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heartthrobin · 13 days

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durin line + finding out you have nipple piercings

pairing: durin line (fíli, thorin, kíli)/ fem!reader

word count: 1312

summary: how the sons of durin react to discovering you have nipple piercings

a/n: this just happened to pop into my head and i figured “why not?” it’s my first time writing anything lotr, we’ll see how it goes (18+ for obvs reasons). here’s the dwarven translator i used

warnings: implied smut, one ref to pregnancy, tons of secondhand embarrassment

fíli:

dude was caught off guard in the best way possible

it was only hours after your braiding ceremony, both of your marriage beads glistening in the fireplace light in your shared bedroom

you hadn’t been intimate with each other since beginning your betrothal, and it was not for a lack of trying (dwalin was a painfully obstinate chaperone that had far too many eyes around the kingdom)

doomed to abide by tradition, the most improper act committed was a simple swat or pinch to your ass, or your fingers playfully twirling at the braids in his hair or mustache

removing your clothes in front of fee for the first time before preparing for bed, your love notices two metallic glints on your chest and his jaw falls to the floor

the ends of each silver rod is adorned with polished citrine crystals that were eerily similar to the vibrancy of his hair

you had made no previous mention to him about the metal before then, and he had never noticed their presence throughout the trek to erebor

(the company allowed you at least the semblance of privacy on the few occasions there was time to bathe, and he has manners despite what kíli says to the contrary)

“my tumat, by mahal you never cease to amaze me,” fíli’s constant state of awe over you increased tenfold as he admired how the jewelry complimented your breasts

his callused hands roamed your body, sending goosebumps across your skin with every feather light touch

tradition is very clear about how married couples should spend their wedding night, and who would fíli be to ignore tradition?

tumat — gem

thorin:

training with your beloved was never a simple task. he was never one to hold back a few punches, making sure you learned the easy way that no other enemies would be lenient with you

easy way my ass, you groaned as a well-placed kick behind your knee brought you to the ground

it was refreshing to not be treated like a dainty flower when you were plenty capable, but damn was it a painful process

“come on, my ozbim kovotos,” thorin offers you a hand up with a small smile, “we’ve only just begun!”

you roll your eyes as you get back into a sparring position across from your ridiculous lover

“flattery won’t get you anywhere, amralime!” you playfully yell at him

“it gets you into my bed, doesn’t it?” his teasing tone makes you want to punch the smirk from his handsome face

the coordinated dance you know with the same familiarity as your thorin’s eyes keeps you on your toes, anticipation preparing you for any move he could throw your way

well, any move except for the one he ended up using against you, as luck would have it

thorin knocked you off balance with a well-aimed elbow to the chest, almost knocking the breath from your lungs (he definitely could have if he wanted) as a muscular leg hooked around yours and brought you to the ground

coming back to your senses, you stared at the sky above you and groaned in pain. the hand not covering your face against the sunlight clutched at the poor breast that suffered the brunt of thorin’s strength

to his credit, his response time was almost immediate when he saw you holding your poor breast

he brought you to your feet and fretted over you the way he’s wont to do, asking if your chest was extra sensitive for some reason unbeknownst to him

“it was meant to be a surprise, you dolt!” your complaint had him reeling. surely you weren’t… he hopes to mahal that he didn’t just clobber his one while carrying his child, all the color draining from his face

you were quick to track his thoughts as he started to fret, reassuring him hastily that you weren’t pregnant at all, just nursing some new jewelry that you wanted to show him in your shared chambers later in the evening

his relief was palpable as he heaved a great sigh of relief. your fool of a husband, thinking you’re with child!

that would be the golden ticket to keep you away from his grueling training sessions, not a surprise you spring on him in the middle of one!

you make this known to him and his warm laugh rumbles through your chest. a teasing glint in his eye makes itself known before you’re suddenly thrown over your king’s shoulder, a surprise laugh escaping you

“if you want an excuse to skip our training sessions, you need but ask, ghivashel.”

ozbim kovotos — fierce beloved

ghivashel — treasure of all treasures

kíli:

any time it’s brought up, your dear prince flushes deeper than the color of gloin’s hair and the laughter of the company rings like bells around the fire

after the initial shock of the incident, it became a common source of amusement when spirits were low. each retelling gave more bizarre details and unbelievable quotes that most definitely didn’t happen

after finding shelter within beorn’s home, you relished the idea of getting to rinse off the grime of your adventure in clean water

the shifter’s chivalry (and dislike of dwarves, probably) gave you the first chance to bathe out of the party of 15

time was an illusion as you scrubbed away the dirt and let yourself unwind in the water, the faint breeze rustling the wildflowers in the nearby meadow

eventually, some of the dwarves began to comment about the time you were taking, joking about you becoming a fish (dwalin) or somehow drowning and leaving the others to suffer without a soak (fíli)

this chatter alarmed kee far more than he knew it should, the young prince fighting the urge to check up on you

logic reminded him that you were all safe within beorn’s realm, but some of the others joined in the silly commentary and kíli had no choice to make sure you didn’t actually become a fish

making as inconspicuous an exit as he could, he beelined for the small pond where you were, hoping against hope that you were simply enjoying yourself and

for all the things he was prepared to see (you becoming a human-fish hybrid or being eaten by flesh-eating underwater plants, to name a couple), he was definitely not prepared for what he actually saw

you slowly emerged from the water, tiny droplets kissing your skin softly. the sunlight reflected off each bead with the elegance of the finest jewels on this side of erebor

then his eyes caught the actual jewels you carried on your chest, and kíli would have fallen to his knees in praise of your beauty had you not spotted him first

