnick raises his hand to towards Rafael’s back, but hesitates just before touching him. He can feel the heat of his body from under his suit jacket, the near-touch burning so hot that Finnick fears what might happen if he actually followed through.

Rafael senses it, turning to look at his co-star, something simmering beneath those dark eyes. In that moment, it becomes clear: they both know where this is going. Neither can say who truly initiated the kiss, but it doesn’t seem to matter as Finnick lays Rafael back against the piano bench, kissing down his throat and prying open his button-up with gentle hands.

Mind clouded by desire, Rafael’s approval is lost in soft gasps and light moans while Finnick begins to kiss down his chest. He kneels at the side of the bench, pausing in his path to unbuckle Rafael’s belt. The half-elf glances down at him, and Finnick catches his gaze.

“Can I?”

The oxygen between them evaporates, burned away by their scorching gaze.

“I have been hoping you would.”

The rest of their clothes are shed haphazardly, carpeting the floor around the piano bench.

Once he has Rafael naked, writhing before him, Finnick leans over him and glides his fingertips over the elf’s shoulder. As his hand moves back towards his hair, ready to grab a handful, he stops to trace the outer shell of one of Rafael’s pointed ears. The sensation leaves Rafael shuddering, an acute pleasure rocketing through his pale body.

Unable to stop himself, Finnick grabs onto Rafael’s hair, dragging him into a heated kiss. His other hand grabs one side of Rafael’s ass, rutting their hips together so that their cocks bob against each other, creating a maddening sort of friction. It’s only then that it occurs to Finnick to ask for lube. The nod Rafael offers to his discarded suit jacket earns a questioning look.

“You keep it with you?”

The attention to detail has Rafael flushing slightly as he admits, shyly, “As I said, I had been hoping.”

Finnick is gentle with him—gentler, and more practiced than any lover that Rafael has taken in the past. Eterna Jade was always too aggressive, too demanding, but Finnick feels perfect. He takes care in coating his fingers with the slippery fluid, smearing excess on the puckered pink hole that he can’t wait to feel clenching around him.

Then, slowly, he eases one finger in. Rafael takes it easily, moaning readily by the time the digit is buried to the base inside of him. His hips thrust up blindly into nothing. Without need of further prompting, Finnick inserts another, scissoring his fingers and curling them to search out Rafael’s prostate while he works him wider in preparation of what he has in store for his Shadowkind lover.

Rafael’s knees rest atop Finnick’s shoulders, and his heels begin to dig into his back, encouraging him on, begging silently for more as he whispers indiscernible praises in Italian, lost between lilting moans. Finally, as the press of Finnick’s fingers sends electricity throughout his body that makes him tremble, Rafael gathers up his faculties to make one pointed demand.

“I need you, compagno.”

Truth be told, Finnick almost lost it right then. He pulls his fingers free, and Rafael bemoans the loss while Finnick hurries to slather lubricant across his aching erection. With the head of his cock pressing at Rafael’s entrance, Finnick looks up to his lover for affirmation. A gentle nod grants him permission, and he waits no further to plunge inside of him, steadily stretching Rafael open under him.

Finnick groans, turning his head to kiss Rafael’s leg where it rests over his shoulder, bending his hips backward in a way that opens him up to Finnick. The heat alone has his eyes rolling up, and he struggles to hold on even as tension builds quite suddenly in his gut. There is no slow coiling build, only his overwhelming fulfillment in sharing this moment with his love.

They begin to move together as well as they do anything else, creating a soothing rhythm that rocks the bench beneath them. There is no uncertainty in how to match one another, only glorious harmony between their bodies, and they continuously rise together on each thrust until neither can tell where they end and the other begins.

“I can’t—“ Finnick utters out, sounding ashamed. Rafael reaches forward to soothe him, running his fingers over Finnick’s where they rest against his thigh.

“It is good, compagno.” The cue allows Finnick to stop holding himself back, and he pours everything he’s got into Rafael’s ass in a series of steady spurts until he slumps forward, spent. As he draws himself out, however, he makes it clear he hasn’t forgotten his lover by taking the erection that had been pressed between them into his mouth.

