#V; Would Seek Refuge

[murdrdocs]

FOOLISH LOVERS. luke castellan

description. luke castellan has betrayed camp half blood. luke castellan has made an enemy out of those around you. and unfortunately, luke castellan has always held a place in your heart that you can't close off. at least, not until you meet with him one final time.

includes. SMUT 18+, fem!reader, daughter of hypnos reader, oral (f and m receiving), brief anal rimming (f receiving), implied p n v, dreamscape sex again, angst galore, some arguing, references to pjo ep 8. inspo from wicked game by chris isaak

wc: 5.8k+

a/n: a dreamcatcher: daughter of the god of dreams installment.

Before you can realize the change, you’re standing on a hill. 

It takes you a second to notice, but the area is much like your dreamscape. Low, waving blades of grass that travel through the air with the wind brushing against your bare ankles. The ocean is loud and to your right, down beneath a steep cliff. From just a quick glance, you see a storm brewing off into the distance. The water swirls angrily as if it’s ready to disrupt anything that dares to come into its path. 

You can’t help but think about the betrayed son of the sea god back in reality who surely feels the same. 

When you take your eyes away from the entrancing scenery of the ocean, you notice a cabin directly in front of you. It’s small, and made from long wooden logs, although there isn’t a forest nearby to identify the source of the frame. The exterior is slightly shabby, appearing manmade with a few imperfections. 

It’s not on a comparable scale to the cabins back at Camp Half-Blood, but something about it feels cozy. It gives implications of a simpler life. Maybe what summer camp could have been if you weren’t the offspring of a god. 

That and the clouds rumbling with warnings of an approaching storm is what encourages you to seek refuge in the four walls. 

Step by step, you don’t fail to notice how a focus subject has yet to appear. 

Your hand wraps around the doorknob and you push the slab of wood open as you wonder who’s dream you could have been pulled into tonight. 

You haven’t even stepped foot over the threshold, you have started to convince yourself that this is the dream of the son of the sea god, and then someone speaks. 

“Hey.” 

You stop. 

Your foot hovers for a second before you place it back beside the other. 

That voice. You hadn’t heard it for months now, but you know it. Day after day, you lay at night with your eyes closed, cementing the memory of the way he spoke and how he sounded as he laughed at your jokes into your mind. Forcing yourself to recall the inflections in his tone as he teased you, and how his words flattened out and got hard when he gave orders to yourself and others. And then, completely involuntarily, you would force yourself to pick through every single intonation and word that you could remember, attempting to find signs. Any hints or clues that Luke Castellan wasn’t the person he made himself out to be. 

Each night, you grapple with the fact that you couldn’t find any clues. You tried to reconcile with your blindness, all while telling yourself that you could have attempted to prevent it all. 

But hearing his voice now, none of that returns. Unexpectedly, your body floods with warmth. 

Luke sits on a small loveseat. The shape of it is a bit of a blur at first, but you blink and it cleans up to present a busy patterned textile couch. It’s well loved, there are a few tears in the bottom of the fabric at the back, and if you’re smelling it correctly, there’s a slight waft of cigarette smoke. 

Strangely enough, it’s inviting. 

You hate to admit it to yourself, but the boy sitting at one end of it makes it even more inviting. 

You step into the cabin and close the door behind you. 

“Hey, Luke.” 

He turns around to face you at the sound of your voice. You sound stronger than you expected. More casual, too. 

You realize that he’d been looking out a large set of windows before facing you. There’s only two but they take up most of the small wall. Outside is a perfect view of the land you’d just come from; bright green grass in the foreground and deep blue salt water off into the distance. 

Luke stares at you. 

The cabin is a little dark—there’s a lamp in the far corner that illuminates the room, washing out the otherwise blue light from outside—but you think his eyes are shining. As if there’s unshed tears barely held within them.

He smiles at you. It’s soft and almost mournful. 

You should leave. 

You shouldn’t be fraternizing with Luke at all, even if it is within a dreamscape. You couldn’t trust yourself in a room with him, especially with the things the two of you used to do when you were in dreamscapes alone. 

Just looking at him reminds you of all of those times. Sweat sticking his hair to his forehead. The feeling of his muscles beneath your inquisitive hands. The deep and smooth sound of his voice. The way everything felt so real and so tangible as he rocked into you, and then as euphoria swept over your bodies you felt so infinite and surreal. 

Your teeth find your lower lip. Your body urges you to get closer to Luke. Stubbornly, you stay in your spot. 

“What d’you think?” He lifts a finger and circles it around in the air. Your eyes lift and you finally take in the rest of the cabin. 

The main room is spacious, but comfortable. Lightly furnished with hardwood floors. Though almost every surface is covered in some sort of rug, most of them persian. There’s a small kitchen to your left, and then the living area that Luke sits in on the right. There’s a few bookshelves but there aren’t many books on them, and there’s a fireplace that looks to have never been used before. A few picture frames sit on the mantle of the fireplace, but from afar they just appear to be showcasing blobs of people without any distinctive features to identify an identity. 

Admittedly, for this to be the created dreamscape of the son of a messenger, it’s impressive. 

You tell him as such. 

This time, Luke’s smile is appreciative. 

“Means a lot coming from you. Especially with the things you can create.” 

Your skin heats up and you block the memories out of your head before they can firmly cement themselves once more. 

“You might have me beat, Castellan. Giving me a run for my money.” 

You don’t know why you decide to fall into the old routine with him. Maybe it’s because you can’t push Luke away for the life of you. He was once your friend and so much more at the same time. It’s impossible for you to completely forget the times you shared together. 

Maybe it’s the home making you feel this way. 

How comfortable it feels. How protective it is. 

You’ve spent weeks pulled into unfortunate dreams. Nightmares have plagued even the toughest minds of Camp Half Blood as of late, and you’ve been unable to fortify your own mind enough to prevent slipping into the mind of others. Which has left you to fight against unbeatable monsters, fortify the barriers of Camp only to have them knocked down by Zeus over and over again, watch those you love die in horrible battles, and much much more. 

In comparison, there is the possibility of a simple conversation with Luke Castellan giving you what you’d been desperately missing even if you wouldn’t admit it to yourself: Luke’s company. 

It’s how you reason with yourself whenever you take a seat atop the cushion of the couch. Instantly, it feels as if you’ve never truly known comfort before. This couch conforms to the curves of your body. You lean back against it, pull your feet up with you, and you quickly decide to stay a little while longer. 

Up close, Luke looks even prettier than you remember. Dark curly hair a little more grown out, unruly and hanging over his forehead like low hanging fruit, begging for you to latch onto it. His face looks a little slimmer as if he’s lost weight, and the angular planes of his cheekbones and jawline accentuates the dark shadow he has along his chin. The mark of facial hair that was previously present. Beneath his clothes—a faded black, almost gray hoodie, and black sweatpants—he appears larger. His shoulders wider, his neck thicker, his wrist and hands veiner. 

(Compared to his covered body, you feel bare in nothing but long socks, and a matching shorts and tank top set.)

He looks virtually the same, but his aura is different. There’s more confidence in him, a larger ego, glory even, that wasn’t there the last time you’d seen him. You know what has caused the change, and it should be something you despise. But his new glory makes him more attractive. It dries out your tongue and lodges something in your throat, pushing it further down until it sits heavy in your stomach. 

“Thought this could be our new spot.” Luke speaks softly, almost in a scared whisper, as if he fears that you’ll reject him. 

(You don’t know if you could ever reject Luke)

Your eyebrows furrow. “Our spot?” Confusion drips off of your words. 

Luke nods once. He licks over his lips and you’re quick to peel your eyes away from the sight and back to his eyes. That’s not helping you much either so you instead try to figure out what books are on the shelves afar. 

Since the little amount of time that has passed, there have been a few more added. From the ones that have already been there, the titles are too far away, too dream disoriented, and your dyslexia hasn’t escaped this dream, but you think you find novels on Seeing. Guides on how to decipher the visions that come to humans, or how to channel them. 

You focus back on Luke. 

“Yeah. Like the old bedroom. But a little more …” he hesitates to find the word then lands on, “Casual.” 

The bedroom. 

Your lower stomach stirs at the mention of it. The large bed, how warm it always was in there, the cold leather of the couch, the things the two of you did to each other on all surfaces. 

This spot is definitely a lot more casual. You’re not instantly compelled to straddle Luke here, although you do have a few thoughts about throwing your legs over his right now and reconnecting in ways you’ve missed since he left. 

So badly do you want to agree. This could be the one place where you get to experience what you’ve been missing without anyone else knowing. This is the only place where you can see Luke without anyone else knowing. 

But it’s wrong. 

He’s the cause of all of this. He’s caused the nightmares you’ve been pulled into. He has betrayed everyone on levels you could have never imagined. And who’s to say that he won’t betray you again. 

“We won’t need a ‘spot’, Luke.” Briefly, his eyes flash as if he’s hurt but in your eyes, Luke has proven himself to be a formidable actor as of late so you ignore it. “This is a one time thing.” 

A moment passes. And then another. 

You turn to watch the sea out in the distance. It appears as if the ocean has lulled for the time being. The sky is still dark, but it has yet to deepen in color. 

Luke takes a breath and you give him your attention again. 

“Why won’t you join me?” 

His eyes flash betrayal, his lips twist into something sorrowful. 

Your answer comes easy. The same one you’ve told yourself over and over again, night by night when you considered reaching out to him. 

“Because it’s not right, Luke.”

When he stands, his newfound power becomes even more clear. It leaks from his pores, spews from his mouth with his words. 

“How could it be ‘wrong’ when you feel the same. All that time you spent telling me about your father. How neglected you felt. What happened to that?” 

Your head shakes. You stand, too, evening out the field for both of you. 

“This is not what I meant. I–” The words don’t find you. Luke takes notice. 

“You what? Love your father? Love the gods? After how they treat you. How they treat us.” 

“Don’t say ‘us’. We aren’t together, Luke.” 

That same look flashes in his eyes once more. He takes a step forward, you take one back. 

He doesn’t say anything. You watch his hand reach behind his back. 

“What, are you gonna fight me like you did with Percy?” 

His head shakes. His eyes harden. He pulls his hand back and it comes up empty. 

“He attacked first.” 

Your voice starts to rise. “And you tried to kill him, Luke. He’s twelve. What don’t you understand about that? ” 

“Twelve and a forbidden child. In the grand scheme of things, his age doesn’t matter. He’s powerful. More powerful than both of us combined.” 

“So is that why you tried to kill him? Because he’s a threat?” 

“I don’t want to have this conversation with you. Not here. Not now.” 

“Yeah? Well then when? And where? Because this is the last time you’ll be seeing me, Luke.” 

“Okay.” 

Your eyebrows raise. Disbelief paints over your features. You’d expected more of a fight. For Luke to disagree or attempt to convince you to return to him a few more times after this. Maybe that’s what you wanted. Maybe you wanted him to convince you that you needed him. Maybe you wanted to hear him tell you that he needed you. 

Either way, your reply is the same as his. 

“Okay.” You turn and take the few steps it takes to get to the door. 

Your chest heaves with large gulps of air in and small breaths of letting them out. Your body is buzzing, the same feeling you would get before sparring with Luke. The same feeling you would get before your bodies joined together. 

You tell yourself to reach out for the door handle. You tell yourself to lift your arm, connect your hand with the metal, and pull it open. You tell yourself to return to your own dreamscape, maybe even reality, and forget any of this ever happened. 

Maybe you would’ve done it if Luke hadn’t spoken. 

“You can walk out that door but that won’t change how you truly feel.” 

He doesn’t add on. You don’t move. 

“And how do I feel?” 

The adrenaline is overwhelming you. You need to expel it out of your body somehow. 

As Luke is speaking, you’re already approaching him. 

“I’m sure I don’t need to answer that for you.”

When he speaks, it’s with arrogance. His confidence is heavily laced in his words, overflowing until it drips out into the air and lodges in your chest. Running through your body and down to your fingertips. It annoys you, makes you want to battle it out with him in a fight you’re sure to lose. 

Your feet thud against the floor with each step until you’re close enough to cup his cheeks in both of your hands and pull his face down to yours. 

There’s no hesitation in the kiss from either side. As if both of you were expecting it to happen eventually. 

Luke kisses you back vehemently, his lips messily sliding against yours as he presses into the center of your back, accentuating the curve and drawing your chest into his. His free hand glides down your side to your hips. He circles to your back, dragging his palm down to rest over the curve of your ass. He grips the flesh through the soft fabric of your shorts, digging his blunt nails in before continuing his hand—open palmed—down to grip the back of your thigh. 