“is there no such thing as privacy here?! let me bathe in peace, you heathen!”

kee covered his eyes with one palm and turned his back to you for good measure, mortified at his current predicament

“everyone was talking about you getting eaten or drowning, and it worried me! i didn’t mean to be improper!” his voice was so sincere that you couldn’t find it in you to be angry for very long

“i’m alive and well, kíli! now if you’ll wait a moment for me to be dressed, i think a princely escort back to the barn would be plenty to protect me!”

the playful lilt in your voice could be heard from the several yards of distance between you and he exhaled in relief that you weren’t truly offended

he almost turned around again on impulse but caught himself just in time, the blood in his veins hotter than the forges with embarrassment

chuckling to yourself as you put on semi-clean clothes, you looped an arm around kíli’s and let him guide you back to camp, the story of kee seeing you naked becoming an immediate hit

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heartthrobin · 13 days

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The Beauty of Chance

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Dúnedain!Reader

Summary: Whilst finding respite in Beorn's home, certain relevations are had. Or; you and Thorin do a little more than just talk things through.

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: feather-light smut, the reader smokes a pipe

a/n: Reader is Dúnedain because I'm physically incapable of writing a middle earth fic where the reader isn't Dúnedain. Once again I used Irish as a replacement for the Dúnedain's native tongue because trying to translate Númenórean Sindarin is a nightmare :)

Beorn's home offered a sense of comfort and safety of the likes you hadn't felt since leaving the Shire. The high walls eased your nerves and you found your hand no longer instinctively reached for your sword. It served as a quaint port amidst the storm, a chance to catch your breath. And it had come long overdue.

After a breakfast sweetened with berries and honey and made up of foods far finer than anything you'd seen since passing Bree, you decided on spending the morning exploring Beorn's home in all its subtle splendor.

Everything seemed to dwarf you in size, from the furniture to the settlement itself. It was an odd feeling, one that stirred up a strange sense of nostalgia; wandering into your father's forge as a child and toying with tools far too large for small hands. You supposed it also offered a glance into the life of your companions.

You reached to undo the lock to the back door, vowing to never poke fun at Bilbo's height again when the plank of wood fell snugly back into the lock despite your best efforts.

You passed through the stables instead, petting the manes of the mares that resided there as you did.

The gardens, just like the rest of the skin changer's dwellings, were evidently tended to with no shortage of care. A small warren of rabbits dozed comfortably in the ryegrass and blooming flowers brushed your knees. You simply stood among it all for a moment, feeling the soil beneath your feet and the sweetened air in your lungs.

The outskirts of the garden were bordered by two oak trees, mature and proud. Their canopy provided a small shadowed patch and you quickly found respite against its bark and beneath its leaves.

With the company out of sight, you breathed a pained sigh.

Your muscles ached and your body felt stiff. It was somewhat difficult to convince it to relax after so long spent prepared to fight at a moment's notice. Shifting against the tree bark, you undid your shirt enough to reveal the unpleasantly long gash that ran across your shoulder and coiled down your arm. The fine work of an orc blade. The bleeding had all but stopped now, but the wound's edges were jagged and an angry red. And the horrid stinging that accompanied such injuries was yet to go away.

You undid the bandages and bound the wound in fresh cloth. It was by no means your finest work but others in the company had sustained far worse wounds during the scuffle on the cliffside and Oín only had two hands and a very limited amount of supplies. You wouldn't seek out care when your friends needed it more.

Besides, the blade had caught your weaker arm. You could still hold your sword, still carry out your purpose.

You'd manage.

Relacing your shirt and silently vowing to put your stubbornness aside and seek help should a fever set in, you sat back against the bark, shifting until you found comfort.

It felt nice to finally rest. To close your eyes and not fear for your company's safety. You reveled in the quiet. For all of two minutes.

The sound of brambles snagging on leather and stones shifting beneath heavy boots had you up and alert and despite all logic, your hand still grasped at your empty sword belt.

You calmed when Thorin rounded the tree. He seemed startled at the sight of you.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude,” the dwarf said, words genuine. He stepped back, as if ready to turn on his heel should you ask him to.

“Searching for some peace and quiet?” You asked instead. Such moments were few and far between. “It would seem we both had the same idea.”

The king's head fell forward in a nod and when still he made no move to leave you motioned to your side.

“Sit.”

His hesitation was brief. He settled beside you, then all was quiet again. A sudden breeze, warm and tinged with the scent of autumn, rushed through the leaves. Thorin took a deep breath before releasing it in an uneven sigh.

It was an odd sight, seeing him at ease. You'd go as far as to call it unnatural. His relaxed shoulders and gentle expression seemed foreign and uncanny. But you couldn't deny the youthfulness that seemed to soften his features now. It was not unlike the glimpses you'd caught of him during your shared night watches when both of you were too stubborn to let the other stay up alone.

A quaint stillness began to settle and when Thorin still said nothing, you decided neither would you. You were happy to sit in silence at his side.

