theround | kink meme 1.0

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kink meme

kink meme 1.0

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.)

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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!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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

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."

Edited 2014-07-15 04:55 (UTC)

imagining myri actually reading the fic below now

it's giving me some interesting visuals about where this story is going next

Should I do a follow up of the actual smut? Since I chickened out hdhdjsbhdj

We never say no to smut here, starshine.

A/N: I’M SO UPSET THAT NOVA DROPPED FINNICK !!! He was way better than Rafael. My aunt who works at NOVA heard that he has some trust fund or rich parents or something that got him out of contract, so I wrote this about Burt keeping him anyway. :) Pls review.

Burt has a problem.

Every cunt-plug in this place wants a piece of him, and the two used tampons he actually wants to get in line are more interested in raising his blood pressure and fucking around halfway across the goddamn world than listening to a word he has to say.

“I don’t care if she’s the Whore of Fucking Babylon: we can do better. In fact, by the time I’m done with Princess fucking Odair, you’d better have a firing squad of farm fresh, testicle-bursting pussy out there waiting for me to replace that douche-gobbler.”

He rips off his sunglasses and taps the end button, dropping both his phone and aviators onto the board room table while the secretary scrambles to close the double doors behind him.

Finnick stands before him, smug as the only pussy in a fucking Star Trek convention, arms folded across his chest.

“We had a fucking deal,” He comes out swinging.

“Deals change.”

“I don’t give a fuck if your daddy is Smaug. That ink is set and dried, Princess: your ass is mine until I get another tour.” They could be the Knights of the Third fucking Reich and they’d be getting the same answer: Burt Becksworth doesn’t fuck around. He reaches forward to press press his thumb against the top button of his suit jacket, deftly removing it and throwing it over the back of one of the boardroom chairs.

While he slowly paces around the table, he unbuttons his cufflinks and begins to roll his sleeves up his forearms. Finnick doesn’t budge, but tilts his head to consider Burt carefully while the big-name NOVA CEO paced closer.

“I think you should reconsider the amount we’re willing to pay to buy my contract back from you.” As Burt reaches Finnick’s side of the table, the pop star finally turns to face him head-on, broad shoulders straightening under his carefully tailored button-up. “Or perhaps the fact that your secretaries would be looking for weeks and still not find all the places our Knights could bury the pieces of you.”

At that, Burt offers a throaty laugh, the kind that both bolsters the confidence of those in the room, and sets their teeth on edge. He’s impressed by the nerve, but that’s not always a good thing. In a surprising feat of strength, Burt seizes Finnick by the back of the neck and drops him, pressing his face into the boardroom table.

Delicate as he is, Finnick lets out a grunt, grabbing the edge of the table to try and push himself back, but Burt’s just too strong.

“Nice try, cum-baron, but you can’t scam the house. You wanna buy your way out of this one?” His free hand gropes around Finnick’s bent form, pulling open his belt. “Here’s how you can start.” With some finagling, he opens the buckle, and Finnick lets out a choked, gasping sort of noise as his slacks pool at the floor around his feet. His hand raises to grab Finnick’s chin, and the musician tries to turn his jaw away, grimacing and clenching his teeth. “I thought you wanted out, dickwipe. Here’s your golden fucking ticket.”

Hating himself every minute of it, Finnick’s expression contorts unpleasantly in a look of disgust. He continues to strain his face away for only a moment longer as Burt moves to press himself against his back, and then finally, he relents. His jaw loosens, and Burt succeeds in stabbing two fingers past his lips. His boss’ cock bulges against his ass, rigid enough already for Finnick to feel it through his boxer-briefs.

“Suck.” Burt demands narrowly, and Finnick laves his tongue down the line between Burt’s fingers, eager to comply because he knows all too well what’s coming next. Against all better judgment, he feels his own groin begin to stir, resolve crumbling in the face of his wanton attraction to this aggressive side of Burt Becksworth.

A slight whimper comes out of him and Burt snaps his hips against Finnick’s ass, shoving him forward over the boardroom table until his thighs are bruised by the edge of it. Burt’s free hand moves steadily down Finnick’s spine, drawing a chill just beneath his skin that causes the hair on his neck to stand up. When the base of his palm reaches the bottom of Finnick’s spine, Burt takes a step to the side so he can crack his palm against Finnick’s ass.

“I made you.” He spits. Finnick fights back the urge to bite down, squeezing his eyes shut and rocking painfully against the table. His fingers tug down the waistband of Finnick’s boxer-briefs, leaving them bunched at the top of his thighs. He pulls his fingers out of Finnick’s mouth, and the pop star is left gasping at the loss, leaning forward to try and catch them and certain he’s not ready to take what Burt wants to dish out.