His other hand mirrors his previous actions until he has a hand on either thigh. He tugs once, and you collaborate to wrap your legs around his waist and hook your ankles behind his back. Your hands dig into his hair, and your core tightens as you prepare to continue holding yourself up. But Luke takes most of the load. 

He places his hands on your bottom to keep you lifted. You expect him to walk you back to the couch, or maybe pin you to a wall. But he doesn’t. 

He holds you against him in the center of the living room, kissing you like he’ll never get to kiss you again. You don’t fail to realize how he likely won’t. 

His tongue slides against yours, your teeth knock together at least twice, both of you refuse to pull away to breathe which results in heavy exhales through your noses against the skin of the other cheek. 

While it may be uncoordinated, it’s not primal. 

There’s copious amounts of longing beneath each pass of your tongues against each other. There’s human emotion behind the way you tug on his hair and how he uses one hand to pull your hips closer to him. There’s raw longing in the soft sighs and gasps you both let out into the other’s mouth, taking it in and replicating the noises over and over again. 

When you finally do part, it’s with a wet, pronounced smack. 

“Luke,” you gasp his name before you can realize it’s happening. One of your hands moves from his hair to hold his cheek. Your fingers spread around his ear and your thumb probes into his jaw. 

He hums, his eyes still shut. 

“I want you,” you admit. 

You watch the smile spread across his lips, his eyes flickering open to look into your soul. 

“Took you long enough to admit it.” 

You suck your teeth and roll your eyes. Your other hand, previously resting on his shoulder, slaps his bicep. 

“Don’t be an asshole about it.” 

He laughs as he apologizes, knocking his forehead against yours. “Sorry, pretty girl.” 

He takes a moment.

When he speaks, his eyes are nothing but earnest. His words are slow and careful, despite how simple they are. They fill your chest with warmth. They comfort you, possibly in slight delusion as you instantly believe him without caring about what repercussions his promise could come with. 

“You have me. Always have. Always will.” 

You’re quick to surge forward. 

Luke is quick to reciprocate. 

This time, he walks you back to the couch. He settles you on it carefully, not lifting his hands from your bottom until you’re seated securely along the loveseat and pulled to the edge by his hands hooked under your knees. 

His own knees dig into the rug beneath the furniture. His head is tipped up to continue kissing you, this one lacking the over enthusiasm from before. Now, he takes his time, having confessed his desire to be with you as long as you’ll let him. 

It’s not long until he pulls away and trails his lips down, kissing along your decollete, not stopping when he comes in contact with the fabric of your small shirt. He presses his lips into the fabric firmly, as if he’s trying to reach your skin beneath the layer.

You feel the pressure he has beneath each kiss as he trails down, and you arch into his touch, excitement spreading through your lower half whenever Luke digs his fingers into the elastic of your shorts and pulls them off of your legs before he even reaches there. 

You’re quick to leave your legs open, even going as far as to spread them a little more to give Luke more room. 

His wide shoulders fill the space. They nudge against your knees and instead of letting you spread your legs even more, he throws them over his shoulders, effectively caging himself in with your limbs. 

If the small smile on his face is anything to go by, he’s happy about his position. 

You’re still wearing your panties. Your hands trail down to get rid of them, but Luke stops you with a hand on your lower abdomen. 

“Let me,” he tells you, voice soft and light. 

You remove your hands and do as told. It’s a simple system you have worked out, Luke slowly but surely working his way down to where you want him. He's eager, and you know he wants himself there as much as you do. 

It’s strange what desire could make you do. 

You’ve never been anything but loyal to Camp Half-Blood. To both of your parents. And in normal circumstances, you wouldn’t allow yourself to do this.

 But you’ll simply have a final time with Luke. That’s it. Sharing your body with him, and having his body shared with you, won’t make you forget his transgressions. 

As your panties are pulled off of your legs, and your skin is once again placed above the thick fabric on the shoulders of his sweatshirt, you tell yourself that this won’t change anything. 

You’ll never be able to forget what he has done. What he’s planning to do. 

Except, perhaps, you can push it aside for as long as you’ll have to while you let yourself get lost in his touch. 

The first pass of his tongue is a long stripe between your folds. He spreads you open with his thumbs, pulling at the skin on either side to expose your center. Then he flattens his tongue and licks up from your entrance to your clit. 

He puckers his lips, sucking twice before flicking his tongue against the bud. 

Your hands card through his hair, ignoring the way your fingers get stuck on a few stubborn curls that refuse to separate in favor of grounding yourself. It feels too good, and you haven’t been in this position for too long. There’s nothing you fear more right now than getting too lost and waking up in the real world before you’re even satisfied. 

Luke brings his attention back down to your entrance where he laps up what you’ve been leaking. He groans, peeling his mouth away and you stare down at him, entranced by how grateful he looks. 

Eyes closed, face completely relaxed, his scar laid flat against his cheek, his pink lips parted and glistening. 

He looks ethereal. The sight is addicting. 

“Missed this so much,” he admits, tongue flickering out to lick the remnants of your arousal off of his lips. 

You feel the same, but you refuse to tell him that. Instead, you scrape your nails at his scalp lightly and shuffle your hips, hoping that alone is enough to capture Luke’s attention again. 

Either he catches the memo or he had the same idea as you because his lips are right back between your legs.

You’d expected him to behave like a man starved, licking and sucking your cunt like you would disappear any moment. Instead, he takes his time with you. He utilizes the best part about being in a dreamscape: the lack of concrete time. 

He savors the taste of your cunt, and the little sounds you make. His fingers press into the tops of your thighs as he holds them down against his shoulders to prevent you from squirming. His nose nudges against your clit and digs into the short hair you have on your mound. 

He presses his tongue everywhere that he can, sometimes even sliding further down to rim areas still unexplored. Each time, you would tense up just a little less, until eventually you were trying to subtly urge his head further down for him to do it just one more time. 

And when he does, that’s when the coil in your lower belly gets as tight as it could get, just before snapping from the tension. You would have warned him. Or, maybe you did. You were so focused on getting there that any words that came out of your mouth weren’t even considered. You weren’t aware of anything other than your mouth moving at the same speed as your hips as you dragged your cunt against Luke’s face, using him to guide your orgasm to full completion. 

As soon as your hips stop twitching you swing your legs off of his shoulders and slide to the floor beside him. You pull your shirt off, then do the same for Luke, throwing both of your tops off to the side. 

Unsurprisingly, he’s not wearing another layer beneath the sweatshirt, allowing you to run your palms down his chest, feeling the familiar definition along his abdomen. 

You sit in front of him with your legs folded underneath you, and since he’s on his haunches, he towers over you just a bit. You have to tilt your head up to kiss at his jaw and neck, your hands busying themselves with urging his sweatpants off of his hips. 

Luke does the rest of the job for you, hesitantly pulling away from your touch to stand and slide his sweatpants off of his legs himself. You’re left on the ground, hands politely resting in your lap while you stare up at Luke with wide eyes. 

He slowly reveals more and more of his legs until he’s wearing nothing but his briefs. They hug him well, like they always have. A prominent outline of the muscle definition in his thighs, elastic waistband hanging low enough on his hips for you to see the ‘V’ that connects his hips and abdomen. And of course, the tight material reveals the prominent boner confined within the crotch of his briefs. 

You want to reach up and palm him. You want to pull the final layer off of him. You want to take his cock into your mouth and relax with the heavy and warm feeling of him against your tongue. 

But you decide to be patient. And it’s worth it. 

Luke slides his briefs off himself, never breaking eye contact with you as he throws them to join the rest of your clothing. His stare is strong and heavy as he spits into his hand and puts his dick into the same place, wrapping his palm around the center of it and stroking a few times. 

There’s the prettiest, most picturesque bead of precum at the tip and you’re practically salivating just looking at it, praying deep down that Luke doesn’t run his hand over it so you can have it for yourself. 

As if sensing your inner turmoil, Luke takes a step closer, holding the base of his cock right in front of your face, allowing you to get the perfect view of how his tip is a light pink around the almost clear drop of precum. 

“You want?” he asks you simply, smiling a bit when you nod eagerly. “Then open.” 

You’re quick to do as told, lacking any shame whenever you open your mouth and stick your tongue out. As soon as Luke presses his tip to your muscle, you wrap your lips around him and eagerly suck him clean. 

Another good thing about the dreamscape is that everything either tastes like absolutely nothing, or like pure honey. And when you’re with Luke, things are usually the latter. 

You start to get lost in it, enthusiastically beginning to suck Luke off even though you were only meant to be getting a taste. 

You can see that Luke is close to commenting on it. His eyes shine like they do before he has something to say, but just when his lips part and he takes a breath to speak, you hollow your cheeks and sink as far down him as you can and any words he could have conjured up are suddenly gone. 

He lets you do what you want, eyes fluttering shut and one large hand cupping the back of your head as you continue to suck him off. He lets out the smallest noises, pretty grunts and groans and sighs. 

Luke was clearly just as wound up as you were. Within a couple of minutes he’s already starting to spew out praises like he does when he’s close. Some of them are fragments, broken words strung together in incomplete sentences. 

“So … doing so .. you’re–” when you swirl your tongue at the tip and tease his balls just a bit. 

“Gods, you’re so good at this,” when you jerk the majority of his dick with one hand and focus your mouth on his tip with the other. 

“Close. So close. Almost there, dove” when you take all of him into your mouth once more, throat molding around the definite shape of him. 

And when he cums down your throat, you’re so satisfied that you can’t help but moan unabashedly along with him. 

You’ve only just swallowed his cum before his cock is pulled out of your mouth and he’s back on his knees in front of you. 

His arms wrap around your waist, he pulls you into his lap, laying his head on your chest and just letting himself be. 

Just existing. 

After a couple of minutes, you stop expecting him to speak and decide to just exist too. Your breathing eventually matches up, in and out, in and out, over and over again in tandem. Outside, rain starts to thud against the roof of the small home. Distantly, there’s the faint sound of thunder, and you’re sure the ocean is swirling angrily. 

None of that matters, though. You’ll be left to decipher the metaphorical meanings of it all later, when you aren’t coexisting in the shared warmth from you and Luke. 

When he isn’t kissing the tops of your breasts and holding you securely in his arms. 

Eventually, Luke does break the silence. His voice is low when he does, both in volume and tone. 

“Can I have you? Just one final time?” 

He talks into your skin without looking directly at you. But as you start to respond, you cup his cheeks and force him to look at you. 

The entire time, you’ve been fighting this battle. Knowing you wanted Luke, knowing you wanted to be with Luke, but also knowing it was wrong. All of it was wrong. 

But right here, right now, you let go. You nod unashamedly. You kiss his forehead then the tip of his nose then his lips, before landing on the bottom end of his scar. 

You tell him, “Yes. Of course, Luke”, as if he didn’t even have to ask in the first place. 

And truthfully, you don’t think he did. 

‎

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” 

Luke is in the middle of pulling his sweatshirt back over his head when you speak. There’s a second where the fabric is hiding his face, slowly revealing the curls at the top of his head, then his dark eyebrows, and finally his eyes. They look as they have the entire time: despondent. 

“I know you didn’t. Neither did I.” You have a feeling that neither of you are speaking about the same specific thing, but the overlap in your conditions is so wide that you don’t bother correcting him. 

He reaches behind his back once more and when he pulls his hand back around, he has his camp necklace dangling from his fingers. He undoes the knot, and holds it open, waiting, until finally you turn around and let him delicately tie it around your neck. 

Your hand touches the beads. You want to thank him, but it doesn’t feel right. 

Instead, your lips twist into what you hope comes off as a thankful smile when you turn around. When Luke replicates it, you feel a little better. 

There’s a moment, just a brief moment there where you’re both staring at each other and the memory of Luke’s hands and lips and tongue and his everything engrossing you, taking your everything and combining them together, is still fresh on your mind. The warmth of his eyes and the warmth of his camp necklace around your throat heals you. And you consider that your feelings for Luke were stronger than you ever forced yourself to acknowledge. 

He was more than a close friend to you. More than someone you looked up to. More than someone you shared your body with in the dreamscape. 

He was more. 

It feels unfair for you to have these emotions. The wrongness of it all—your feelings for Luke Castellan, how he’d turned out—has rage fueling deep in your gut. With no one else to blame it on, you can’t help but briefly curse the gods. 

For they were the ones to cause this. To instill deep hatred into Luke’s chest. To prevent either of you from ever having a normal life where you could live and breathe and love without the burdens placed upon you both. 

A life where you wouldn’t have to love and lose someone like Luke. 

But there’s nothing for you to do about it now. 

