1 - 20 of 33 Works by freirfalling
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Jeno has tried to forget what happened in their junior league days, and in particular he has tried to forget Mark. Six years in the game and then one off, now he’s studying electrical engineering while occasionally playing recreationally on Fridays despite a still-mending shoulder injury.
Then Mark shows up one evening at Centennial’s rink.
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It’s the anniversary of his death —so Jaehyun decides to retrace their last days together, from all the sights, sounds and sensations down to the very last breath. But then suddenly, he’s trying to remember everything.
And then he runs into an old friend.
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 11,421
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Kudos:
- 3
- Hits:
- 93
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It’s nothing, really. It’s just that he likes the way the ground smells after, the way it feels now, catching all those tiny pinpricks of droplets along his hand, fingers stretched out just beyond the tent’s arch overhead. So they won’t go hiking. Oh, well. Mark leans his cheek against Johnny's arm, wondering if he can pull him along to the beach. There wouldn’t be too many people now and Mark’s always wanted to try swimming in the rain. He’s always found it funny; people running out the damn lake as soon as the slightest drop hits. And then where did they go? The shower. He’ll run when there’s thunder.
“How the hell did it just…?” Johnny squints, stretching his hand out to catch the rain too. “It was fine last night.”
“I don’t know.”
Johnny turns to him.
“Why’re you smiling? Did you make this happen?”
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 11,158
- Chapters:
- 1/1
- Kudos:
- 8
- Hits:
- 237
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Every day he comes in through the door, tucks his keys on the hook, kicks off his shoes. Drops his suitcase by the couch, slings his jacket over the armrest. His socks make muffled thuds as he crosses from carpet to dust-scuffed white tile, his already loosened belt jangling with each step. By the time he’s reached the sink, Gihun’s jeans are at his knees.
Gihun likes to jack off in the kitchen, his bare ass pressed against the counter edge as he watches himself fist his anxious, leaking cock through the reflection of the ice dispenser.
Inho knows this, knows the exact fevered, blissed-out expression he makes right before he comes. He’s been watching him from above his fridge for the past four months.
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In hopes of finally completing the first draft of his novel, Mark decides to enroll in an intensive writing course. There, he meets Johnny. But when they first meet, he’s Professor Suh. And then John.
Johnny doesn’t expect much from another year of teaching creative nonfiction at the commuter branch of an otherwise fine college in suburban Ontario. But then Mark comes along. Bright-eyed, brilliant and endlessly curious to the point of pain, what begins as a mere nuisance soon morphs into something far more complicated.
Mark falls hard and fast. Johnny takes his time. But when he does give in, he's ready to give Mark everything.
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The familiar stinging pain in his chest woke him. Inho sucked in a slow breath and shifted, feeling a warm bead of wetness curve down his side. He rubbed his eyes. Two hard itchy crusts came off against his finger and as he slowly got used to the light, he became aware of the unmistakable smell beneath the sheets.
Milk. It had happened again.
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Ivan Meets the Devil or One Night in Moscow by freirfalling
Fandoms: Brat'ya Karamazovy | Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
10 Oct 2025
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“My dear Alyosha. You can kiss me as many times as you want.”
His younger brother beamed and wrapped his arms around him and gave him the sweetest kiss on the lips Ivan had ever felt. Then he broke away and looked at him carefully before he leaned in and kissed him again, this time longer and with a new kind of feeling. Ivan sensed a restrained yearning and even a hint of sensuality with the way his lips were parted further this time so that he had almost tasted his tongue.
Alyosha looked at him again. There's a peculiar darkness to his eyes, a burning darkness that Ivan knows only too well —it's inside him, every passing, waking moment.
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She watched as her father climbed up the steps to stand by the unfamiliar man. They stood there somewhat awkwardly, unsure of themselves and waiting for her to take the lead. Suddenly it became clear to her. He was carrying an infant. It was wrapped in two layers of clothing, one dark navy and the other a paler, blue-grey violet plaid, held securely in his arms, his hand peeling from sunburn and familiarly stained, the sides of his fingernails caked in old blood. The heavy smell of motor oil and tires hung over him. He was somewhat unshaven above the upper lip. Trying to smile.