From your pocket, you produced your pipe, old and worn around the rims but still trusty enough to serve its purpose. You ran your fingers along the polished wood, all the way down to its blackened base. Generously stuffing it full, you held a match to the green leaves until they kindled and began to smolder.

Bilbo, bless his heart, had offered you what was left of his pipe-weed. ‘The finest you'll find anywhere south of Bree,’ he'd promised as he handed it over without a second thought after discovering yours has been lost to the greedy hands of goblins.

The first exhale of smoke left lips that were turned up in a smile. The generosity of halflings would never cease to amaze you.

The taste of tobacco sat heavily on your tongue as you blew out wisps of grey smoke and watched as they were carried off on the afternoon breeze.

“I owe you thanks,” Thorin said suddenly, shifting beside you. “The courage you showed on the cliffside, your willingness to help this company, it's not something I take for granted. You have done a great deal for us and we- I am grateful.”

“You don't have to thank me, Thorin.” You exhaled another flurry of smoke.

“But I do. When I called on my own kin for help they turned away. But you, a soldier of Man, a ranger, you answered. You didn't have to, by all means of sanity you shouldn't have. But you did.”

You chewed anxiously on the tip of your pipe. “I know what it's like to be without a home,” you said simply. “And it is not a faith I would wish upon anyone.”

Thorin only nodded in response. His gaze shifted to the tree roots beneath his feet.

You hadn't spoken much of your past, although by the way you carried both yourself and your sword, Thorin knew that your life until this point had not been one without hardship. The race of men were as dependant on each other as a fawn to it's mother; venturing out on ones own was strange for your kind. Gandalf had not indulged him with your story, only what he needed to in order to convince him to accept you as one of the company.

But Thorin knew what a renegade looked like. He'd lived as one long enough to know what the dreariness in your eyes and your indifference to battle and death meant. Part of him wanted to tell you that, to form that middle ground and hope it offered some comfort.

“Regardless, I am glad to have you with us,” he said instead.

At your feet, a lone beetle made its way through the undergrowth. You watched in bemusement, shifting your boot to clear its path. You turned to Thorin and found his own eyes trained on the bug as it continued on its journey. In an odd moment of catharsis, you saw the dwarf beside you not as a king, but a friend and fellow soldier. You offered him your pipe.

When the dwarf noticed your extended hand he smiled almost fondly. The sight made the aches in your muscles ease. He took the pipe in gentle hands, pressing the mouthpiece to his bottom lip and filling his lungs with the finest pipeweed the Shire had to offer.

He pushed the grey cloud past his lips in one deep breath, the smoke taking the shape of a perfect ring before disappearing above the tree.

You raised an unamused brow. “I would not have offered had I known you'd take the opportunity to show off.”

“Lying is not becoming of you, master ranger,” the dwarf responded smoothly, his eyes closed and lips turned up in a satisfied smirk. His hair splayed out around his head like a darkened crown, white strands catching in the sun like silver.

For no reason other than to make watching him an easier task, you shifted against the tree so that you faced the king. The resulting pain that lashed up your arm in doing so had you hissing through your teeth. Thorin's eyes were on you in a moment.

“I'm alright,” you dismissed quickly.

The dwarf looked entirely unconvinced. He reached for the collar of your shirt and when you made no attempt to stop him, pulled the fabric down.

“Mahal,” he said the word like a curse, low and rough. “How long have you kept this hidden?” Struggling to fall somewhere between a convincing lie and an honest under exaggeration, you decided against answering altogether. With a grunt, Thorin pushed forward and onto his knees. He took the hem of his undershirt in one hand and tore off a strip with less than a second thought.

Just as you hadn't answered him earlier, you said nothing as Thorin began to tend to you.

The bandages, already tinged pink, fell away easily in his grasp. A single line of blood seeped from the open gash and trickled down the swell of your bicep. Thorin swiftly decided the best he could do was simply rebind the wound. Despite their broadness, his fingers worked nimbly, carefully gracing over your arm and masterfully retying the bandages.

“You're a fool,” he said eventually, finishing the bindings with an unnecessary tug. “I believed your selflessness to be honorable, now I'm more inclined to think it idiotic.”

You huffed a laugh and winced.

Thorin took up the torn strip of blue linen from his shirt and carefully looped it around your arm, tying it taunt against your shoulder.

“Where did you learn that?” you asked. With the added support, the aching throb in your arm had all but ceased.

“I learned many things during my time in the Blue Mountains and in the villages of Man. How to properly dress a wound was one. It would appear that was a skill you did not pick up during your time on the road.” He answered with a smirk.

“Healers usually work in silence,” you reminded him.

He smiled at your words despite himself. He looked younger when he smiled. His eyes brightened and shone silver. You found yourself wishing it was a sight you could see more often.

There was something about the way he tended to you that set a deep ache in your chest.

He finished his work with one more tight knot and a satisfied hum. “It will do for now. I'll have Oín treat it once he has a moment to spare.” His hand ran down the length of your arm before falling away at the bend of your elbow.

“I'll manage,” you said. The words were almost second nature now.

“You always do.” Thorin's voice was soft. He regarded you in a manner so gentle the ache in your chest flared, a pounding against your ribs. But when his eyes caught your own, the look vanished and he stood. “I've intruded long enough, I'll take my leave.”