You don’t want to leave. But your time together is up. You should’ve left a long time ago, and your choice to stay before resulted in something you could never take back. 

You turn and walk to the door. And once more, Luke speaking causes you to stop. 

“You are the only one who could make me change my mind.” He says it in a small whisper, as if he doesn’t want to admit it even to himself. As if he shouldn’t be admitting it at all.

‘Are’. His feelings for you still haven’t changed. You don’t know if they ever will. 

Either way, you’re forced to change yours.  

You don’t know what to say. So you don’t say anything. Your hand reaches for the doorknob. You take it in your palm, gripping and turning at the same time until the latch is undone. 

The door opens and fills the room with the sound of rain falling. It’s loud and fills the empty space. Up until Luke speaks and the baritone of his voice joins it. 

“This is it?” 

You nod once. Luke’s scoff sounds painful. It’s bitter with an edge of hatred. Maybe disbelief. 

It makes tears brim at your eyes. Your nose stings. Your throat feels as if it’s constricting with the effort to hold your tears back. 

Luke takes a breath. You step one foot out of the door. 

“Dreamcatcher,” he calls to get your attention, the nickname giving you that fuzzy feeling you used to get from just seeing him around camp. “We’ll be seeing each other again.” 

And then your foot lands on the dry green grass of your own dreamscape. 

Just a few hours later, you rise with the morning sun, sneaking off to the showers before everyone else to get rid of the stickiness between your thighs. 

The dream might not have been real, but the evidence between your legs certainly was. Strangely enough, that and the additional chord of beads around your neck. You only notice it when you’ve undressed and stepped beneath the shower head, scrubbing at your skin and running into additional jewelry you hadn���t expected to have been there. 

You take it off and slip it with the rest of your clothes as a keepsake, carrying it around in your pocket for only you to know about.

#lukesworld! #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan smut #celeste writes pjo

[ladywuvly]

♱ long before (s2!daryl dixon x green!f!reader)

summary|| As fate would have it, a devastating tragedy compelled your father to open up your front gates to a group of families seeking refuge from the new world. Amidst the unexpected turn of events, a certain individual with piercing blue eyes, a colorful vocabulary, and a rugged charm manages to capture your attention. However, as tensions rise and emotions become complicated, you're forced to confess your deepest desires. wc: 6.9k

warnings|| MDNI; 18+ content, semi-public, blood/violence + mentions of, swearing, size kink (if you squint), smut, fingering/handjob (f!m!receiving), unprotected sex (p!v), rough sex, bodily fluids (sp!t/squ!rt), praise, agegap, begging, breeding, cockwarming;

masterlist. socials. rec.

It wasn't every day there were new people at the farm, let alone living people. However, when your older sister's shrilling voice called for your father and the all too familiar smell of fresh blood came wafting through the front door, you knew the peaceful salvation of your childhood home was no longer hidden from the terrors of the new world. 

That had been weeks ago; before families were camped out under the shade of the oak trees in your front yard, before Otis had died, before you had met Rick, or before you had sat and comforted Lori as her son lay dying in the blood-stained sheets of your guest bedroom. 

Long before they'd found any evidence of Carol's little girl being anywhere nearby, and even longer before a certain blue-eyed, foul-mouthed, redneck had caught your attention. 

You'd heard him ride in with the rest of them. Watching him from behind the white, wooden column of the porch. Tanned, dirt and sweat-covered skin, dressed in a sleeveless button-up that exposed the toned muscles of his arms, which flexed as he flicked the kick-stand down and stepped off the motorbike. 

It didn't take long for you to make friends with the rest of the group. Although, no matter how often you tried making peace with the shaggy-haired man, he always seemed to push you further and further away. 

Perhaps he knew what you were trying to do. Like he'd somehow discovered your ploy. How you'd show up at his tent on the outskirts of the camp, dressed in those frilly little sun dresses, presenting him with something or another that always made his heart swell up in contentment. 

No matter how short he was with you, or how many times he told you it was 'nun of y'er business', he still couldn't help but feel unworthy as he watched you frolic your way towards his islet tent.

It wasn't until he had heard you one morning, from the other side of the bathroom door, that was when he knew he was fucked.

Carol had demanded he'd shower, it did no good to have him 'stinking up every place he went' as she had put it. He had scoffed before eventually agreeing a shower might actually do him some good.

A place where he could relax for a short time, stretch out his strained muscles in the lukewarm water as he cleared his head from the millions of thoughts he had since their arrival.

The water was already running and he was praying that whoever it was in there, wasn't using up the rest of the warm water. He was about ready to bang on the door and call out a harsh 'hurry up in there'. That was until he heard the sweet sound of your voice from inside, suddenly rendering him speechless.

"oh daryl..." All high pitched and slurred, in that sweet honey-coated tone filled with urgency and pleasure. He wanted to move, he truly did.

You were just a girl, maybe 8 or 9 years younger than him. You didn't know what you were doing, acting solely on desire and lust, still foolish and ignorant about the real world.

That is what he told himself, as he imagined what you must've looked like in the moment. Hand shoved between the milky plush of your thighs, the same ones he'd caught himself staring at more times than he'd like to admit.

Skin flushed under the warm water and steam of the shower, face displaying a consuming look of pleasure, as your orgasm coaxed little whimpers and whines out of your parted lips. "daryl, daryl, daryl..."

He couldn't stand there any longer after listening to you finish. Rushing through the front door and down the porch steps before hastily grabbing his crossbow and wandering off in hopes of finding anything to distract himself from the blasphemous image of you.

Little did he know that wasn't the first time you had touched yourself to the thought of him.

Earlier that morning you'd woken up from an erotic-filled sleep, slick and sticky, panties clinging to the dripping arousal of your cunt as you rubbed your thighs together hoping to provide enough friction to lazily get yourself off.

You huffed and turned over a few times before giving up. Throwing the covers off and exposing yourself to the nipping cold of your bedroom.

You walked towards the window, hoping that the sight of the barely rising sun, was excuse enough to crawl back under the covers and rest for a few more minutes, before having to get up to start your early morning chores. However, the sight below you caused a chill to run up your spine, as goosebumps littered your skin.

He stood below your window, the picnic bench in front of him occupied by his crossbow, and the remains of his catch for this morning's breakfast.

The way he so effortlessly worked on his kill; cleaning, gutting, and skinning whatever poor little forest critter so foolishly crossed his path.

The sight of his muscular arms, as they flexed and strained, was alluring compared to his gore-full actions, and before you knew what you were doing, your hand snuck under the hem of your short, floral nightie.

Resting a hand against the window-pane as your other slipped into your panties. Your fingers played with the wetness of your arousal, coating them in your slick as you eased them past your slippery lips and into your weeping entrance.

You moaned quietly, pulling them back out to rub circles against your swollen clit and then plunging them back into your aching cunt again. Repeating the action over and over again, as you ogled the man before you.

You imagined what it would feel like to have his hands on you, instead of your own. Bigger and rougher, the callused skin of his palms running along the softness of your waist and hips, as he'd rock you back and forth on the pads of his fingers.

Gripping his forearm for leverage as you quivered against him. The pure strength of his bicep, which you'd grip at to keep yourself from collapsing into a puddle of sweat and cum.

His warm breath fanning against your cheek and neck, as he encouraged you with those sweet little praises. "You like that, huh? You like that, sweetheart?...Come on, sweet girl don't you want to cum?"

Your walls tightened as you became painfully close to the edge. Your legs trembled, knees buckling as you held yourself up against the glass. Your orgasm was bliss, soaking your thighs and hand with your release, as you muffled a cry, biting your bottom lip in order to keep yourself quiet.

Coming back down from your high you quickly stepped away from the window shamefully. Your skin felt hot and sticky, and even after just getting yourself off, you wanted more, you needed more.

You decided a shower would be best, something relaxing and isolate where you could refresh yourself, before having to go about your day.

It had been a few hours and you were now seated by the burning embers from this morning's fire, helping put together whatever you could find to make some sort of breakfast for everyone before they all got to work for the day.

You spotted Daryl as he made his way out of your house and back towards the camp. His hair, a darker shade of brown, as fresh water droplets dripped down the recently cleaned skin of his neck.

God, what you would give for him to let you lick it up with the flick of your tongue.

You imagined what he'd smell like, what he tasted like. His scent, wouldn't be clouded with any fragrance that distracted from his natural musk. His skin, warm and inviting against the drag of your tongue. You could feel yourself getting wet at just the thought of him.

Quickly you grabbed a plate and made your way up across the grass, stopping in front of him as he was headed towards the RV. You watched him freeze, his eyes casted down and away from you, causing you to frown at his refusal to meet your gaze.

"Here, I know it's not much... but you should eat something."

You offered him the small plate, only for him to hum and shake his head. "'m fine." You were concerned at his refusal. He was not a man of many words, but that didn’t mean dismissing you like this altogether. He'd normally just take whatever it was you were offering him, before going back to whatever it was he was doing.

"Look... everyone's eaten and you know nobody's going to be seen harboring back for seconds, given our circumstances." You laughed it off in hopes of lightening the mood. Only when you looked back at him, did you notice the look of anger take over his features.

"No you look... I don't know what ya' think this is, but we're not 'ere ta' make no friends. Our only priority is findin' a way ta' get the hell off this farm, and whether or not I eat this piss-pour excuse of a breakfast, is gonna change that. Ya' hearin' me?"

His words caught you off guard. They were harsh and filled with hurt, and knowing that those around you had most likely turned to look at him, once the sound of his voice had risen, was humiliating.

It was mean and patronizing, and you were embarrassed that he'd thought he could talk to you like that. Like you were just some ignorant girl. Like someone who didn't really know what was actually going on.

It didn't take you very long to flee after that. You had almost scoffed at him before shoving the plate of food into his chest and brushing past his shoulder.

You weren't going to let everyone see just how much his words had gotten to you, so you lifted your head and walked with poise back towards your house.

Only once you'd made it into the solidarity of your kitchen did you let out the breath you were holding. Cursing at yourself for not seeing it sooner, by letting the way he made you feel cloud your judgment of who he really was, who he really thought you were.

In that moment you decided for yourself to just push down this stupid little crush and focus on what was important. Helping get these people back on their feet, so they could get a move on.

You consumed yourself with chores the next few days. Helping Lori with laundry, Carol with any cooking, and even offered Andrea a hand maintaining the few guns your father had let them keep, while helping protect the farm.

She was pleasantly surprised at how much you knew about such weapons, but you quickly reminded her how you'd grown up and where exactly you were raised. This only encouraged her to teasingly call you a 'hick', before asking if you wanted to go shooting with her and Shane the next time they went out. You told her you'd think about it before excusing yourself from the RV.

That night you sat with them beside the dying fire, and it didn't take long before you felt the heat of a lingering gaze on you. However, this one was dark and grim, greedy and predatory. Unlike the light, pastel blue eyes you were so familiar with.

These felt thieving, like they were just waiting watching for the chance to get you alone, secluded and out of the keen sight of others.

You felt it best to turn in for the night. Walking back towards the house you weren't scared, far from it, you knew this farm like the back of your hand and yet you still felt unease.

The snap of a twig behind you caused you to gasp, as you expected a walker to step out in front of you and bite your face clean off. However, the sight of Shane emerging from the shadows was strangely just as frightening. Those temperamental eyes that looked you up and down, caused you to wrap your arms a little tighter around yourself.

"Andrea tells me you're good with a gun. Real good..."

Nodding compliantly, hoping it would satisfy him to cut the conversation short and allow you to escape inside. Except your silence only made him pursue you even more.

"She's giving me more credit than I deserve. My father taught me how to shoot, that's all." You quickly remitted.

Shane wandered closer and you took a quick look back at the house, trying to estimate how many steps you would need to take in order to get back inside if need be.

"What is your deal then, hm?"

"My deal?"

"I just mean, I'm trynna figure you out."

"I guess there's just not much to figure."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong. I just want to know what makes a pretty young thing, such as yourself swoon so hard over that dirty old red-neck." You're shocked at the accuracy of his accusation.

"I think I'm tired, and it's getting late, and I'd like to go to bed. Goodnight Shane."

"Now just wait a min-Everythin' alright?" Daryl suddenly emerged from behind you and you'd soon grown frustrated.

You hadn't seen nor spoken to him in the last few days yet, here he was showing up to save you like you were some damsel in distress.

Dragging a hand through your hair and letting out an exasperated sigh. You watched as Shane stepped closer to the both of you. "You got impeccable timing, you know that?"

"Hell's that suppose to mean?"

"Nothin' man, just getting to know our hosts a little better, that's all."

"Yeah? Well don't."