“Come in,” She said, feeling as though she was seeing an unbearably bright mirage. “-please come in.”
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thrice for posterity by freirfalling
Fandoms: Squid Game (TV 2021), Korean Actor RPF, Squid Game (TV 2021) RPF
20 Jul 2025
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“Hey,” Byung leaned in towards his ear, directing his gaze over to the small huddle of people by the food tents. “-you thinking what I’m thinking?”
He looked over to where he was looking.
Hwang-nim was standing by the stacks of sandwiches wrapped in tin foil, holding a clipboard and gesturing to something along the ceiling. His face mask was pulled down to his chin, jacket unzipped, hair in that studious, messy disarray.
“Well, he’s looking extra good today,” Jungjae muttered, letting out a low, eager breath. “Was it something he ate or…?”
“It’s the pants —makes that ass look extra tight,” The other explained, licking the corner of his lips. He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned in his ear again. “-the eagle is flying, I’m going in.”
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He leaned back, arms tightly bound behind him, sucking in his teeth as the shard of glass razed another line across his tensed, sweat-slick stomach. It bled immediately. His fifth cut. Two more to go.
Gloved fingers fisted into his hair and yanked him against his knee. Inho’s eyes squeezed shut, forehead bowed to the bone. He was so hard.
“What are you?”
Inho gasped, blood falling from his lips. “Yours.”
“Mine to what?”
“To use. Always.”
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His hand went up to the dark geometric planes of his mask. Slowly, he pulled it off.
Gihun’s eyes widened. He stopped breathing.
Suddenly he leapt across the glass table, wrist tearing free from the belt, twisting his fingers hard into the fabric of the other man’s coat collar. The belt came off with the cuff, its edge scraping up the middle of Young-il’s collarbone. Several of Gihun’s belt loops were now torn, the zip half undone. He kneeled over him, thighs caging either side of Young-il’s hips. The tip of the blade pressed to the underside of his jaw, Gihun unable to even hold it without trembling. Young-il gave him a smile that was painfully patronizing.
“You can do that,” He told him softly. “-but it will change nothing.”
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It was only a matter of time. All he had to do was see the bare muscled back of his older brother half-turned away from him, just barely pulling himself up from the layered silk duvet. Junho dropped his rifle, letting it clack hard twice against his vest-clad stomach and then he was slinging it off to the carpet floor. Stepping numbly over the straps and making his way to the bed. Dropping to his knees, sighing.
“Hyung,” His face buried against Inho’s bare lap, it smelled so fresh and sweet, newly showered. He licked a line between his older brother’s tightly clamped thighs, feeling him shudder against him. “-hyung, I haven’t…”
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He had his legs spread in a near split as Young-il ate him out against the floor, thighs spasming as he gushed hard down his face. Total loss of control.
When he finally pulled up, his lashes were stuck together, his whole face slick and smelling of him, bangs plastered. And then he shoved three fingers in, vigorously tugging at him again.
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She can just make him out against the brightness of the caged window, a lone dark shape somewhat hunched against the long strip of light. He’s standing by the gate. When she reaches him, she’s slightly out of breath. A small bloodied patch of gauze covered his temple, from the edge of his cheek to nearly the middle of his brow. The blood seemed long dried. Relief floods her chest, she swallows it down to get the rest out. Her hands tighten, then loosen.
“How are you feeling?”
He looks up at her, his eyes soft.
“It hurts. I haven’t been stabbed in a long time,” He says. “I’ve forgotten how much it hurts.”
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“You want me to stop,” The hand left his cock, but not before squeezing mercilessly over his tip and wrenching off a noisy, squishing mess of precum. A few warm dots dripped along his stomach. The officer smeared it all across Gihun’s tightened mouth with a hard palm until it seeped past his lips and onto his tongue. Gihun gulped. “Then what is this? Tell me what this is. Taste it for me, lap it up.”