It catches Rafael off guard, because his legs drop to the floor beside the bench very suddenly, and his hips arch off of it. He opens his lips, but no sound escapes his throat, powerless against Finnick’s off-stage talent. Rafael’s hands clench the edges of the bench, trying to ground himself, fighting back a crescendo that he can feel building straight through all his willpower.

He says something urgently in Italian, and a moment later Finnick is able to translate as salty fluid spills into his mouth. Finnick drinks it down, sucking him until he goes soft, then smoothing his hands over the pale, perfect hips of his partner.

[(Anonymous)]

rose/keijen p sure this is gonna be dubcon (unsure)

[littledhampir]

Thank you for the justification I needed lbr I wanted to do this anyway to make this video.

[(Anonymous)]

myri/finnick, myri finds burt/finnick rpf and takes inspiration from it

[witchwoman]

She's been curious for some time. Kat had found it all those months ago and part of her just couldn't let the thought go. Finnick and... Burt? But here she is, sitting in bed with a laptop, scrolling and scrolling, using all her action points to get a good enough research check to find exactly what she's looking for.

Jackpot.

The next hour of Myri's life is spent reading all about the terrible ways that Burt would take advantage of his newest rising star (and the ways that Finnick would take care of Burt's rising star, if you know what I mean). She's so engrossed by her reading that she doesn't hear Finnick open the door, and it's only the sound of it closing behind him that tears her from her haze of filthy gay imagery. She jumps, half closing the laptop, and glances up at him, startled.

"Didn't mean to scare you." He says with a laugh. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing." She says too quickly. "I was just-" Scrambling for an excuse, she closes the laptop fully, not really thinking about the fact that the browser is definitely still up and the next time she opens that, she (or whoever opens it next) will be greeted with a paragraph of Finnick deep throating Burt under his desk while he's on a conference call.

"Just..?" Drawing out the question, he gives her a curious look. She's not normally this jumpy, so it raises some alarm for him.

"I was wondering if we could try something... new tonight." That's one way to put it. But she's been reading page after page and it's given her some interesting ideas, at the very least.

"New?" Well, she has his interest at least. "Like what?"

"A game."

"What kind of game?"

"The kind where you pretend to be my boss and I'm the new girl trying to impress you."

There's a long silence between them before he just carefully raises one eyebrow. "What have you been reading all day?" It's not a no, though, so she steps up closer and pulls him in for a kiss.

"You don't want to know."

[(Anonymous)]

kyplena, shapeshifting mid-coitus

[(Anonymous)]

jade/des/zarad 8|

[(Anonymous)]

des/zarad/jade, sex on the astral plane

[(Anonymous)]

stiles/adam snapchat sexting

literal snap

[ex_psionic439]

[(Anonymous)]

duchessganger with elena shifted into archer

[(Anonymous)]

dean/rose, arguing turns into sex

[(Anonymous)]

kat/gar, secret lesbians

kat/gar ♥ secret lezbians

[rationalizes]

From her bed in their shared hotel room in Chicago, Kat issues a melodramatic sigh, head hanging upside down off the side as she looks over towards Gar, who is seated cross legged on top of her own bed, reading furiously something on her laptop screen.

When Gar doesn't respond to the sound, Kat rolls her eyes and then rolls over, propping her head up on one fist as she lets her gaze drag over the other girl. She rubs her thighs together the tiniest bit beneath the long gray t-shirt that's serving as her only pajamas, grinding her hips down imperceptibly against the pillow under her stomach and enjoying the rush of warmth down below. This is just not gonna cut it.

"Ga-ar," she says, just one step shy of whining, as she vies for her attention, sounding more annoyed than seductive by any stretch of the imagination. "You can't keep that up all night. Everybody else was asleep like three hours ago. It's gonna be sunset by the time you turn that off." It's funny, because usually she's the one glued to her laptop, but fuck it, she can be a hypocrite if she wants to be. "Come to bed."