Scoffing at both of the men, drawing their attention back to you. "I'm not standing around here to watch a cock-fight. Both of you, just leave me the hell alone." You left them at the bottom of the porch steps.

"Wait a sec... Just stop!... I'm sorry!" You froze, halfway through the door frame.

Slowly, you turned around to find Daryl standing at the bottom of the stairs, nervously scratching at the back of his neck.

"What?"

"I was pissed, 'n took it out on ya'. Wasn't right."

"Carol make you come up here."

"Nah, feel bad... didn't mean to hurt ya'."

You were genuinely surprised that he'd come back to apologize all on his own. Looking away from him seemed to be the only way to keep a smile from breaking out on your face. You nodded and hoped it was enough to get him to retreat, but he didn't.

"Hey..."

He called, making you look up at him through your lashes.

"When I say m'sorry, I mean it."

You nodded again quickly. "I believe you."

It was now his turn to nod this time, as he drummed his thumb against the side of his leg. "Only... you owe me another apology."

"Hmm?"

"That breakfast... was not piss-poor… made that with love." You teased, leaning up against the door frame.

He stifled a laugh and kicked at the dirt in front of him. "M'sorry 'bout that too then."

You couldn't help but flash a warm smile at him while you watched him fidget before you. Stepping back onto the porch and descending the steps until you stood face-to-face with him at the bottom.

You gazed into his eyes and despite the slight height you got from the stair, you found yourself still having to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. You couldn't help but feel a sense of curiosity, as there was an indescribable emotion hidden within them.

Rather than trying to put it into words, you decided to thank him. Affectionately rising up onto your tiptoes and planting a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Goodnight, Daryl."

Then with a smile, you made your way back up the stairs and towards the front door, as you finally entered the house.

You didn't sleep well that night, tossing and turning for hours before you eventually gave up on sleep altogether.

Once the sun began to rise you slipped on your boots and grabbed a sweater, hoping maybe an early morning walk could help you clear your thoughts.

They only really consisted of one thing, Daryl. Even though he apologized, that hadn't been the only time he'd been short with you. Sure, it was the first time he'd actually yelled at you.

You wondered why he had been so mean, what had made him snapping at you so early in the early morning, when you were just trying to be kind to him? What had happened that he was already pissed off about?

Coming up late last night when Shane had been trying to 'get to know you', and as much as he made you uncomfortable, why did Daryl feel the need to interrupt?

Did he secretly despise you that much that he had to ward off people from trying to befriend you? It confused you, how such a seemingly simple man suddenly became so complex.

You hadn't realized how far you had wandered until the sight of the old brick chimney came into view. You knew it was time to turn back when you'd somehow managed to subconsciously walk towards the one thing that was causing you so much troubled.

"What're ya' doin'?"

You gasped at the gruff sound of his voice. Turning around to see Daryl not too far from you. He looked well rested, like he'd just woken up.

"Couldn't sleep. Needed some time to think, figured a walk'd do me some good."

"So ya' wondered all the way out 'ere."

"I guess so."

He looked off from you, not having anything else to say, or maybe just not having the words. "Did I do something? I mean... to bother you or upset you in some way. I get it now that you're not one to make friends, but after you apologized… I just don't know what I did to deserve you making sure everyone stays clear of me."

"Like ya' talk with Shane was so friendly."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

There was a pause as you waited for Daryl to speak.

"I heard ya'..."

Your face scrunched in confusion and Daryl sighed. He'd hoped you'd understood what he was talking about without having to go into much detail about it.

"Sayin' my name..."

Your eyes widened and you flushed bright red in embarrassment.

"I- I'm sorry, I thought the window was closed... I-"

"Window? Nah... in the shower..."

You became even more humiliated, not only by the fact that he had heard you touching yourself to the thought of him, but as you accidentally confessed how you'd done it more than just the once.

"Look y're a real pretty girl 'n all, but it just ain't right... With yer father lettin' us stay 'ere, it wouldn't be right."

"So you're saying if this wasn't the circumstance where we met, you'd take me to bed?"

"That ain't what I'm sayin'."

"Then what are you saying, Daryl?"

"That m'pushing 30 and y're barely 20..."

"21... 'n I'm not a child, Daryl. Not where it counts..."

"Shouldn't be sayin' that."

"Why? Why does it matter? We're both adults. There's not a soul in that house that would even give a damn. The world has ended, there are no laws, no morals to live by anymore. There's only wants and needs, and I don't want to be scared anymore... and I need you..."

You stepped closer to him, eyes never leaving his as you bravely confessed your feelings. "Tell me... Tell me that you don't need me."

You watched his pale blue eyes as he studied your face. It was as if he was almost trying to decide whether or not this was real, whether or not you were real.

"I can't... but I can't give you what you want either..."

"You can-No, I can't"

"What is it you think that I want?"

"Why me, huh?... What is it about me that you need?" He dismissed your question with one of his own.

"I see the way that you are... with Rick... with Carol. You want to protect us, I know that."

He tried to brush you off, turning around to distance himself from you, but you grabbed his arm, stepping ahead of him to stop him from walking away from you. "Don't run from me. I may not know what you were like before this, but I know who you are now. I know why you showed up last night..."

"Ya' don't know nothin' ." He spit out.

"I know you wanted to protect me. I know that's why you warded off Shane, and why you apologized. You might not know why, but I do. It's because you care. You care about me... and us, and this place, and you can pretend all you want like you don't, but you can't fool me, Daryl."

You hadn't let go of him and you reached out to grab his other hand. He flinched and tried to pull back from you, but you didn't let him. Bringing his hand up to cup your cheek as you looked up at him longingly.

"So stay with me... Tell me that you do need me... and don't let anyone take me away from you..." All he did was stare at you, his hand remained relaxed against your cheek.

You were about to drop it in defeat and sulk your way back to the house, but his hand flexed, fingers threading into your hair and pulling you closer to him. You closed your eyes as he rested his forehead against yours. His breath was ragged and you were afraid he was going to pull back and leave you all alone.

He nudged the tip of your nose with his before tilting your head back and finally slotting his lips against your own. Leading closer into him, your grip on his arm tightened and you tugged him closer by the collar of his shirt. His hand still in your hair, pulled you into his needy mouth as his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you firmly pressed up against him.

You put every last bit of your doubt into the kiss, hoping he'd take it all away from you. That he could somehow tell you that you were right without having to pull his lips away from yours.

His hands began to wander, gripping at you wherever he could. Brushing your hair over your shoulders, and pulling at the sleeves of your sweater to run his hands over the exposed skin of your back. Hooking your arm around his neck and kissing him fiercely as he leaned down into you.

You opened your mouth for him as his hands traveled down over your waist. He rocked you against him, pressing you into his hips causing you to gasp into his mouth at the feeling of his erection digging into your stomach.

His hands didn't stop, leaving behind a trail of fire in their wake as he continued to caress as much of your skin as he could. He took a step forward and you stumbled for only a moment before he lifted you off of your feet and wrapped your legs around his hips.

He led you both over to his camp, ripping open his partially zipped tent before ducking the both of you inside. You hadn't pulled your mouth from his neck, and when he finally set you on trembling legs you were able to see just how much damage you'd done to the heated skin.

He began stripping you of your sweater as you simultaneously worked on the buttons of his shirt, only you hesitated at the sight of the pronounced tainted skin on his chest. His shirt was pushed off his shoulders, hanging around his elbows allowing his arms minimal movement to clutch at your waist.

Your fingers traced over the scars causing him to flinch, reaching up to pull your hands from his body. He looked at your face, utterly surprised when it wasn't a look of disgust or pity gracing your soft features. Instead, a small smile and a look of admiration.

He let your hands slowly rest back against his heaving chest. Caressing your wrists as you went back to tracing the darkened skin. He closed his eyes when you'd touched a particularly deep one, shivering as fantom pain shot across his shoulder.

You froze and he opened his eyes to see you looking back up at him worriedly. He hummed and leaned closer, nudging his nose against the side of yours before kissing you softly. "S'okay... don't hurt."

You nodded, slowly pushing his shirt the rest of the way off his arms, letting it fall, discarded on the ground behind him. You toed off your boots as he led you back towards his cot. Placing kisses along each new area of your body he exposed to the chilled morning air, as he pulled off your sweater and slip.

It soon joined his shirt and his own boots on the floor as he laid you bare on his sleeping bag, which was accompanied by a few thick blankets and a single pillow.

He pulled back to look at you, kneeling between your parted legs. Your hair, fanned out around your head in a halo as your skin flushed pink. A few marks along your neck and chest, turning a dark purple, a harsh comparison to your delicate complexion. It caused his heart to beat furiously, as his chest filled with pride.

You whined and reached out for him hoping he fall back down against you. Only he took your hands in his and pinned them against the blankets. His fingers laced and gripped tightly onto yours as he dove back into your neck and chest to continue his assault on your sensitive skin.

Your back arched as he sucked and nipped at the tender skin of your throat and your hips rolled against his, chasing that feverish need for pleasure. He pulled away from you again and you almost cried, but at the rustling sound of fabric and the jingle of his belt you whimpered in anticipation.

He was back on you before you could even call out for him. Hands ripping your panties down your legs, caressing the soft skin of your ankle, and placing a kiss to the muscular physique of your calf. "Daryl..."

There it was, that oh so familiar plead of his name, laced with lust and desire.

"Again..." He demanded.

"Daryl?... please, Daryl..."

He crawled between your legs, resting against the pillow with his hands on either side of your head. His lips caught yours as you caressed his sides. Hands traveling over his back, only to find more scars etched into his hardened skin.

You moaned into his mouth, pulling him even tighter against you, grinding your hips into his erection, which strained against the fabric of his boxers.

He growled and kissed your lips deeper, ignoring the voice in the back of his head telling him to stop. Telling him that he wasn't worthy enough. That he didn't deserve the privilege of touching your flawless skin with his tainted hands, or pressing his roughened lips against your delicate ones.

However, as your hand caught him firmly around the neck, keeping him from pulling away from you, and your hips eagerly bucked against his once again, as a symphony of your pleasure flowed into his mouth, the voice fell silent. Drowned out and muffled by you, and you alone.

Your fingers toyed with the waistband of his underwear, teasing the trail of hair leading down from his navel, before slipping underneath the fabric. His breath hitched as your nimble fingers wrapped tightly around the base of his cock, tugging at him skillfully.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against your temple, his lips parted as his breath quickened. You continued to attentively pump your hand up and down his hardened length. The fingers of your other hand tenderly running through his hair, showering him with affection as your lips brushed against his flushed cheek, leaving a trail of lingering kisses on his heated skin.

"f-fu... Fuck..." He stammered, his hands tightened around the quilts, his arms trembling as he struggled to maintain his advantage above you.

He suddenly pulled your hand off from around him, pinning it back onto the bed. "S'enough... won't last if ya' keep that up."

He groaned, trailing his free hand down between your bodies, as his fingers parted your lips, playing gently with your dripping folds. The sound of his voice in your ear sent shivers down your spine, causing you to gasp in pleasure. You instinctively clung onto him as you tugged lightly on his hair in an attempt to encourage him.

Daryl only hummed into your skin, nuzzling his face into your neck as he continued collecting your arousal on the tips of his callused fingers, spreading your wetness around your swollen, aching clit.

If it were anyone else, you might have felt self-conscious about how wet he'd made you from something as simple as his hands against your skin, or how perfectly his body fit against yours, but with Daryl, all your thoughts melted away. Everything just felt so comfortable, so right.

His fingers circled the rim of your entrance, slipping gently between your lips. You guided him back up to your awaiting mouth from his spot nuzzled in the valley of your breasts, where he'd taken his sweet time kissing and nipping at the swell of them.

His mouth latched onto yours, sucking at your lips and teasing you by grazing his teeth over them softly. You couldn't help but revel in the comfort and pleasure of his touch.

His finger eased smoothly into your slick entrance. Your walls drawing them in with an eager clench as a rush of pleasure washed over you, causing you to moan against him. His fingertip caressed against the certain spot deep inside of you.

You arched your back in ecstasy as he suddenly added another finger. He stretched you even further causing you to let out a pleasureful moan that made him pause and instantly detach from your lips.

Looking at you in disbelief, he couldn’t believe the sight before him, the way your hips began to hump against his hand, aiding to the pleasure coiling in the pit of your stomach.

You were absolutely breathtaking in your blissed-out state. His fingers stilled causing you to whine in frustration leaving you craving their pleasurable drag, in and out of your walls.

He sat up, pulling them from your weeping cunt to watch himself as he spread your arousal around your messy clit. You nodded your head profusely. "Don't stop..."