“Why not stay?” You were embarrassed by how quickly the words jumped from your throat.

“Because if I do I fear I'll do something rash.”

“Thorin–” you rose to your knees, reaching out and grasping his forearms. The action surprised you both.

You failed to find any words to confront him with, anything that would translate the fierce fire he set in you. How he regarded you not just as an equal but as someone to be respected, admired. How he tore the very clothes on his back to stop your bleeding. How the action was almost instinctive. Even the simplest things. Like how he hadn't complained once about how the earth dug into his knees as he tended to you. How he still hadn't pulled away from you now...

Gravity seemed to give way beneath you and you pushed yourself up on your knees further till your lips brushed his. Thorin was still for a fleeting, terrifying moment; before he returned your affection with a fierce passion.

The earth bit into your knees and you rocked forward. Thorin's hands grasped your waist and anchored you against him. The feel of his palms against your side was grounding. You swore the world had faded into the great void at the end of time and this moment was all that was left.

When you parted, a shaking breath passed Thorin's lips. “You are far braver than I.” His voice was quiet, hoarse.

“Brave?” you grinned. “I thought you'd settled on idiotic.”

The dwarf laughed, full and hearty, and gods what you wouldn't do to hear it every day for the rest of your life.

“I think, perhaps, both can be true,” he said, and his lips were on yours again.

His advance was softer this time, fixed on feeling you against him, marveling at your touch. He kissed your neck, just above the beating of your pulse. His lips turned up in a smile.

You watched him in absolute awe; a descendant of Durin touching you as if you were carved from gold, a king willingly on his knees for an outcast.

The ache in your chest seized your heart.

Your hand rushed up his arm, fingers running past the swell of his shoulders and gently catching in his hair. Thorin gasped sharply, the bridge of his nose pressing tautly against the curve of your jaw. In a single grounding moment, you recalled the significance of hair in dwarven culture as well as the boundary you'd just overstepped.

You rightened yourself against the tree, forcing Thorin to pull away in turn.

“Forgive me, I didn't mean–” you swallowed. “Thorin if you want this to end you need only say so. I won't take offense.”

The silence that followed was uncomfortably thick. You sat unmoving as the dwarf regarded you with something you couldn't quite place. It left you feeling uncertain whether he was going to reach for you again or stand and leave.

“Why do you do that?” he asked instead. “Doubt yourself. Ask for forgiveness as if you have done something wrong. Do you truly find the thought of me wanting to touch you, to be touched by you, so difficult to accept?” He caught your chin with gentle fingers and raised your head. “I can think of nothing I want more.”

His touch ghosted your neck and you shuddered. Words could not tell him how much he meant to you, but you hoped your lips against his own and your heart beating frantically against his chest would.

Thorins knees began to ache, straining and giving way. You pressed a steady hand to his back and guided him forward until his legs slot over your own and your height balanced out. He surged closer, you could feel the tree bark biting into your back. You ignored it with ease.

The kings hand ran along the underside of your arm and the feel of it drew from you a soft breath. Your hand brushed over his braid, gently thumbing at the strands. You combed your fingers through the knotted locks behind his ear; the knowledge of what the act meant to Thorin, the intimacy of it all, made your head light.

Then, your fingers tapped almost unnoticeably against the base of his neck, right above his pulse where the dwarf's blood rushed so fast he was almost certain you could hear it. Your mouth parted in an unasked question and Thorin grunted a low ‘yes’.

Your lips traced his neck, kissing down his collarbone and ensuring to leave each of your marks below the collar of his shirt. Thorin steadied himself against you, breathing a sigh against your temple.

“Tá tú go hálainn, a grá,” the words were so raw, came from somewhere so primal within you, you hadn't noticed they'd left you in your mother tongue. “Tá m'chroí agat.”

Thorin managed a shuddering breath, a weak sound that caught in his throat. “I assume you will not be telling me the meaning of your words.” His hands shook as they moved against your back.

“Consider it reparations for each time you have spoken to me in Khuzdul with no intention of telling me what it is you'd said,” you smirked against his throat, recalling each time he'd addressed you in his native tongue. How the words always seemed natural and unmistakably genuine. He didn't feel the need to tell you the meaning behind those words now. He felt you already knew.

Thorin chuckled, boyish and light, and it set fire to your heart.

The sun had sunk behind the mountains and turned the air cold. But with Thorin laying by your side and a bed of grass at your back you swore you had enough warmth to last you the night.

The dwarf's arm rested beneath your head, hand tracing patterns you didn't recognize against your bandaged shoulder. Even now, his lips still brushed your head.

His other hand rested against your stomach and you bid your time tracing his palm, slowly and with purpose.

Thorin shifted beside you. You could hear the careful workings of his mind as he forged his next words on his tongue. “Should we succeed in taking back Erebor, where will you go?” He asked. His words were heavy.

“I don't know,” you answered honestly. “South? Towards Rohan and then wherever the road leads.”

It took the dwarf a moment to respond. Your words hollowed out his chest and set an ill feeling in his stomach. The thought of you alone stirred up a deep sadness Thorin had not felt in an age. You, with your spark for storytelling and devotion to others and your incomprehensible ability to simply make a difference. To bring light to whatever situation you found yourself in, to join a company that was all the better to have you. To stumble into the life of a downtrodden king and singlehandedly remind him he deserved his throne.