It's an easy pretense to keep up, wanting to always share a room with her ex-mentor and ostensibly closest friend. The only shitty part is getting two twin sized beds instead of one that more comfortably sleeps two. She violently bitches about it whenever she gets the chance, behind closed doors, but Gar seems to bear the cross in silence.

"Just... just another ten minutes," Gar says absently, teeth clamping over the end of one finger, biting absently at the skin, a nervous habit as her eyes flick over the screen.

Yeah, no, this isn't working. Kat pushes herself up so that she's sitting up on her knees, and with a huff, rips the shirt off - the only thing she's wearing at all, really - balls it up, and then chucks it across the short space between beds.

Ideally, it would have hit Gar in the face, but instead it smacks her lid half-closed. She'll take it. Kat flops backwards to lounge against her pillow with one knee bent, eyebrows raised at Gar as she spreads her legs slightly to casually afford her a complete view of herself, a challenging look in her eyes, like "Whatchoo gonna do about it".

Gar's eyes widen a bit as she looks over, and the tiniest flush in her cheeks tells Kat that she's won already. It's funny, that no matter how long they've been doing this, she can still make Gar flustered. It's probably half the secret nature of their relationship at this point, really, but between Gar's uncertainty about how anyone would react and Kat's own desire to keep everyone from realizing all her vehement protests against relationships were bullshit and calling her on it, it's unlikely that that's gonna change anytime soon.

Kat grins widely as Gar lowers the laptop lid the rest of the way and sets her glasses on the nightstand. She lifts her hips a couple inches off the bed and waggles them, fingers brushing against her own naked breasts idly, an invitation.

"I'm falling asleep over here," she teases, and Gar unfolds her legs out from under her as she pushes the laptop over on top of the pillow of the bed that won't see any real use tonight. Her bare feet hit the floor, and she glances at the door, as if she had X-ray vision and a way to guarantee that everyone was sleeping and wouldn't hear anything. Kat's eyes roll again.

"Silence spell, remember?" Jesus, sometimes it's like fucking a frightened rabbit. She sits up, and reaches over to grab Gar by the fabric of her night-dress, yanking her forward, so that she'll look down at her. "Hey." Her blue-green eyes offer that sort of unyielding confident reassurance that she knows Gar needs, but there's need of her own in them that doesn't look up for debate. "C'mere."

Gar obliges, and sinks down onto her lap, as Kat's fingers push up the edges of her dress, sliding across the outsides of her thighs. Her grin widens at the warmth pressed against her naked lap, and she squirms beneath her. "Your tits look great in that thing, by the wa--" It's a baiting comment, meant to embarrass Gar into shutting her up, and it's successful, just like it always is. She shoves Kat lightly on the chest so that she falls backwards against the pillows, and presses her hips into hers as her lips cut off the rest of Kat's remark. One of Kat's hands slides up underneath the dress to cup said breast, squeezing it as if to accentuate the joke, and that only makes Gar kiss her more fiercely, her own fingers sliding through the back of the girl's long blonde hair, tangling in it.

The best thing, in Kat's opinion, about sex with Gar, is that most people wouldn't ever expect her to be so fucking into it. All that nice and proper British exterior, her easy blushes and tendency to stammer her way through conversations, vanished when she was in bed - at least in bed with someone who didn't ever make her second guess herself. Girl ate up Harlequin romance novels in her spare time: naturally she had that whole repressed amped up sex drive thing going on, and that was hella convenient for Kat.

There's no hesitancy, therefore, in the hungry way Gar licks and spills kisses against Kat's mouth and throat and collarbone, and Kat feels a certain possessive glee at knowing she's the only one who gets to see this side of her. Her other hand joins the first one in sliding up to fondle her rack beneath her dress, which she finally tugs up over her head in a show of frustration, cutting off the makeouts so that she can have unrestricted access to Gar's breasts.

Now that they're both naked, she trails her tongue up Gar's neck and then signals for her to roll over. She winds up on top of her, grinding her hips down with growing need as she lowers her mouth onto the other girl's before she can even really catch her breath. Tongues curl against each other, and Kat runs her fingers up Gar's inner thigh, provoking a murmur of pleasure as her eyes flutter closed. She draws her face away enough to look down at Gar with a look that's both fond and chastising, lifting her other hand to brush at her cheek and prompt her to open her eyes again.