Your chest heaved, rising and falling in anticipation as he slipped his fingers back inside of you. His thighs were tensing beneath yours, trying his hardest not to grind against you, lost in his own pleasure.

That's when you felt him, your knees tightened around his hips as his cock started riding shamelessly against your inner thigh. You reached for his face, getting him to look back up at you as you caressed his jaw. "Please, Daryl... I need you-I need to feel you inside of me."

His fingers pulled back out from your entrance, popping them into his mouth, and licking them clean. Hoping to satisfy his craving of you with just a subtle taste of your sweet cunt.

He gripped at your waist, thumbs massaging circles against your hip-bones as he imagined tasting you straight from the source.

His lips were back on yours in seconds, hands pushing his boxers down franticly, and before you had the chance to catch your breath he'd already lined up at your entrance.

The head of his cock smeared in your slick as he teased you. He could feel your warmth soaking him as he let out a labored sigh, wishing he could just stuff you full.

He began slowly pushing into you and you clamp down on him. Your gasp turned more erratic and you fisted the sheets. Pulling them from your grasp, he reached out gripping your hand once you let out a soft hiss from the stretch of him.

"Relax sweetheart, we'll go slow."

He started carefully, squeezing your hand, he felt a subtle sting as your nails pierced through the skin on the back of his hand. A melody of whines slipped from between your lips, at the feeling of his cock, as it slid perfectly inside of your walls, as he entered himself inch by delicious inch.

He leaned forward, nose brushing against yours. As you both panted against each other, it kept you anchored to reality as he finally bottomed out inside of you with a deep groan.

Then he waited, for an agonizingly long time, before you gave him the go-ahead. Bucking your hips up, begging for more friction. He takes his time fucking into you, long and slow at first. Reaching so deeply with each thrust of his hips, causing you to gasp every time he bottomed out.

You withered and squirmed beneath him, moaning incoherent nonsense as he pinned you to the bed. Crying out as your orgasm built up at an aching speed.

His hips moved faster at the feeling of your walls relaxing around him, fitting his cock like a glove. You moaned and wrapped your legs tighter around his hips, he hooked the hinge of his arm under your knee. Lifting it up higher, so you could feel him reach deeper inside of you.

He let out a grunt against the crook of your neck. He couldn't see the way you took every inch of him, but he could hear it. The sticky squelching of your pliant little cunt being speared open for him, and fuck, he could feel it.

Hot, wet, and tight around him. Grinding your hips in rhythm with his, as noisy wet clicks filled the background noise. Embarrassingly loud, from how slick you'd become as he stuffed you full of him.

Hanging by a thread as you used your free hand to claw at his lower back, leaving angry red lines behind on his skin, as you held onto him desperately. He groaned at the pain and yet he enjoyed it. The feeling of being so close to you.

Your thighs opened wide for him, puffy lips spread and swollen, sensitive, aching clit peeking out from them, dragging against the hair at the base of him.

All of you, covered in a glossy sheen of your own juices, as a ring of arousal collected at the base of his cock, dripping onto his thighs. "Don't stop, m'gonna cum. Daryl, don't stop!"

You could feel the coil inside of you snap, a string of cries escaped your lips as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. The high-pitched whine of his name. His lips consumed yours as he thrusted into you riding out your orgasm.

The convulsing clench of your cunt was his downfall. His upper body collapsing on top of you as he moaned out your name, before painting your insides white, your womb becoming nice and full with the weight of his release.

Reaching back down, he cupped his balls, massaging them. Causing himself to cum even harder. He began whimpering against your ear, and his sloppy wet kisses left behind a trail of drool, as he kissed down the side of your neck.

The two of you remained connected for quite some time. Basking in the sex-filled atmosphere of his tent. Your labored breaths and the cooing of the mourning doves, was your lullaby.

The heat radiating from the man caging you on the cot was bliss. Even as your skin was covered in a sheer layer of moisture you didn't want him to move from his place on top of you.

Your breaths began to even out and the gentle kisses he was placing on your shoulders and neck became less frequent. He began to sit up, and you felt his softened member start to slip from inside you causing your hands to tighten on his body, stopping his retreat. He froze at the sudden movement, afraid he'd hurt you somehow.

"Not yet... just- just a few more minutes." You whispered, pulling him back down to lay on your chest. The full wait of him felt safe, comforting. It was like you'd finally found solace after months of living in fear.

His fingers played with your wild hair, lulling you to sleep. Your hands on his back, mindlessly began running over his jagged scars, causing him to shiver at your unfamiliar touch, but he didn't stop you.

As much as Daryl hated what his father had done to him as a child, and the disgust he felt when looking at the lifelong reminder, your gentle hands were a beautiful relief in comparison to his father’s cruel ones.

There were so many things about you that were beautiful, so many things he just wasn’t used to. He wondered if that’s why he must've turned you away so often.

How when you offered things to show your affection towards him; books, food, clothes, blankets, sometimes even just your thoughts and feelings, he'd turn you away.

It was weird for him to experience such kindness from people around him and when a beautiful girl, such as yourself, suddenly came along and did it all, without asking for anything in return, it scared him.

He expected that after a while you’d start asking things of him. Things he'd have a hard time being able to give you. Things like friendship and vulnerability, things that oftentimes led him to get taken advantage of.

And yet as you laid beneath him he found himself wanting to give you such things. Wanting to be the reason you smiled so brightly at him, or laughed so beautifully. He wanted to feel the caress of your hands anywhere and anytime he could have them.

He hadn’t realized what exactly made him so wary of you in the beginning, but he knew now. He knew that you brought to life a part of him that he thought had died, a long time ago, long before the world had even ended.

Long before his brother had convinced him they were weaknesses, and even longer before his father had tried to beat them out of him.

"Would ya' leave with me?" He asked unexpectedly.

"What?"

"If... When we 'ave ta leave. Would ya' come with me?"

His words took you by surprise. You hadn't really ever thought about leaving the farm. Not that there were many places to even run towards, but still, the thought of leaving behind everything you'd ever known scared you.

Yet, you also knew that the farm wouldn't be safe forever. You knew that one day you would have to leave, and whether it was now; with Daryl and his group, or later; with your father and sisters. That was the real question.

"I don't know. I think there's more to it." You said.

"Why's that?"

"I can't leave my family Daryl... but I also know that what we have here won't last forever, no matter how badly I wish it could." You could feel Daryl shift against you, leaning back to look up at you as you spoke.

"I'm worried that if we're out there on our own, my father won't be able to protect us all, no matter how badly he'd try." It hurt for you to admit it, but you weren't fool enough to not realize the truth.

"It would either make us learn how to protect each other or find others to protect us... and to tell you the truth, I don't know how many people are out there, that are worth protecting back..." You felt tears well up behind your eyes, as a hitch caught in your throat.

"Not like you... or Lori and Carl... or Glenn... Carol... I'm afraid that God might've dropped you all on our doorstep and my father is just too blind to see it."

Daryl wanted to laugh at the mention of God. "Ya' think God did all this?"

"I'd like to think he did something. Whether that be bring the dead back walking or sending you here. Either one puts a strain on my fathers pride." You teased.

Daryl sat up and this time you didn't stop him. You winced as you felt him disconnect from you and sighed as his hands ran softly over your hips. "'mazes me ya' still believe in God after everythin'"

"I've got to believe in something." You said smiling up at him. He laughed and shook his head.

As Daryl's eyes fixated on you, it was evident that his mind was lost in thought. He couldn't help but admire your unwavering faith in something as unreliable as God, even at a time like this.

In this apocalyptic world, it wasn't God who would shield you from the undead. It wouldn't be God who'd courageously plunge a knife into their skulls or valiantly fight to protect you from any danger, but rather Daryl.

He would willingly place himself between you and the snapping teeth of a walker or stand as a shield, to the menacing barrel of a gun, if it meant protecting your life.

Even in a world as cruel and tormenting as this one, he was determined to make sure you had a chance to experience just a little bit more time.

"Then believe in me..."

He looked at you, really looked at you this time.

"Don't waste y'er energy believin' in somethin' ya' don't even know will protect ya' or not... Not when m'here..."

© ladywuvly please do not steal, copy, or translate any of my work onto other platforms!

#ladywuvly. m.list #18+ blog #18+ content #daryl smut #daryl fanfiction #daryl imagine #the walking dead fanfiction #daryl dixon #navi. #daryl dixon smut #daryl dixon x fem!reader #daryl dixon x reader #twd #daryl x you #daryl x reader #soft!daryl #fandom #hurt/comfort

[undercoverpena]

cold, lips blue

din djarin x f!reader | masterlist

summary: din takes you to see the snow, and then uses his body heat to warm you up.

warnings: softest smut soft!din. p in v. no use of y/n. loosely season one/two. same reader as isn't it - but no requirement to read. wordcount: 3.1k

With him, you’re discovering wonderlands.

Eyes finding places your dreams couldn’t even manifest, dream or conjure—shades coming to life, appearing in mixed colours and strong hues.

Each sight makes your heart do a double take as you steal extra seconds from plans to take it all in.

Today’s wonder is all white.

It’s littered with occasional grey stones and slightly blued pebbles. The piles of them doing their best to intersperse, to be a break in the rolling snow-covered hills. Provide some form of depth, give something for your eyes to latch onto—to prove there’s vastness.

The first solid thought you’d had when the hull door opened was, it’s bright. Almost uncomfortably, so,

Eyes squinting instantly, forcing yourself to see through your lashes, forearm coming up to shield you further as the wind howled and flakes began their escape into the ship.

Eyes squinting instantly, yet you force yourself to see through your lashes, forearm coming up to shield you further as the wind howled. Its mournful wail echoes through the air and flakes dance in a frantic ballet, their delicate forms swirl like spirits wishing to escape into the ship.

Stepping outside, more snow finds refuge on your cheeks, forehead and nose, resting there momentarily, before vanishing as though they’d never existed. They leave behind only the sensation, a fleeting tickle, like the echo of a memory. Just like a kiss, its presence lingers, an imprint on the skin, brief yet unforgettable.

Just like him, you suppose. Just like all the kisses the two of you have shared.

The last one, in particular.

The softness of it. The way he so cautiously slanted his mouth over yours, cupped your head in his hand and spent seconds, minutes mapping out your lips before he even slid his tongue past your teeth.

You’d made notes of things too—the low grunt he tried to bury in his throat, the way his body slowly relaxed itself on top of yours. All welcome, a weight you’d forever wear.

Forever. An odd word. Seven letters, and yet it expands through space and time. It’s ever-lasting, yet could be gone in a moment.

Turning on the spot, your senses tune in to the sounds of it crunching under your boots. Bits of it find shelter within the worn seams, seeping into the crevices as if seeking solace in the fabric that has weathered so much, all over-worn and loved.

You’re glad, in a sense.

Even if your toes grow colder and liquid begins to slide under the arch of your foot—it just means you can feel more of it. Soak as much of it in, and let it solder itself to you, so a piece of it lives within when the three of you turn your back on this place.

You hear him follow, and all you think is that he's welded a part of himself in you too.

A fragment at first—and now you’re sure he’s carved himself something larger. It's less about ordering you to stay behind, grasping for you in dark spaces that turn into heady nights spent panting. Now, it’s more about crawling in beside you because you know to wait, trusting him to always return. It's more about the way you can map his face with your palms—bask in the sensation of his breath on your collarbone...

Cold stretches there now.

You’re sure if you slide open your layers, the skin would pebble before it would begin to ache—to become desperate for cover. You wonder if your bones would want to shake and shiver; whether your blood would slow, if your mind would become a little less heavy?

“This okay?”

He speaks—making the two words slice through the howl and the heavy breaths you’re consuming.

Asking it as though a smile hadn’t been stitched into your face since the moment he’d told you he had a surprise. A treat. As though he hadn’t watched a twinkle in your eye because you know he doesn’t make half-promises and he does not give without thought.

“More than okay,” you reply, voice gentle, it flowing from your lips as you let your gaze rest on him.

Let it sit there.

Allow your mind to begin to walk away with itself as you recall the way he jolted, the soft murmur he exclaimed when he danced between being awake and asleep.

You wonder if he regrets this. Whether the way you curled into him to soothe had been a step too far; whether your palm flat to his cheek, knuckles tracing the stubble that leaves welcomed burns along your thighs, had been too much for him.

He hadn’t said as much.

Not even once.

Sighing, letting it trickle past your mouth, you stare up—the sight of frost falling seemingly coming from nowhere and yet somewhere. Lost in it. Attempting to trace, to find the origination, only to find yourself struggling to see, to focus—too bright, you think again, chin dropping, eyes closing as you take another deep breath.