“If we take back the Mountain, I want you to know that you are welcome to stay, should that be something you wish.”

You took a deep breath, holding it till you were certain Thorin's words had not caused your heart to cease beating. As the true weight of the offer set in, you released Thorin's hand.

“I would not think I'd be wanted. I have no right-”

“You have every right,” Thorin said, his words instant and forceful, convincingly so. “As much right as any dwarf that refused to help us in our hour of need.”

You huffed a sigh that fell somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“Someone like me staying in the sacred halls of Durin's folk. A lowly ranger...”

“You are so much more than that.” He said the words slowly, as if they were the most honest thing he'd ever spoken. “You are a descendant of the Men of the West, a member of this company.” He paused. “You are Amralimê. My love.”

You shifted to look at him. A dwarf who by all means of faith and sense you should never have crossed paths with. But by the beauty of chance, he'd entered your life and reminded you, in all his subtle ways, that it was worth living. That you were worthy.

You dared to retake his hand in yours. “You'd have me?”

Thorin simply smiled.

“Above all else.”

Thank you for reading! <3

authors notes:

Irish translation: tá tú go hálainn, a grá - you are beautiful my love. Tá m'chroí agat - you have my heart. Phonetic pronunciation for those interested - taw two guh haul-in, ah graw. Taw muh-kree a-gut.

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heartthrobin · 16 days

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service dom kíli versus brat tamer fíli. that’s it. that’s the tweet.

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heartthrobin · 21 days

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*.⊹˚𝜗୧ ‧₊˚

“you’re so out of my league,” jj pants in your ear as you palm him through his jeans. he’s so hard, it hurts, and you’ve barely touched him. he keeps rambling.

“you’re hot, so hot,” he manages in between heated kisses, whimpering when you thumb his tip over the rough material of his pants. you do it again, and you could cum from the sight of his eyes rolling into his head. “could get anyone to come over and fuck you, and you chose me. just made me the luckiest guy in the outer banks— fuck.” you hadn’t expected this, when you called him to come over. the boy was dorky when you first met— painfully obvious in his attraction towards you— 5 foot and 11 inches of bad pick-up lines and not-so-subtle checks at your tits and ass. he was pathetic with it, truly, so much so that you were convinced it had to be an act, a lousy way to try charm his way into your pants (which, coincidentally, worked. you would re-evaluate yourself later.)

but no, jj maybank was a loser, a hot loser, moaning into your mouth and rutting into your hand after speeding his way over to your apartment. a booty call, thats what he was, and the way he was frantic in the way he touched you, clumsy in running his hands under your shirt and pulling your clothes off, told you this wasn’t something he got very often.

“you gonna fuck me or what, maybank?” you tease as he fumbles with his jeans, face falling into a smirk as the embarrassment slowly eases out of him, “i’m getting to it, princess.” both on your knees, he pulls you by the waistband of your panties to shove his tongue into your mouth, savoring the faded taste of your watermelon gum as he slobbers all over your face, pulling you down onto his lap.

he takes his time with you, clearly savouring the moment as much as he can. when he dips his fingers into your underwear, swiping two digits along your slit, his mouth falls open, brows furrowed, long, drawn out groan escaping his pretty lips. his face remains focused with where his hand meets with your cunt, rubbing slow, careful circles against your clit. his surge of confidence spurs you on.

“can i make you cum? like this?” it’s a plea, a beg. please, i need this, it says. you can barely answer him, because his index and middle finger swirl and prod at your entrance, stroking carefully, and you let out the hottest moan he’s ever heard. “more,” you manage, and he nods.

soon, he’s plundering into you— hands tight on your hips as he fucks up into you, feet pressed desperately into the mattress to ground him, lips latched onto one of your bouncing tits as he moans shamelessly against the skin of it. the sound fills the room, and it’s the best thing you’ve ever heard. “gonna blow my fucking load in you, holy shit— ‘best fuckin’ pussy on the island, can’t believe this shit is real.” the more he speaks, the harder he thrusts, and you’re on the edge, hands gripping into his hair so hard if you had half the mind to care you’d worry you would rip it out of his head. your stomach tightens, and your hands fly to hold his face, foreheads pressed against one another, and you mewl, “cum in me, please, jayj.”

a string of curses fly from him, hot, thick cum shooting from his tip being just enough to send you over the edge, your hips stuttering in tandem with each twitch of his cock, and you fall against him— vision blank, ears ringing.

jj maybank was a loser, and he was just about the best fuck you’d ever had.

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heartthrobin · 2 months

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Y/N: If I died- Ghost, scrolling on his phone: Death will not get you out of this relationship

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heartthrobin · 2 months

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when ghost tries to pick you up early on into your relationship, you resisted with a frown and told him you were too heavy for him

the next day, he sends you a gym video of him doing hip-thrusts using over three times your bodyweight. he says he’s practising for tonight

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heartthrobin · 2 months

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𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

college! peter parker x fem reader.

18+ only !!! f! receiving oral sex. peter parker has an oral fixation i said what i said. in my spider-man era again.

peter was a weekly visitor at this point. sometimes, it was twice, but never more than three. three was pushing it.