"I want you to let go," she encourages. "Just stop thinking about shit for five seconds." Her hand below finds its way into the warmth right between Gar's legs, teasing her idly with brushes against the outside as she waits for a response. "Can you do that?"

Gar doesn't look in a state to protest, lips parted on the edge of a gasp, eyes darkened with desire as she manages to nod.

"Damn straight," Kat smirks, and she slides two fingers between the lips of her cunt, brushing from the bottom to the top as she moves to kiss her again, languidly licking at her lips and tongue. Gar's hand moves to the back of Kat's thigh, squeezing it as she releases a small exhalation of pleasure, a demand for more. "That's it." She rewards the response by thumbing her clit, and the moan that elicits prompts her to stop fucking around, her hand moving relentlessly to start getting her off.

Gar's head presses back into the pillow, forehead furrowing as she tries to stifle a too-loud cry, forgetting, like she always does, about the silence spell that makes it unnecessary. She does manage to say breathlessly: "I-- I want--" but that's about as much as she gets out before being too embarrassed to ask for it.

"You want what?" Kat's hand slows and she kisses down between her breasts, and across her stomach without really taking the time to linger. She pauses when her head is hovering between her legs, shooting her a wicked look. "This?" She looks at her as if she's shocked by the suggestion, but she can't manage that long before laughing. "I don't know, I thought you had some important work to be doing..."

Gar gives a strangled sound of frustration and then her hand moves to grip Kat by the back of her head and shove her face down against her cunt, which ... doesn't really stop the laughter for a second, but she'll fucking hold her there until she gives in and stops being a tease.

This time, she lets go, silence spell or not.

[(Anonymous)]

anastacia/des, past fic????

[(Anonymous)]

thomas/jack, some alone time on Andres

[(Anonymous)]

dezrael, stockholm sex

des/azrael | cw: blackmail ?? and power games

[immuno]

“I wonder why they didn’t tell you.”

Des is a lot harder to fucking rattle than this cold bitch appearing out of nowhere again. The voice from the bench behind him only has him setting his jaw, watching the jurors announce the verdict. It’s a constant battle of patience with her—even sass is a dangerous tool that she’ll only turn on him, so silence is best for as long as it can last.

In the back row, Azrael lounges in a red dress, invisible to the rest of the court room save for two. Somewhere along the way, she acquired a plastic container of chocolate covered — nuts? raisins? One or the other.

“Oh, Des,” the sympathy in her voice is too heavy to be taken seriously, pushing straight past into patronizing. “You must be heartbroken. After all this time, they still don’t trust you.”

The verdict announced, the court releases Rafael and everyone in the gallery begins to flood back into the halls of the courthouse. Azrael hangs back because Des does, watching the rest of the Knights pour past, every one of them too distracted by pushing onward to even think about what’s lurking in the rows beside them. The disappearance of the only ones who might point out who Des was dealing with pulls her lips into a bright red smile.

“It really must kill you,” she continues, undeterred by the lack of reply, “watching them put their faith in the very people who are keeping you cursed.” If the egregiousness of her sympathy hadn’t killed any impression of its honesty, her uninhibited grin certainly does now. She steps up behind him, curling one hand around his arm and resting the other on his back, leaning just slightly around him.

As if spurred on by genuine interest, she asks, “Do you think they would have made the same deal if it were you on trial?”

“I think,” Des finally answers, turning halfway towards her so he can catch her gaze, “You better move that hand if you wanna keep it, doll face.”

Azrael makes no effort at feigning discouragement. She simply rolls her shoulders—if anything, the gesture taunts him. Oooh, aggressive. She pulls her hand back.

“Now, now. Is that any way to talk to the only person who can share an eternity with you? I’m here to help.”

Des moves to exit the court room, and Azrael takes it as a cue to follow rather than allowing him to shake her. Over his shoulder, he continues to scowl at her without really looking back.