It’s why it slips out, is spoken before you realise it’s left your lips. It travels in wispy condensation, hand outstretched, palm upturned, as the words fill the silence: I’ve never felt falling snow.

You hear the sound of his boots crunching snow, the gap between the two of you closing as you flick your eyes to him—not halting him, but rather ensuring he knows you see him.

The dangerous side and the gentler side; the one who hunts and the one who caretakers. And all the rest in the middle.

You drop your gaze to him—the one more beloved than ship, principles or bounties. Snow resting atop his green head, ears twitching when certain flakes make contact.

Then, you stare at the helmet. Silently asking, all done in an exchange, a purposeful distraction—with a reply given in a tilt, a descent of his beskar-covered shoulders before the child was placed on the ground.

“I’ll be gentle.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about.”

You snort. "You trust me, Mando?"

He says nothing, which says a lot.

And you allow a deep inhale to follow—one that flows ice through your nose, forcing it to crash into the sides of your lungs as you almost gasp.

It’s a different kind of cold here.

A lot of things are different now.

You don’t concede to the ache in your bones or the weariness in your jaw from the relentless clenching of your teeth. You hide it beneath a veneer of stoicism and resolve.

Because if you do, the three of you will leave.

Stubbornness, some would say; utreekov he would say.

All under his breath, later translated when your mouth wraps around his cock—when you hollow cheeks and trace the tip of your tongue along the slit as salt kisses the roof of your mouth.

He decides for you when you blow into your gloves. A firm declaration, bold: Grogu needs to sleep.

It is less a question, and more of a statement; not quite an order, but he leaves little room to argue. The child picked up, scooped practically from the ground, leaving you to face the back of them both.

If you were closer, you’d likely see your dismay reflected in the beskar. The ball in your hand melting, before you let it fall in a half-formed lump to the ground. Letting it reunite with others similar to it before your soles flatten it, crush it back into nothingness.

You shiver, with no attempt to hide it this time, his eyes no longer a threat—no necessity to fight it or bury it. Letting it rumble through you as your teeth move on their own accord. Knowing, without touching, that your lips are likely colder than the melting snow that had been in your hand.

It might not have been the case if you hadn’t taken six snowballs to the face in the last so many moments.

The balls had been cupped and formed in your palms before you'd thrown them, only to have them flung back at you. A test, an experiment. A training session for Grogu and another thing ticked off from the list of things you’d ever done.

Yet, still, there are many things left.

A never-ending listicle—but, there alongside the ones for him are even more questions you're not sure you'll get an answer on.

They won't be shared. You won't whisper them to him when you’re both bare and catching your breaths. They'll rot inside of you, leave them tucked behind sinew and held back by stronger muscles than you have anywhere else.

You know the protocol when you are back in the warmth.

Silently disrobing, entering the refresher—followed by dressing and the rest of your usual routine as the other two sit up top, one resting and the other doing his utmost to avoid.

A thing that rarely bothers you, except now, your skull throbs—pounds. A sudden desire to call out his name, to ask him to come, for no reason other than to be held. The back of your hand finds nothing but chill, cold and sweat when it brushes your forehead, an unsteadiness to your walk as you manoeuvre—so reminiscent of the first few days on the ship—his name being swallowed.

Bed, you think.

Moving slowly, each step is akin to a baby's crawl until you finally grasp the comfort of it before sliding up further into it, encasing yourself, wrapping until you’re closer to a ball than a person.

You’re not sure how long you lie, how much time passes, but when he calls your name it sounds distant—far off.

And, so he calls it again, and again. A chant, a melody, it carries around the walls and greets your ear each time. There's just no energy to reply, nothing else inside of you than being curled and willing warmth to stretch out across skin, muscle and ossein.

Maker.

He breathes it. Allows it to flow out. But, it isn’t until his hand knocks away the sheet, fingers brushing over your calf do you hear him hiss.

“Kriff, you’re freezing.”

You murmur something, mind willing for an I know but not entirely sure what hits the air. Barely able to do more than remain still, to stop yourself from shivering.

Worth it, you add. Repeating it, the bridge to the song of your name he'd begun earlier, until you open your eyes and find yourself in the dark.

It's all-encompassing in its cloak of midnight, the darkness enveloping you like a heavy shroud, pressing against your skin with an oppressive weight, suffocating any glimmer of light and casting you into a realm of shadows and ambiguity.

Then you hear him undress.

Able to tell now, able to spot when each item is placed down—like a strip tease you’ve never been privileged to actually see, but the routine is all but memorised.

You want to reply, tell him you'll be fine as a tremble rips through you—finding it’s easier to keep your teeth together. Easier to tremble and shiver and shake.

That is, until you feel him shift, the presence of him looming before his body begins to smother yours.

It's all broad, heavy—heartbeat hammering against your skin as it ripples a kind of tune through your bones. But it's the warmth you grasp for; bring closer. Your fingers digging into skin and muscle, needing him flush to you more than you need to breathe.

It’s not romantic, but in a way it also is.

Even if shrouded in a blanket of faux night, there’s something intimate about the way he feels around you. It's far softer, slower movements.

His fingers find your cheek. Thumb brushing over your lips, likely cold, lips blue, as you bite back the instinct to let it slide into your mouth. Fight hollowing cheeks around the appendage, remind him how good your mouth can feel.

Instead, you focus on him. How this time, neither of you said this wasn’t it. This wasn't the place—isn't it. No entertainment that snowy-topped hills and rolling mounds of ice could be a place he could ever leave you.

You’re thankful, more than grateful.

Wishing to say as much as you shift your body under his, his thigh slotting more gracefully between yours, so much so, that makes you whimper. A sound that makes his head move, shift quickly.

A shyness falling over you, a veil of it, weightless but still there.

You're sure he's reading you, scanning you, deciphering everything the noise could mean even in the dark.

But, it's obvious that you want him. A thing you almost shrug out, but he shifts again, purposefully rocking his thigh, intentionally pulling another whimper that proves that you're throbbing. That you need him. More than a requirement, more than survival—

Warm me. Keep me warm.

Fingers sliding to his waist, resting, thumb stroking as you nuzzle your nose against his cheek. A sign without words, a signal that flashes in its own way.

Your wants rolling, clumping. Not too dissimilar to the snowballs you had made earlier—them all compacting, hardening.

Please, Mando.

Even if he thinks you just want him, you want more than the solid length of him inside of you or his palms on the back of your thighs.

It's a thing which circulates, and you ponder over it. Turn it over when you wake before him and let sit on the back of your tongue when he's showing you what buttons and switches mean on the ship.

Because you want to know his smile, the shade of his eyes—see the faces he pulls when he tilts his head and know the unfiltered sound of his laugh. You want him to never let you go. To never let you slip under, to hold you, to always be—

“Mesh'la…”

You hadn’t known you’d been speaking out loud. Letting confessions fall, like the earlier snowflakes. Except they hadn't landed softly, or gently. But rather laboriously, thickly—making the small space feel much narrower.

Realisation slams your heart into your chest, halting thoughts, and silencing your apparent babbling.

Head turning, silence doubling—air tightening—before you think and speak, “Should be saying that t-to you.”

He hums, it vibrating through him, fluttering over where your chest meets his. “I’m not... not mesh'la.”

“Don’t need to see you to know that you are, Din.”

You’re cautious with it, his name.

Barely used, barely warranted. A thing given to you one night when your face was buried into his neck—a silent promise made when he’d handed it to you. An offering.

You feel his head rise, each of his muscles taut, and you close the gap, moaning your gratitude into his mouth, all messy.

Rustling sheets sounded, suddenly aware of him. Feeling him. Pressed against you, heavy and leaking, as the rest of him remains tense. Caged in his bicep, mouth unwilling to release yours, to be anywhere but reading the rest of your wants straight from your tongue.

"Got you," he moans, signing it against you as he moves, positions himself before you can feel him nudging at your entrance, "I've got you."

And he does.

Slick with need for him, in a slow thrust, he sinks into you. Deeper and deeper. Clutching onto him, hanging more imperatively to him as he pauses, lets you adjust—mouth sliding over yours as he waits for the sign to move, to go, permission to further set you aflame.

You think each time you’ll be used to how he stretches you, how delicious it feels. How you’re so full, so content, and how he feels all warm and soft against you. But this time it’s different. Not just in the way he moves, but in the way he kisses you, in the way he murmurs soft phrases to your neck and collarbone.

Some you make out and make heat rush to your cheeks. Some you begin to try to translate before a drag of his cock sends the words spiralling into a mess of letters that fade as quickly as they were spoken.

Toes curling, fingers digging further into his waist and shoulder—leaving something on him, even if he’ll bury it in armour.

It's a thing you’ll know. He’ll know. A thing which makes him bite down on your shoulder and ask for more.

A demand which makes your back arch, makes you drop a curse as your vision blurs and your toes curl as his pace picks up.

Because you’re trembling for an entirely different reason now. So close to fracturing, to coming apart—letting have it all, the good, the bad and the parts which have rotted before he lay beside you. Seeing stars in a galaxy of nothing all because of him—I’m close, so close.

"Let me feel you."

All gruff, grunted into your neck as you tighten, clench, tangling fingers into his curls for leverage.

It should feel like falling, but it doesn’t. Never does.

It feels like an explosion. A pause—like you’re floating, not rising or descending. Just there. Flames roaring through you, burning away any leftover chill, as you flutter and howl out his name.

You writhe, whine. Moan. Paint the small space with nothing but pleasure and thankfulness and Din, oh, Din, as he tells you how good you are, how well you take him.

And, he’s not far behind. Can tell from the babbling and then the choked back where he emits as you croak back inside. Internally pleading, wishing, crossing fingers and toes that he does so, when you feel him spill into you when your name sounds both sweet and sinful as he groans it.

As he buries a word that sounds similar to mine into your neck, hips stuttering and stammering as you wrap a leg around him in response.

Yours.

There’s a moment.

The air tightens when breaths are caught and heads are clearer. The space the two of you are in is on edge. Subconsciously tensing. While you, after the softness of the moment, are unsure whether you’ll be rewarded with more or something akin to the opposite.

He answers by pulling you closer, no space between the two of you. Just sweat and skin and nil else, as his mouth and hot breath rest against your cheek, your own fingers finding purpose in his curls.

That’s when you hear it, a whisper, barely discernible from his heaving breaths: They’re brown. My eyes are brown.

Smiling, you swallow.

Nodding, something you hope he can feel.

Because a shade is something, far more than you had this morning—and it’s plenty enough, for now.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fic #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #pedro pascal fic #mando x f!reader #din djarin fanfic #din djarin #din djarin x reader smut #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction

[happilyhertale]

Warmth on a cold night – Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: Soaked and frozen through, you and Daemon seek shelter in an inn. You are lucky and there is still a room – but you have to share a bed together.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Sex (p in v)

Author’s note: English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1.6 k

Other stories of mine

12 days of smuff

In the midst of a storm, your coat clings tightly to your body and forms a weak barrier against the relentless wind. The hood wraps around your face, like a shield against the icy sting of the weather. Beside you, Daemon trudges on stoically, mimicking your efforts to ward off the biting cold.

Lights appear in the distance, like a beacon of refuge. No great words need to be exchanged between you, your steps take you towards the welcoming light.

Without a word, Daemon swings open the door of the tavern as you reach it and holds it open for you. Without hesitation, you enter the warm parlour. The door closes behind you and Daemon stops near you. He leads you further into the room and, as you remove your hood, the lively scene unfolds – a sea of people engaged in animated conversation, accompanied by laughter, fills the air.

Daemon walks to the counter and you instinctively follow him, but the allure of the crackling fire next to the counter catches your attention. You approach the flames and seek relief for your frozen limbs, your eyes fixed on the dancing flames.

But Daemon interrupts your reverie with a low growl and catches your eye. His silver hair, which he has freed from the confines of his hood, seems to light up the room.

"What's going on?" you ask as he stands next to you.

With a murmur, he tells you the news, "They have one room left," he admits, a hint of uncertainty in his voice, "but only with a single bed."

A subtle nod on your part acknowledges the predicament, and you focus back on the mesmerising fire. Before the warmth can fully penetrate your body, the landlady appears behind you and leads you to the only available room.

Once again, you don't hesitate for long and enter when she opens the door for you. You exchange a smile with the friendly lady before Daemon follows you in. The room is modestly furnished, but is quickly dominated by Daemon's imposing presence. A fire flickers in the corner, the warmth of which elicits an involuntary sigh of contentment from you.