Three said that Peter meant something to you, and you couldn’t have that. No, whatever this was between the pair of you was strictly transactional. It was Peter texting you late at night, the classic, you up? Gracing your screen, and every time, you would pretend to be annoyed.

As if Peter coming around to give you the greatest head of your life was an inconvenience. Tempted, the devil on your shoulder smirking, to type back, Jesus, again? but never doing it. Instead, you wrote: sure.

Still, it plagued your mind. He never asked for anything else.

It was as if he did this purely for himself.

“Oh fuck,” you mewled, clenching down tight. The hand that was wrapped around Peter’s brown curls clutched and tugged, and the unconscious movement earned you a chastised groan. It rumbled through your cunt, and the echo shot to your clit, making you close your eyes and lean back, wet mouth spilling his name into your dorm.

Peter liked hearing you.

Liked seeing you lose your mind with his head between your thighs, your pussy wet and throbbing from his mouth and fingers. It’s why he came around often. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even text, would just knock on your door -- looking sheepish from under his dark curls -- and just. Not. Say. Anything.

His silence was answer enough. You knew what he wanted. Or, needed, as you later figured out, as you saw how red he’d gotten when you told him he couldn’t come around for a bit. When you said something about focusing on exams, he’d come over anyway, whined, shuffled his feet and said, You can do your work, I just gotta…I’ll be quick.

The lack of explanation made your mind swirl. But regardless, you’d let him in and did your work with his head between your thighs. He’d tutored you, too, told you how to solve for x with his fingers inside of you. He’d said, if you let me make you come again, I’ll do your Maths work for the next week. After he’d left, you stared at the scene of the crime in pure silence.

Just…reflecting.

Peter fluttered his tongue over your swollen clit. Focused on swirling it around his tongue in sloppy, wet circles, and the thick desire that swelled between your thighs began to pool at your lower back, forcing you to arch up into it.

“Please,” you wept, even though he was giving you what you wanted. Flat on your back with his deft grip keeping your bare thighs open. It was 8 pm. He’d caught you just after your shower, so the smell of your shampoo and body wash wafted through the air – Lavender and pear.

Peter had spread you open and said you smelled like spring. You’d been far too turned on to comment on it. He grumbled into your cunt, and you managed to work out the word, more? You hummed, too drunk on him and wound tight to verbalise that yes, you wanted more. Wanted him to make you come, and come again, till all you could do was mumble his name and focus on your breathing.

He'd learnt how you liked it. Paid attention, and he was getting full scores as he pushed his tongue flat against your swollen clit and sucked. Your vision went white.

“Oh fuck – ohfuck, Peter—” you squirmed, but Peter was strong, and he held you to the bed with his vice-like grip, wordlessly saying take it take it take it.

He lapped at you, salvia drooling over your cunt and down his chin, soaking the sheets. He was always so careless. In moments like this, that nervous edge that always fluttered around him was gone, replaced by a visceral drive to either please you, or get what he wanted.

The two bled into each other.

His tempo was leisurely, but that didn’t stop the heat from washing over you all at once.

You clamped your thighs around his ears and moaned -- loud, so loud that you were sure the other students on your floor heard.

Still, the ache was erratic, “So good,” you sobbed, and you heard yourself, heard the near primal need in your voice, and the desperation made you embarrassed, made you cover your mouth with your palm and grip the sheets, willing yourself to cool it.

“Move your hand, or I’ll stop,” he uttered against you, and your clit was so sore that the echo of his words made your eyes roll back. Peter must have seen, as he hummed a laugh, and kissed your inner thigh, “lemme hear you.”

Managing to gain some sense of sanity, you blearily blinked down at him, but all sense of stability you thought you had was wiped away when you saw Peter had his hand stuffed down his pants.

You dropped back onto the bed and sobbed.

You knew he got off on this, but Jesus Christ, you’d never seen that before.

“Gotta be kidding me,” you breathed, and Peter must have understood what you were referencing, as he buried his reddening face into your inner thigh. He let out a breathy chuckle, “’ M’sorry,” he mumbled, “usually I wait till I get home, but you’re just so hot.”

You had to stay completely still, or you’d burst. Usually, I wait till I get home?

Peter moved his face and began nuzzling the wet folds of your pussy. He bumped his nose against your clit, and you quietly choked.

Peter hummed, “couldn’t help myself.”

You figured he did something like that, but the admission made your thighs tense. You pictured him stumbling home – cheeks still wet with you – and tugging his pants down, quickly shoving his hands into his boxers and taking hold of his aching cock. Did he whimper when he came? Or was he silent, all tremors and low grunts? No. He definitely whimpered.

He was far too pretty to stay quiet.

The sudden desire to kiss him swept over you.

Reaching down, you tugged at his curls, wordlessly motioning him to move. When he did, you briefly saw the red of his cheeks and wet of his nose before you kissed him, all tongue, and tasted yourself on his pink lips.

Peter melted into you. Huffed your name like a sigh, and the sheer tenderness of it had you wrapping your legs around his back and pressing your bare cunt against his jeans.

He was rock-hard. Tentatively, you ran your nails over his chest, and dipped low, pressing between his thighs, cupping his bulge, and gently squeezing. Peter wept.

“Oh fuck,” he sobbed, as desperate as you imagined. With one hand in his hair and the other on his cock, you continued to kiss him, until the ache between your thighs became too much to bear.