“You know, sweetheart, I respect this hands-on approach to the damned you’ve got here, but whatever you’re sellin’, I ain’t buyin’. You said it yourself—my curse is off the table. How about you pack it in and take your show elsewhere.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” She seems to consider it for a moment, as if weighing the honesty. Des ducks into the bathroom, and Azrael takes a moment to rest a hand on her hip, looking at the door. Impatient and undeterred, she marches in after him, lingering between the row of urinals and the sinks. “Believe it or not, Des, even I have a conscience. If I packed it in now, you’d never find out about the loophole.”

Des shakes himself off, zipping up and turning to move back to the sinks. He doesn’t look up at her as he points out, “I know the terms.”

“But, I’m not talking about the terms.” Slipping up behind him, Azrael presses her hands against the corners of the sink on either side of his torso, leaning her chin on his shoulder and offering him a predatory smile in the mirror. “I’m talking about the back door that I left in the curse. It might be in the Grays hands, but it’s still my curse. I could tell you.” The offer has her leaning in, whispering it against his earlobe. Gritting his teeth, Des starts scrubbing his hands more furiously.

“Yeah, outta the goodness of your heart, I’m sure. What do you want?” He moves away from the sink, breaking past one of her arms. She straightens, sighing.

“Why do I always have to want something?”

“Because you always do.”

It’s hard for her to be offended when he’s right, but she gives a little roll of her eyes anyway.

“I want us to get along, Des.”

Unmoving even as he begins to yank down paper towels, Azrael turns and leans her hips back against the porcelain sink, rolling back her shoulders and veritably lounging in the dirty, unkempt bathroom. Any guy who said she didn’t shoot the design quality up a few grades just by being in it would be lying.

He throws the towels into the trash can, and she persists.

“Four thousand years … You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

Truth be told, there’s a lot of things that Des is sure he’s thought about and forgotten. Rather than focus on that, however, he turns to look at her with a flat, unimpressed expression.

“I’ve thought a lot about what it’d be like for an immortal to wind up with herpes, too, but I’m not itching to try it out.” Even as he discourages her, he approaches, squaring off with her, only about a foot between them. Her fingers curl at the hem of her dress, inching it up.

“I wouldn’t call what I’m putting on the table ‘symptoms,’ Des. I’m offering you freedom.”

He’s not that gullible. Truth be told, he knows the minute she starts dangling it: if it sounds too good to be true, it’s because it is. All the same, his eyes drop to examine the creamy skin of her thighs as she exposes them. Four thousand years, and the blood rushes to his groin just the same. The moment his teeth clench is the moment she knows she has him.

In an instant, he surges forward, capturing her mouth with his. Unlike all other things, in this, she waits for him to come to her. Her hand move to rest on his shoulders, one grabbing his collar while the other curls halfway over the side of his face and halfway against his neck.

He’s starving, but not for her. Sex has never crippled him like it does most men. He devours her because he wants the answers that she has—the answers she knows he seeks, and the fury of his assault manifests entirely out of their shared understanding that there is no loophole. There is no version of this where she simply walks him right out of this curse.

But maybe he’s simply tired of denying her.

She fucks just the same as she does anything, baiting him to it. Her fingers inch the dress up to the middle of her hips before Des hauls her up onto the sink with a steady grip on her thighs, spreading them so he can wedge his way between them.

He’s hard as a rock, straining against his slacks, and unsurprised to find that she’s not wearing anything under her dress. The bitch siren from Hell doesn’t have time to slap on a pair of fucking underwear before she gets ready to go in the morning. Probably has a schedule jam-packed with schmucks like himself.

While she trails a careful string of kisses up his throat, teeth scraping over his earlobe, he snaps his belt open. He only opens his pants as much as he has to, easing his erection out of the flap in his boxers.

Thousands of years in taunting, Des decides, has earned her a little torment in return. He slides the head of his cock over her slit, finding her wet and wanting. He can’t tell if her throaty moan is theatrical, patronizing, or genuine. Hell, he can’t even tell which direction is up until he abandons pretense and drives into her, straight to the hilt.