The cold has made your fingers stiff, but you don't let it stop you from taking off your wet clothes. Daemon immediately realises that your fingers are starting to open your coat.

"What are you doing?" he mumbles as you place your coat next to the fire.

"Well... I'm soaking wet, and I'm definitely not going to bed in wet clothes," you say and start to undo your dress.

He mumbles, "So it's already decided," and starts to open his coat.

You look at him questioningly, "What?" comes out of your mouth.

Daemon's eyes meet yours and he takes off his coat. He approaches you to place his coat next to the fire as well.

"Well, you're going to sleep in the bed," he says, standing close to you.

"Yes..? And what would be wrong with that?" you ask him.

He smiles slightly, "Well... There's nothing wrong with that. But it's a single bed and.." but you interrupt him.

"Don't be ridiculous, we can both fit in there," you say and push your dress down. You bend down to pick up the dress, not noticing how Daemon briefly scrutinises your body in your vest.

As you place your dress next to the fire, you hear Daemon mumble something unintelligible. But without another word, you walk over to the bed and lie down in it. You watch Daemon lightly as he puts his shirt and trousers next to the fire. He comes over to the bed in his undergarments and stands in front of it.

"I sleep on the wall side of the bed," Daemon mumbles, climbing into the bed behind you. At first he tries to lie on his back – but the size of the bed makes it impossible, and before he crushes you with his body and your legs continue to fight for more space, he turns round. You are still lying on your back, Daemon's gaze fixed on you. "Turn round," he murmurs.

You look to the side and your eyes meet, in the room that is only bathed in a soft light from the small fire in the corner.

"Why?" you ask quietly.

"Do as you're told for once," he murmurs and you feel his large hand grab you and turn you round with a purposeful movement, accompanied by your gasp.

For a moment, you don't dare breathe as you feel his body right behind you. The heat radiating from his body, his warm breath on the back of your neck. There must be some truth to the warmth of the dragons that lies dormant in the Targaryens.

But your thoughts are interrupted when you feel a certain warmth on your bum. His crotch isn't really pressing against you, but you can still feel the warmth spreading through your abdomen. Slowly, you start to move your hips slightly.

A slight grumble sounds behind you, causing you to bite your lip. As your ass bumps lightly against his crotch, you startle yourself briefly, but are encouraged to keep moving by the repetitive grumble. When your movement doesn't stop, his hand suddenly grabs your hip again.

"Stop that," Daemon growls behind you and a smirk forms on your lips.

"Stop what?" you whisper almost innocently and try to move your hips again, but his hand has a firm grip on you.

"You're playing with fire..." he growls. With the next movement, you feel yourself pushing against a hard resistance that wasn't there a moment ago.

"Well... I like it warm," you whisper. The pressure against his hardness increases as you let your bum circle slightly.

"You're unbearable," he grunts.

"And you're..." but you can't finish the sentence. With another purposeful movement, he suddenly lies on top of you and spreads your legs. You gasp slightly and your eyes suddenly open wide.

"You like warmth? Well, let's give you the heat then," he grumbles and presses his face into your neck.

"Daemon," you say, but then you shudder as his teeth and lips brush over the exposed skin of your neck. As his hand reaches between your legs, you gasp again, whimpering as his fingers find your heat.

"Daemon..." you try again, but you don't sound convincing. A whimper escapes you as he slides his fingers through your folds. But before you can protest any further, Daemon suddenly kisses you. The kiss is almost tender and surprises you. You would never have thought that the Rogue Prince's lips, never embarrassed to release an inappropriate remark, could feel so gentle.

But you are even more surprised when he starts to press his hardness rhythmically against you. He grinds against your warm core, and you whimper into his mouth and begin to move your hips to his rhythm. He grunts slightly and starts to pull his undergarments down so far that his cock pops free. With a whimpering protest from you, his fingers leave your warm core and grip his hot length. A cheeky grin graces his lips as he rubs the tip of his cock through your folds and you moan out.

The silence of the small room is further disturbed by your moans as he rubs the tip over your sensitive pearl. Almost greedily, you thrust your hips towards him as he slides along your entrance. The tip of his leaking member grazed your folds as it nestled against your eager entrance and with the next rhythmic movement, he complies with your request and slides inside you.

The stretching for you and the tightness for him makes you both moan. The deeper he penetrates, the more overwhelming the warmth and tightness of your damp walls become, a loud grunt goes through the room. But he pushes further and stretches you inch by inch.

You whimper and moan, giving in to the sensation of his hips thrusting harder. With every rut of his hips, he elicits a sweet sound from you. He grunts as he looks at you, watching your face directly, every time he slides out, memorising every pleasurable expression you make every time he hits the right spot deep inside you again.

Driven by your heels digging into the back of his thighs, Daemon grabs the back of your thigh before thrusting into you at a furious pace. You moan into his mouth as his lips crash onto yours. But a stifled grunt escapes Daemon as you move your hips faster and slide over his length. The way your damp walls grip his shaft and draw him inside until his throbbing tip is pressed against your cervix has captured his attention completely. You are so needy, leaking all over his cock.

The heat floods through you and you feel him stimulating exactly the right places inside you with every thrust.

"Daemon..." you whimper and he feels your pussy clench around his cock. He buries himself in you up to the hilt, he wants to hear you scream. His balls slap against your bum, completely covered in your wetness. The grunts and moans are now accompanied by your outcry and your eyes roll into the back of your head. Your fingers dig into his biceps and you moan loudly as the heat floods through your body.

Daemon can't help but grunt and thrusts hard a few more times before he clothes your warm, contracting walls in white. You kiss again and his thrusts slowly subside. Your heavy breathing echoes through the small room as Daemon slowly rolls off you. But before you can waste a thought on whether things might get awkward between you, Daemon pulls you into his arms.

"Warm enough?" he mumbles and you swear you can hear him smile.

"You're unbearable," you whisper, but you close your eyes and snuggle up to him – filled as well as enveloped by his warmth.

@hoshi-miharu-blog @arryn-nyx @aemonds-eyeball @praline357 @melsunshine @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @lauftivy @valeskafics @bl4ckph0enix @autumnhymns @fan-goddess @msmorningstaarr @dreamlandcreations @hopelesswritergall @wetbitchlibrary @aemondsbabe

#12daysofsmuff #12 days of smuff #house of the dragon #hotd #daemon fanfic #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon smut #daemon fic #hotd daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon x y/n #daemon x you #hotd smut #house of the dragon daemon #prince daemon targaryen #the rogue prince #prince daemon #daemon targaryen x you #matt smith

[thevirgincherry]

RIGOR MORTIS !

ft. og4 leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. las plagas!reader, he kills you, technically snuff ig but wasn’t intended oops, gore, canon-typical violence, reader is infected and out of it so she can’t really consent, dub-con, non-con, p in v, choking/asphyxiation, strangulation

note. god im plagued by writers block and it’s killing me it’s like walking on shattered glass rn. umm please ignore any mistakes, not very fond on this but haven’t posted in a bit :3 um it’s quite short. rbs are always appreciated :3 instead of asking for a part 2 please just tell me something nice.. feedback is really appreciated <3 comms are open! info in my pinned :3

Leon seeks refuge in what looks to have once been a humble abode. Now only a shack wearing a shroud of all things dead and rotten remains. Foetid water has soaked him to the bone, it seeps into the thick leather of his combat boots, leaves his socks soggy. He really hates that. Leon can handle cerebrospinal fluid leaving a sticky film on the toe of his boots, the blood caked beneath his fingernails is something he considers normal, but wet socks are a total inconvenience, it’s a shortcut to trench foot.

The hollow skulls of small critters occupy the corners, the cobwebs have cobwebs, the air is stagnant and stinking. Not of rot, but of sickness. A gaping wound crawling with infection, bacteria settling in the crevices of his mind, squirming like fat, juicy maggots—

Crack!

It’s a man, he was a man, now he’s a boneless lump of flesh, his spinal cord snapped under the weight of Leon’s boot. His yellowed teeth glisten under the golden warmth of a single lantern. Leon’s defence is choreographed at this point, a swift kick to intercept an impending strike, then his boot makes mincemeat of their brains.

When he takes a step back to review his current affair, it’s not so bad, certainly not Raccoon City. Leon would take a million murderous Spanish grandparents over a single zombie. Zombies are plain nasty, not a single limb intact, oozing pustules that peel back to reveal purpling flesh infested by larvae. They’re fuckin’ ugly. Slow and bloated and ugly. A sight no human being should see.

On the wall, there’s a shattered, grimy mirror. Leon sees the ghost of a boy staring back at him. Unwashed hair hanging limp, cheekbones carved out, his skin alabaster like the blocky lettering stitched into his uniform. R.P.D. it reads, muddied by blood and guts and chunks of vomit. All the good shit. He hasn’t grown into his body yet, the steel of his gun is cool on his temple and he’s young and these are all important things to know. In his arms is something small and lightweight, a bloodied little girl, leading him to a pyrrhic victory.

The floorboards groan under the weight of a pair of feet that don’t belong to him, the threat isn’t imminent. You don’t charge at him, no, it’s shambling he can only describe as zombie-like, dragging your bare feet like it hurts to lift them off the ground. Like you’re waterlogged and ready to pop.

You were pretty, he’s sure, a real looker. You’re pretty now, just not in your entirety. Strings of reddish muscle keep the fatty flesh of your right tit hanging on for dear life. Like an Amazonian woman. There’s no rot, no sign of decay, simply an act of self-mutilation.

Now, some might call him a pervert, but Leon’s a self-proclaimed iconoclast. And you, swaying from side to side in your torn linen nightdress, the skeletal pendant of Los Iluminados around your neck like a disfigured cross, draped in a veil of white that’s close enough to holy - it’s worth ruining. Santa Maria di Plagas or whatever.

He realises a few shattered bones have you walking funny, circles you easily and heads into the room you exited. The bed sheets are rumpled in unrest, he sits, there’s a hairline fracture between the two of you. The lantern light bares all, the white of your dress becomes gossamer-thin, he makes out your shape beneath the blood-soaked cloth that moulds to the shape of your torso, the smooth dip of your waist, a soft sinkage where the fabric clings to your belly button.

Leon has seen far worse. Can you blame a guy for getting hard at the sight of a real girl? In his line of work, he’s neck deep in pounds of flesh that spew pus and gore from each virus-clogged abscess. The layer of dirt on your skin does not deter him, that tit hanging by a tissuey thread, swinging back and forth like your necklace is child’s play to him. ‘Cause Leon’s a real man. The princely type.

(He’s anything but. One girl’s knight in shining armour is a monster under the bed for another. It’s not like you can complain, you’re quite the monster yourself.)

Hang in there Ashley. He’ll be there soon, but he’s got to do this. This is completely and utterly necessary. Hunnigan doesn’t need to know why he’ll be unreachable for a good thirty minutes or so. Less probably. ‘Cause your body is hot, clammy with fever, and that means your pussy is even hotter.

Something… Something… Plagas… Something… Lord Saddler…

Your mumbling is constant. Leon will have to do something about that. You gnash your teeth at him when you approach, held back only by the sluggishness that comes with, like, brainwashing cultish parasites.

“Sorry, sweetheart, no entiendo.” Leon loops a worn piece of rope around your neck. Ain’t that handy? Found it hung on your assumed-to-be father’s tool belt. Used for leading curly little lambs to the sacrificial altar. He strokes the underside of your chin, and you bare your teeth like a wild dog, albeit slowly. A late reaction. No fair, it’s like someone’s knocked you around already, who got here before him?

Getting his dick out at a time like this in a place like this, it’s not smart. Sneaky bugs could use his urethra as a water slide. A menacing minibeast might latch onto his balls pincher-first. However, needs are needs, and nothing gets in the way of Leon’s dick, not even a kidnapped First Daughter could stop the force of nature that is his boner.

With ease, he pushes you onto the ground. Not the bed. If you behave like an animal then he’ll have to fuck you like one. Plus, Leon’s not quite sure he trusts those sheets, at least the rusty nails on the floorboards are visible to the naked eye. Tetanus won’t be a nasty surprise, just a momentary lapse in judgement.

Your body contorts when he pulls the rope, back taking on a feline shape, spine bending inwards and your hips up. Puppetry is easier than it looks. The hem of your dress lifts to reveal your leaking chasm of a pussy. Better than nothing. Not like he’s eating it either way.

One hand on the rope, the other on his belt buckle, he lowers his jeans enough to pop his dick out. “Stay still, honey.” He instructs, but it’s like talking to a brick wall, or to a person who doesn’t understand a lick of English.

Leon chokes you with the rope. “I’ll only be a minute, sweetheart,” he coos, a tender kiss that he regrets merely seconds later placed on your shoulder.