“Make me come,” you whispered, “and I’ll put you in my mouth.”

Peter had never moved so fast in his life.

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heartthrobin · 2 months

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“Is it okay if I draw fanart of your fanfic?👉🏼👈🏼”

My brother in Christ we shall have a spring wedding

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heartthrobin · 5 months

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i’m looking so forward to this that i’m losing my damn marbles !!!!

⏤ sail away with me, series masterlist. ( coming december 2023 )

pairing. tourguide!joel miller x fem!reader

series synopsis. on the brink of undergoing a life-altering change, you runaway from your problems in the only way any sane person can: embarking on a mediterranean cruise. there you meet joel miller, a grumpy, private tour-guide, who just so happens to be tasked with touring you through each stop on your cruise. from greek goddesses to roman ruins, you have ten days to avoid your fate. maybe a frowning, southern, sex-on-legs of a man is just what the doctor ordered.

series warnings. no use of y/n, cruise!au, rom-com, enemies-ish to lovers, sunshine!reader, tour-guide!joel, age gap, depictions/discussions of grief, angst, fluff, a whole load of smut, a lot of cheesy stereotypical romance tropes bc i just wanna see joel not suffer ( too much ) <3

disclaimers. this series will have no official update schedule because i suck at sticking to them, but my aim is to write a majority of the fic before beginning to post it.

★ the cruise stops ! aka the chapters. ⇢ prologue. rome. ⇢ i. sea-day 1. ⇢ ii. santorini. ⇢ iii. mykonos. ⇢ iv. athens. ⇢ v. corfu. ⇢ vi. sea-day 2. ⇢ vii. sicily. ⇢ viii. florence. ⇢ ix. napoles. ⇢ x. barcelona.

#joel miller x reader

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heartthrobin · 5 months

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Underbed monster! Simon who was absolutely delighted when you first moved in. Such a pretty little thing, so sensitive to subtle change in aura whenever he stirred under your mattress, making you throw a concerned look around your room, trying to figure out what exactly it was that disturbed you. How, he was going to have so much fun with you!

Underbed monster! Simon who just can’t help himself from looming over you while you sleep, carving every smallest detail of your cute face into his memory. Can you blame him tho? Not when you’re all soft and vulnerable before him, smacking and pouting those puffy lips as creature’s presence caused your dreams to take a darker turn. Your fear tasted delightful.

Underbed monster! Simon to whom you’ve woken up to quite a few times, looking up straight into those red glowing eyes until your sleep paralysis worn off, this creature disappearing immediately after you finally regained your ability to move. But you never thought too deep into that. After all he was just a figment of your imagination, right?

Underbed monster! Simon who started to grow fond of you rather quickly. He liked it how tidy you were, not intruding his space with empty bottles and whatever else trash - unlike past inhabitants of this house. He quite literally lived for nights when you were restless in your bed, finally giving up and opening a drawer of your bedside, retrieving pink dildo from within. Slowly but surely Simon shifted his diet from negative emotions from the nightmares he was causing to your positive, way sweeter feelings. Oh how delicious your pleasure was, Ghost literally purred while absorbing all the joy every orgasm brought you, your moans being too aloud for you to hear any strange grumbling.

Underbed monster! Simon who finally dared to touch you months after you moved into his place. He picked the perfect moment for it, right when you were on the very edge between reality and daydream, mind barely comprehending what was real and what was not. His black smokey tentacles crawled up from under the bed, slowly making their way to you plastered on your soft mattress, gently wrapping himself around your ankles. You paid no mind, mild coolness felt good against your hot skin, so you didn’t even think into it.

So underbed monster! Ghost shamelessly continued, his tentacles boldly slithering up your shins and then to your plush thighs, soon sliding under the hem of your panties. Wrapping himself around your clit and stuffing your pussy full of his appendages, literally purring at the taste of your pleasure mixed with slick, how blissful your velvety walls felt against him.

The next morning you woke up, only rescaling some snippets of embarrassingly good wet dream you had, your cunny strangely sore, slick and overstimulated.

Underbed monster! Simon who has so many delightful and pleasurable things planned for you two, you just wait<3

Requests are open<3

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heartthrobin · 5 months

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📖📖📖

as a fellow top gun baddie i feel like you’ll love this!

ok so i’m thinking cowboy!jake but also girldad!jake, lost his wife, no longer a pilot and just works on his little ranch living a peaceful life and then in walks rich!reader who’s never had to work a day in her life but gets into some trouble so is shipped off by her father (who is old friends with jakes father) to go stay on the ranch and become a nanny for jake’s daughter, while jake is also lowkey protecting her incase her troubles come to find her

i’m thinking high tension, cute banter, jake thinking she’s a spoiled brat but his daughter having an instant connection with her and adoring her, a bet that she can’t do anything but swipe that credit card and she steps in horse poo with her louis boots trying to prove jake wrong, and then some very very hot love making (bonus points if mr cowboy uses his ropes on her) 👀

like 🥵😭🧎🏾‍♀️need i say more

send a book emoji into my inbox and i’ll explain a fic i’ve yet to write but daydream about!