Fireworks explode behind his eyes. Honest to fucking God fireworks and he’s never been so pissed in his life because it shouldn’t feel so good to be in her. He pulls on one of her thighs with one hand, the other knots in her cropped blonde hair, yanking just on the edge of too hard to get her fingernails digging into the side of his neck in reply.

He wants this to hurt. He doesn’t want her to believe that he’s found nirvana in her cunt—he wants her to know he’s suffering, and he can’t decide which one is worse.

Wasting no time on pleasantries and caution, each snap of his hips is made to drive brutally into her, and he can’t decide if he wants to hear her screaming because he’s the best thing she’s ever fucking had or if he doesn’t give a damn—lord how he wishes he didn’t give a damn, but his traitorous cock has him thinking how the only thing that could make this sweeter is the throb of orgasm clenching her around him.

Even without his interference, she seems well on her way. Something tells him it’s not just his centuries of practice that’s making her toes curl in those strappy heels. Each thrust causes more tension to coil deep in his gut, and if she were anything close to human, he knows his fingertips would be leaving bruises below her hemline, but she’s not, so his grip tightens still.

“Curse or no curse, Des,” she murmurs against his ear, words uneven as each rock of his hips jolts her breath. “You’re always gonna be mine.”

Something in him snaps. He pulls her hips towards him and her head and shoulders snap back against the mirror. One of her hands moves to brace against the wall beside her head, but Des pounds into her like there’s not a person attached because he doesn’t want to think about who is.

It’s the fact that she won’t let him forget that finally sends him over the edge, bright colors blossoming behind his eyes and heat washing over him like a liquid that rolls beneath his skin.

She starts laughing.

Des rests his hands on either side of her, palms pressed against the mirror.

“Tell me,” he demands roughly, breathing hard.

For a moment, she looks genuinely sorry as she reaches up to touch the side of his face. Her head tilts and she shakes her head. He doesn’t believe it for a minute. “There is no loophole.”

From behind him, Des hears the awkward floundering “uhh” of Mark. He turns to glance behind him, a piercing glare, and when he looks back, Azrael has disappeared, and his dick’s hanging out in the bowl of the sink.

“Son of a bitch.”

[(Anonymous)]

zarad/spike, no one chickens out

[(Anonymous)]

finnick/myri, utilizing the pug pillows in creative ways

[(Anonymous)]

zarad/des/faye/alex, the foursome that could have been

[(Anonymous)]

dezrael, "do you want an extra hour in the ballpit?"

i was gonna take this in an anal beads direction but it just wasn't happening so no smut

[immuno]

“Don’t look so glum.”

Funny, the way she phrases it like an order instead of the pouting request she tries to make it sound like. Des reaches out to shove her out of the way, but selective corporeality is a bitch and his hand just passes through her like mist. Somehow, that only makes him more pissed.

“I helped. A little gratitude wouldn’t kill you.” A beat. She seems entirely too amused with herself, and Des doesn’t even have to fucking look at her to know that. “Unfortunately.” There it is.

He shoulders straight past her, allowing her to pick up at his heels.

“Well, that makes right up for the four thousand years of fucking me around now, doesn’t it?” He spits out the words, drenched in bitterness.

Azrael taps her fingers against her lips, looking entirely too satisfied with herself as she corrects him, “Four thousand years of knowing you, but only seven months of fucking you.”

Somehow, that doesn’t seem to have cheered him up. In fact, she’s fairly certain she just heard him growl. Scratch that—completely certain. Perfectly manicured eyebrows arch up higher on her forehead.

“You’re the only reason I was in there in the first place. Anderson’s gave himself a smite-boner over your damn curse.” The innocent expression is entirely at odds with her countenance, but she tries it on anyway, pressing her palm to her chest and having the gall to look offended.

One hand rests on his outer arm, the other on top of his shoulder as she pulls him to a stop outside of the church.

“I want to make it up to you.”

She doesn’t want to make it up to him, he knows. She wants to make it worse.

“You’ve done enough.”

Swooping around, she moves to stand in front of him, hands on her hips.