He did.
“That’s me. That’s mine,” Gihun whimpered, licking all over his hand, first the palm, then up the sides of his fingers. He couldn’t stop. Soon it smeared his chin. His face burned. It was all he could taste. Himself. “I made it. I did. It came from me.”
“Yes, you did. You made it all.”
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He lets you straddle his thigh and you grimace when you feel the plasticky fabric squish audibly against your crotchless panties —two mere black silk strings braided in hot pink going around your hips and ending in a tight G-string between your ass. The only article of clothing he lets you wear in this room. His room. Last week he let you wear a cupless bra with the same silk strings just holding up your soft, full tits just the way he liked it. But even that sliver of material gets in the way —he wants his mouth all over you with no interference, wants to see how much breast he can fit in his mouth and savour until you’re just a sticky, quivering mess beneath him.
“I’m taking my time with you today,” He murmurs between your breasts, thumbs tracing down the silk panty strings over your mound, just missing your soaking slit. You flatten your mouth hard as another achingly hard pang thrums deep within from your pelvis, making you involuntarily tighten. You grind down against him, whimpering. Fuck it to hell. You’re so wet for him you could take a full hand. “You deserve it, you’ve been so good. So good for me.”
You get to ride his face today.
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He didn’t notice until a pair of gloved hands slid to his waist from the back and pushed up the bottom of his shirt, hooking themselves into the back elastic of his pants. Then the jagged sole of a guard boot pressed into his back and shoved him down hard.
Gihun wheezed, spitting bits of dirt from his mouth, blinking against the ground. Gloved hands dragged his pants —underwear and all —down to his ankles, making him wince when his raw uncovered dick grazed the uneven dirt, balls pressing somewhat into it too. He shifted his cheek, looking ahead. He swallowed. Miraculously, the dalgona hadn’t broken in the middle.
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“You weren’t there. I woke up and you weren’t there.”
“What are you, four?” Then Gihun squeezed his arm, head ducked down. Another softer, weaker laugh. “That’s unkind. I apologize. I think I’m still waking up.”
“Are you always this mean when you’re asleep?”
***
Inho couldn’t pinpoint how he felt. He was natural when he was with him. Not natural in the sense that he acted natural, but more that he felt like he could be something almost resembling his former self. Something lighter. He’d thought it had long eroded. It was a shame. In another life, maybe they would not be like this. He would not have to lie. He could love him and that would be the most worrisome thing they’d have to figure out.
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“You know, this can wait,” Gihun murmured against his temple. His dampened fingertips slipped through the gap in Inho’s robes to massage the spot right beneath his belly button, connivingly avoiding his beading tip. Inho grimaced, thighs tensed. “It’s the same every year. Once they’re dead, they’re dead. They won’t,” He laughed, barely an exhale. “-they won’t come back.” He paused. “Now that would be quite the show, wouldn’t it?”
Show or nothing. Inho had his face buried against the side of Gihun’s neck by now and lips pulled back just enough so his teeth scraped down the column of muscle, savouring every salt-slicked inch. He closed his eyes. He could taste himself against him and it was affecting him way too much. The back of his lids played white, violet and murky gold. The CCTVs played on and he saw nothing. Gihun had him.
His prize —his greatest living possession.
Inho sighed, smoothing his thigh with his palm, trying to calm himself.
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Sometime later they reached a set of double doors and the smell sent an immediate chill down Gihun’s neck. The carnival plaque. It had smelled vaguely of freshly buttered popcorn in there even though there was none and the sweet stickiness of the syrup used to make the dalgona. Now there was a sharper, secondary scent, the chemical sting of cleaning products smeared after the blood was wiped off. Gihun couldn’t tell if he could still smell the blood or if he was just imagining it. He sucked in a tight breath when the other clutched the aluminum bars, making the doors creak.
“It’s alright,” Young-il said. His voice was soft. “There’s no one in there now. It’s empty.”
He pushed the doors open, almost immediately the lights lit up. He was right. It was.