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heartthrobin · 5 months

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hangman can’t stop running his mouth during sex and gives the cockiest dirty talk known to man and you try to fake hating it but your body says otherwise

coveted facade.

part two | series masterlist

pairing: jake ‘hangman’ seresin x (f)reader

word count: 1.05k

warnings: eighteen+ content, porn with plot, unprotected sex, dirty talk, begging, illusions to enemies to lovers.

etc: this had way more plot than my filthy ass intended it to but i can’t help it ok i am a mindless slut running on obscene thoughts thanks to this fuckingdude.

i do not give anyone permission to translate or repost my work, please be respectful — if you enjoyed please comment or reblog!

Your eyes ache at the involuntary itch to roll them into the back of your skull—their usual reaction to any of the words that come out of his mouth. The only logical reaction to the endless cocky comments and pretentious tones that make you grow tireless the more time you're required to spend with him. It’s pathetically easy for you to not roll your eyes in annoyance at him right now, though. Your optic nerves dissociating the annoyance with something more pleasurable; his cock fucking up into you.

But to keep up appearances of course, because fuck Hangman. Him making you come on his cock is victory enough he doesn't deserve any more semblance of gratification to his ego from you—you try to rally up your best look of irritation of the words spewing from his parted lips as they trail down the column of your throat.

“Who knew you’d be so easy.” His smirk against your heated skin has you scowling at the ceiling, your fingers tightening in his hair only making his expression deepen and bare his teeth to nip at your neck, making your body shudder against his.

There’s an arm around your waist as his hips buck up into yours, you would think in this position—you on top of him, hand in his hair, your tits that he loves to suck and play with so much bouncing against his chest, your nails digging into his bicep—that you’d have some guise of control. A show of you using him, taking what you want from him. But as it always goes; Hangman is in total control, poised. Playing your body like a fiddle he knows too well, knows how to touch in just the right spot to have you like puddy in his hands. Knows just the right swipe and nip of his tongue against your flesh to have you trembling. That perfect thrust and pounding of his hips that makes you come harder than you thought physically possible.

And, begrudgingly to you, his words know how to fall from his mouth and land on the core of your want that has you rolling your eyes in pleasure instead of annoyance, your pussy clenching around him.

And fuck does he know it.

You don't need to try to give it away, to hide it. Everything you felt for him, because of him, dripped from your body like a plentiful stream of scowls, moans, and whimpers. Hangman drinking from you like a man discovering new land; conquering you as his own personal source of repartee and pleasure. This little dynamic the two of you had was vicious and teasing on the outside for those looking in. But behind closed doors there was nothing but raw sexual tension and lust that always knocked you for a loop and had you thinking ‘why him?’

Out of all of the other pilots who you could stand, why had you went and fucked Hangman?

And why can’t you give it up?

An answer simply answered by his thumb pressing itself onto your clit, the slow-hard circles he rubs into it making your moans come out more weak, more frequent and loud; Fuck, he made you feel so good, too good. Not fucking him would feel worse than not fucking him.

“Oh, baby, how many times will this make it?” You don’t have to open your eyes, you can feel the wattage of his cocky smirk through your lids, “for someone who claims to hate me you come on my cock an awful lot.” His teeth nip at your chin, “I think you should thank me. Say ‘thank you, for making me come, Jake.’”

Jake. Not Hangman. Jake.

You’ve been fucking for so long you’ve dropped callsigns. So long, that the bite behind you saying his name has morphed itself into its own callsign of pleasure the both of you un-admittedly enjoyed; if the way his cock twitches inside of you each time it falls from your panting lips is anything to go by.

“Fuck off.” You groan in the farthest thing from indignation.

Hangman chuckles cockily, his hot breath against your skin as the assertion from his hold on you and the stamina of him having the strength to continue the steady—incessant—thrust of his cock in your cunt, makes the fluttering around his length turn into that vice like clenching; you’re so close again.

“That’s the attitude that got you in this position. Thinking you have everyone fooled, walking around callin’ me names. Being so cruel, when we all know how much of a slut you are for my cock.” He grunts against your lips, “You’re a bad liar, sweets. But if you’d like to keep pretending that you don’t love me, that you don’t love coming on this cock, then I can gladly,” he moves his thumb from your clit grinning, “stop.”

“Jake.” You groan in frustration, the daggers in your eyes as you look down at him making his grin grow into that frustratingly smug stretch, that you hate to love so much.

God he’s so annoying.

So breathtakingly annoying; his emerald eyes filled with a desire hot enough to burn through you, his smirk just as singeing—if not more.

Fuck you hated him.

“If you want to come you know what to do.” His hand moves to the back of your neck to close that sliver of distance between your lips, as he pulls you down the rest of the way. And just like the rest of him; his lips are perfect, his tongue filling your mouth the cherry on top of said perfection. “Ask me nicely,” he smirks.

And you really really want to tell him to fuck off. But he’s fuckng you so excruciatingly slow that it has your insides flip-flopping with too much intimacy, you need him to go faster. Need his fucking to match the cockiness of his words before you do something crazy like moan for him in the weakest whimper to “make me come, please, Jake, please.”

His pleased chuckle makes your spine tingle, “Thatta girl.” He presses one last kiss to your lips before you’re breaking the seal of his lips with a moan from his thumb returning to your clit, “that wasn’t so hard was it? Now come on my cock, and don’t forget to thank me while you’re doing it.”

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