“Don’t be a child, Des, or all you’ll get is an extra hour in the ball pit.” His brow furrows and he opens his mouth, ready to demand what the hell she’s talking about, but Azrael raises a hand and twirls it, gesturing behind him with a nod and a sweeping gesture.

A sad, deflated kiddie pool sits on the asphalt of the parking lot. One side has deflated entirely, and some of the hollow, plastic balls pour out from the valley created.

[(Anonymous)]

alex/thor/andie, tug-of-war

[(Anonymous)]

alanna/myri (OR IS IT???)

[(Anonymous)]

burt/isa, isabella takes out some of her aggression after rafael gets kidnapped by iscariot. chaos ensues.

[(Anonymous)]

At some point, Burt thinks, she's going to stop screaming.

Any second now.

Something whizzes by his desk and strikes the opposite wall and he closes his eyes and counts to ten. That was his nice decanter, too. He opens his mouth to point that out, but he's immediately silenced by another string of interesting Spanish curse words that, if he can remember Freshman Spanish enough, aren't particularly nice or flattering.

And then she stops screaming.

"That fool," she snarls, kicking a chair over to indicate that screaming and breaking glass subsiding aside, she is still Good and Mad. Burt Becksworth, despite not being blessed with an abundance of tact, knows the look and knows to keep his fucking mouth shut, especially when her eyes swivel on him.

Fucking tittytapping Christ, what's she doing now? Burt leans back in his chair, fully prepared for piss and vinegar that he can actually respond to, but Isabella leans over the desk and grabs him by the shirt collar pulling him into an aggressive, heated kiss.

He does not... pull away.

Oh, he thinks about it for approximately .5 seconds before Burt, Jr. goes the hot Spaniard is kissing you, fucknugget, and you're about to be a married man. Call it a bachelor party for one. Call it a fucking Christmas miracle if you want to.

Eventually, Isabella pulls away, teeth grit, nostrils flaring, and Burt thinks she's a whip and a catsuit away from asking him if he's been a bad boy. She shoves him hard and his rolling chair hits the wall with enough force to make him jump and yell "What the fuck-" before he's cut off by Isabella climbing up onto the desk. It's graceful. Not exactly sex kitten-esque, but it's less about being sexy and more about getting over the desk. She swings her legs out as she reaches the other side and steps down. The two regard each other for a moment and then Isabella bridges the gap between them, slamming a foot down on the chair between his legs.

Burt, to his credit, does not flinch. He stares at legs in that skirt. He stares at her face. She raises an eyebrow expectantly and he suspects there's a womantrap involved here somewhere, but it doesn't stop him from putting a hand on her thigh. Just as he's about to let his fingers curl upwards between her legs, she pulls her leg away from the chair and climbs up onto the chair with him. This is a particularly precarious position to be in when a rolling chair is involved and Burt's thrilled to death he went with the fanciest model. A cheap chair would have split in half with this shit happening on it.

Her fingernails trail down his chest, hard enough to make marks and she silences any protests by grabbing him by his head and forcing another kiss. One hand wanders away from his chest and finds his hand, moving it in circles on her thigh as she waits for the-

Oh there it is.

She pulls away from the kiss, expression the sort of serene rage that accompanies the moment before a storm. He watches her and wonders if he'll be allowed any control over this situation at all, but it's a bit hard to consider that sort of thing when an insane Spanish woman has decided it's time to undo your fly and get those sharp-as-knives fingernails around your dick. There's a moment of adjusting and fumbling and eventually Isabella has to relinquish some control over the situation to allow him to, ah... Make like Cortes and plunder those riches or.. some ethnically offensive metaphor. It's hard to think straight with Isabella gyrating her hips like that.

And Jesus Christ, the bitch even climaxes like she's enraged at the world.

The moment's gone as soon as it... came. (Phrasing?) Burt's left slumped in his desk chair, trying to kennel Burt, Jr. with shaking hands and Isabella's adjusting her skirts and heading for the door. She doesn't say a word more about it.

And Burt, tactless son of a bitch that is, decides that maybe he can stand to let her off easy and not bring it up again. Because he's such a nice guy....

And not because he doesn't want to end up like the decanter.