Sure enough, he feels Burt’s middle finger tracing a line down, parting his ass. His fingertip presses insistently, an unwelcome visitor, against a tight ring of muscle that tries to fight him off. It’s painful, at first, when Burt pushes his first knuckle through despite the difficulty, but as he slowly eases his finger the rest of the way in, it turns to something else, the smooth glide of his finger against his inner walls soothing the burn in his face and chest.

A series of short pumps later, Finnick’s stomach drops as he feels the second battle for entrance. His breathing grows ragged as Burt forces it in, and the pads of his fingers stroke against his inner walls in a tease, causing a conflicting mix of hot and cold to war under his skin, arousal fighting off tension and building it all at once.

Finnick doesn’t notice that his lips won’t part, but he hears the telltale sign of Burt undoing his zipper behind him. In the reflection of the glass. Inside of him, Burt’s fingers flex and curl, spreading him with some considerable strain.

“This would go a lot smoother if you wouldn’t fucking fight me every step of the way. Jesus titty-fucking Christ, Odair, it’s an asshole, not a safe deposit box.”

Somehow, that does nothing to help him relax. In a rare moment of empathy, Burt offers a few more encouraging pumps of his fingers, and by the last one, Finnick leans just slightly away from the table.

Good enough for Becksworth.

Burt’s fingers pull out, reaching around Finnick to grab onto the front of his shirt to hold him steady. His other hand guides the head of his cock to press against Finnick’s entrance. For a minute, the pain is blinding, and Finnick chokes, biting down on his own knuckles. Burt stills once he’s fully buried inside, though, and it gives Finnick the chance to adjust — perhaps too much. It comes back around towards an ache, and it’s actually Finnick who begins to move first, leaning forward, and then rocking back.

Surprised (and pleasantly so), Burt starts at a slow, steady pace, guiding Finnick into it. These attempts only serve to make it radically apparent that this isn’t Finnick’s first time, giving some credence to the scornful lyrics of Taylor Swift. Burt had always figured that bitch was full of shit, but it appeared quite the opposite. He groans, overwhelmed by the pressure surrounding his cock as he drives with brutal strokes deep into Finnick’s ass.

The front band of Finnick’s boxers keeps his cock pressed flush to his abdomen, now hard as a rock as each thrust cranks up the temperature on the scorching heat building inside of him. He feels suddenly overdressed, like his shirt might well smother him, and can’t imagine how Burt can stand it with his suit still mostly on. Another slam of Burt’s hips interrupts any such wandering thoughts, and all Finnick can focus on is the way his body aches for Burt to simultaneously stop, and come at him harder.

Finnick slams his fist on the table, just at the edge of satisfaction and incapable of making that extra push as long as Burt’s hand insists on holding to his shirt and not his cock. If the laugh is anything to judge by, Burt seems to understand his frustration, and he presses his mouth against Finnick’s ear, so that his fucking property can feel him smirking.

“If you want it, you just gotta ask.”

Stubbornness carries Finnick through three more thrusts, and he can feel Burt’s grip tightening with the battle against his impending climax.

“Please,” He grinds out bitterly.

“Please doesn’t pay the fucking bills, princess. Please what?”

“I’ll stay. I’ll stay with NOVA, shit—just let me come.” Any pretense, any composure, falls away in an instant and Finnick begs. In answer, Burt’s hand moves down to wrap around his cock, dragging along it in steady strokes that match their thrusts. Finnick grinds back against him with more enthusiasm, losing himself in the rhythm—he pushes himself back on Burt’s cock, then thrusts up into his hand, over and over again until all he can feel is Burt surrounding him, overwhelming him.

He feels himself start to teeter on the edge, helpless whines spilling past pink lips, and Burt feels it too. He squeezes his cock, shoving his head down against the table very suddenly. The latter counters any effort that squeezing him had done to hold him back, and Finnick spills sticky white fluid across the table. Burt groans, losing it at the way Finnick’s whole body spasms, tenses beneath him, and fills his ass with semen—marking him, staining him. Branding him property of NOVA Records: inside and out.

Burt doesn’t cuddle. He draws his hands away, zipping himself up and taking a step back. He straightens his tie.

“You’ve got 24 shows in this tour to work off, and I’ve had pussy a lot sweeter than your ass. This isn’t coming cheap.” He grabs Finnick’s arm, jerking him closer and leaning in. “You want outta this game, you go through me. There are no fucking shortcuts, capisce?”