He grips the base of his cock, the fat tip is red and leaky, precum bubbling like your foaming mouth. Leon’s too hard. His dick is totally upright, the soft curve pointing towards the ceiling, a thumb comes to press down on the tip, using it to guide himself into your pussy.

“Oh, there you go, honey, yeah, there you go.” His hold on the rope loosens, still firm enough to keep you in place, but now at least there’s oxygen flowing to your parasite-addled brain. “You feel that?”

Leon’s dick stretches you to the point of no return. He’s broken you in. Better off him than any of those grotesque old men. You’re a virgin surely, so it’s very considerate of him to fuck you before you die. No one should die a virgin, that’s cruel, it’s inhumane.

You thrash wildly, grunting each time his hips smack into the fat of your ass, he can’t tell if you’re enjoying it— You better be fuckin’ enjoying it. Know how risky this shit is? Fuck, what if you had a mutated cunt or something. Jagged teeth waiting to clamp down on a big fat dick and tear it straight off. He really needs to start thinking with his brain and not his cock. The thing just doesn’t shut up.

When he cums, the rope is tight around the column of your neck— It would be your hair, but he fears it might fall straight from your scalp in nasty, matted clamps. Your body rears like a wild Mustang, he gathers the rope and it wraps around his fingers until your back is flush to his chest and you grasp for something, anything— Eyes rolled so far back he can see the milky whites, and then he gives one last tug to make sure you’re stuck in that state. Mid-orgasm. Eyes in the back of your skull, back arched, pussy dripping with his load. Cute. He wishes rigor mortis set in right now so that you don’t fall slack into a heap of red and white when he lets go.

Leon leaves by barrelling out of a window like a true gentleman, the microscopic shards splinter your skin. He takes that pendant with him, tucks it in his back pocket, could be useful at some point in time.

It’s only when the blood in his veins runs black and viscous does Leon notice something is severely wrong. His blood flow slows to a halt, clots forming in every important artery. Mucousy black sludge leaks from his nose. An intense pain cuts through his senses with deadly precision, a surge of discomfort that has him kneeling over, hands on his knees in a clumsy attempt to steady himself.

His hands clasp around Ada’s neck— The rope. He pulls it tighter and tighter to get closer and closer. Her voice is distorted by the fog that clouds his brain, it creates a hazy barrier, mutes the world around him. A knife lodges in the meaty flesh of his thigh, he topples backwards when her knee makes contact with his groin.

“That bitch gave me crabs.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He brushes her off. “I said, uh, Lord Saddler almighty.” Leon’s heard that enough times to repeat it back to her rather fluently. Nice save.

“Right,” Ada says, unconvinced.

#leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy imagine #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy smut #resident evil x you #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic

[ashyyslashy]

faustian bargain - marquis vincent de gramont x f! reader (john wick: chapter 4)

synopsis: To clear your debts to The High Table, you agree to a proposal by the Marquis to live with him as his partner.

warnings: language, sexual content (p in v sex, choking), semi-toxic relationship dynamics

word count: 2.8k

a/n: the john wick lore makes my head spin!

You stared into the weathered face of the man on the portrait before you, tucked away in a private corner of the Marquis' expansive gallery. The wrinkles and creases bore the weight of years of suffering, the lines of his face hard set in permanent anguish. You often imagined them as a collection of sins etched onto his aged features. Sometimes, you found yourself likening the image to a Picture of Dorian Gray. You would wonder whether the Marquis' misdeeds had marred this painting instead of his own self, leaving his striking handsomeness intact, and he’d hidden it from view.

The portrait reminded you it was too late to regret the changes that had taken place; only to find a way to cope with them. You had become used to seeking refuge in your thoughts amidst the entrapment of your existence. You would conjure whatever you liked to make this engorged mansion seem less stifling.

You had made an off-hand comment to the Marquis once, that you felt like a cat in a cage without enough room to stretch its legs.

He had chuckled, with his own catlike eyes boring into yours. "Mon amour, you are only bound by your own pride and reluctance. Laissez-vous être libre."

In seeking freedom from The Table, you traded one form of enslavement for another. For some unknown reason, the Marquis had taken an interest in you upon your first meeting. So he offered you a choice: join the fruitless battle to kill John Wick or stay with him in his home until it was all over, in some sort of twisted romantic scenario. Whether he was driven by boredom, liquor, or pure schadenfreude, you were unsure. Regardless of his motivations, you knew there was really only one correct answer if you wanted to live.

"I'll live with you," you'd told him. "But what is it you really want from me? No bullshit."

"The companionship of a beautiful woman, is all. Is that truly so wrong?"

His full lips formed into a roguish smirk.

You should have known there'd be a catch. You didn't simply live in his mansion - you were confined to it. Even with supervision, you weren't allowed to leave the property. As a result, you desired his presence in order to fill your solitude, developing a sudden and unexpected connection to the man. It was shocking how quickly your resolve to spite him faded. He became your lifeline, your connection to the outside world. And despite your best judgement, the more time he spent away, the more you yearned for him.

You hated his brand of intoxicating hedonism, the luxury items and expensive food he lavished upon you to win your favor. But you wore the designer dresses he laid out on your bed and drank the aged wine that was served at dinner.

You felt like you were betraying what you stood for through your infatuation with him. You resented yourself for growing so dependent upon him. Every touch you shared, every pent-up moment of sexuality - and there were few and far between - sent a flood of guilt rushing throughout your body. You'd wanted to escape The Table, but had only gotten yourself in deeper by fraternizing with the enemy.

The worst part of all was that he assumed a total indifference towards you. He would only provide you with the occasional caress or kiss on the cheek and any coy allusion he made to romance or sex in conversation was carefully veiled. He was forcing you to make the first move, and you wished so strongly that you could shatter his confidence by refusing to make it.

But at the same time, your resolve was wavering - every part of you was consumed by a flaming desire for him, steadfast in its absolute power.

You knew you had to do something to extinguish it.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The clatter of silverware resounded throughout the dining room, forks scraping against fine china.

You'd been fixated on him all night. Your eyes were glued to the veins flexing in his hands as he grasped his utensils, the curve of his lips when he brought a forkful of food to his waiting mouth, the tensing of his sharp jawline as he chewed.

Every time he met your gaze, your nerves stood on end. The meal seemed to drag on, and no matter how much you ate, nothing could fill the gaping pit of anxiety in your stomach. It was just the two of you tonight, and the air felt charged with electricity.

"C'est fini," the Marquis commanded suddenly, pushing his chair back. It dragged across the polished floor with a squeal.

As you always did, you stacked the plates and carried them into the kitchen, starting to wash them until the staff refused to let you help any further. You wished they would allow you to do more- you hated not feeling of use, and you disliked others waiting upon you. Your sense of independence was unshakeable, even here.

When you left the kitchen, the Marquis had gone, likely retired to his chamber. You were counting on that. You hurriedly crossed the house, taking deep breaths for what you were preparing to do.

Standing in front of his door, you raised your right knuckle and rapped upon the wood. You heard shuffling within.

"Who is it?" he called.

"It's me," you replied sheepishly.

"D'accord. Come in."

You slowly pushed open the door and stepped into his room. His bare back was facing you, muscles rippling as he leaned over to unbutton his pants.

Your cheeks grew hot. "Um- you know, you could have told me to wait and gotten dressed first."

He turned around, stepping out of his pants and laying them next to his discarded shirt on the bed.

"I was not aware you were such a prude."

You scoffed and mumbled something under your voice about "public decency", trying to hide the anxiousness creeping into your tone. He strolled past you with an air of nonchalance, naked save for his boxers.

"So are you going to tell me why you're here?" he continued after several moments, folding his clothes with all the ease of someone who's never had to do their own laundry. He slipped a silk robe over his body before pivoting towards you, his eyes boring into yours.

You let out a breath of air. "Um... I need to ask. What's going on here? With us?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. What is it you want from this?"

He shook his head. "Déjà vu. You have already asked me this. My answer has not changed."

"Sure. My company, huh?" You replied in an insinuating tone.

"If you are implying that I expect you to do sexual favors for me, do not worry. I would have asked by now."

"What a gentleman."

"Mmm. When I say company, I mean company, chérie."

"Alright. Well..." you stepped towards him, shaking off any lingering feelings of hesitance. "I think you're a coward."

He moved closer, a dark look crossing his face. "Oh, do you?"

"Yeah. You know, I hear a lot around here. And I see how you pull the strings to ensure that everyone but you faces John Wick."

His jaw hardened. "It would be wise not to involve yourself in things that do not concern you."

"See, but you being a coward does concern me. I mean, it must be why you're just biding time until I make a move on you. Since you won't be the one to do it."

You were playing with fire, taunting him like this. You'd know him long enough to become immune to his attempts at intimidation, however.

He treaded backwards, barking out a laugh. It was strange to see him lose his perfectly-maintained composure even for a brief moment.

"You think you know everything, non?"

"I know more than you think," you countered. "You didn't deny it, after all."

"So this was the purpose of the visit? You have come to lecture me for not being man enough?"

"No. I came to ask you to be honest."

"I am not an honest man, chérie. You should know that. So what is it you want me to say?"

You were aware you were about to give away the upper hand, but fuck it.

"It'd like to know if you really do want me."

He shook his head, lips pursed together in amusement. "And did you not just boldly declare that I do?” 

"Stop toying with me."

He let out a sigh of exasperation. "I cannot understand why you ask me this. If I did not want you, why would you be here? I have given you space, and you interpret this as a sign of cowardice. I did not think boldly pursuing you would go over well. My mistake."

"That's not what I'm saying," you retorted, an indignant cry escaping your lips. "I'm alone in this house most of the time, and when you are here, you treat me as if I'm invisible. I feel like the fucking toy that the spoiled brat refuses to play with."

"You believe this is how I see you?"

"Yes, I believe it," you spat.

He laughed again, the sound not as sharp as before, humorless.

"How wrong you are."

"Then tell me your side of the story.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on either side of him.

"I decided I would not send you to the front lines of this war with John Wick. I am confident I will win, bien sûr, but not without casualties. I did not want you to be one."

"Why?"

"J'sais pas. A feeling I had that I cannot explain. I just knew I wanted to give you a way out. I..." he trailed off. "I did not do it to taunt you, as you think. And I am not indifferent towards you. I thought that much was obvious."

"How wrong you are," you imitated.

"You are one to talk, chérie. You walk around as if you hate me and everything I stand for."

"I wish I did,” you replied ruefully.

His expression was unreadable. You approached him, standing over his form on the bed. Tentatively, you reached out to untie his robe, your movements slow in the case that he'd want you to stop. He stared up at you with unblinking eyes as you slid the folds of his robe to the side, revealing his bare chest. He shrugged the rest of the garment off, allowing it to fall to the floor. You slowly ran your hand across his abs down to his happy trail. 

"Do you like what you see?" he murmured, his eyes searching you for validation that you were surprised a man of his status would be asking for.

"I saw it before when you were walking around half-naked, but yes, I do."

Ignoring your sarcastic comment, as he tended to do, he gestured towards your own clothing. "Take it off."

You were too caught up in the headiness of the moment to protest that he'd phrased it as a demand. You pulled your nightgown over your head, and it joined the clothing pile on the floor.

Gazing at you intently, he placed his hands firmly on your waist and pulled you towards him. He took one of your breasts in his mouth and then the other in turn, swirling his tongue around your nipples. You dug your hands into his brunette locks as he peppered your chest with love bites, exercising his newfound lack of restraint. 

It was hypnotizing to see his guard go down, a hungry, animalistic fervor overtaking him. He was feverish with his movements as he pulled you to straddle him, his hard cock pressing against you. You tugged down his boxers and let the member spring free, admiring it for a moment before moving your hand in front of you to pump it up and down. You adopted a slow pace to offset his sudden frenzy, determined to leave him wanting more.

He slid backwards across the bed and you followed, your hands still working around his cock. He laid his head down on the pillow, looking at you lazily with hooded eyes.

"This must be how all of your fucks go, huh? You just lay down while the other person gets you off?" you teased while suspecting there was some truth to the notion.

"I'm simply fulfilling the role you've already carved out for me, non?" he retorted, reaching out his hand to smooth your hair back.

You spit on your hand and lubed up his cock, feeling the intensity of his gaze burning your face. You pressed down on his shoulders for support as you lifted yourself up into a crouching position, lining him up with your entrance. 

He sat up slightly, helping guide you onto his cock with eagerness. He sloppily buried himself inside you, and you began to create friction, bouncing up and down with your legs wrapped around him and your nails digging into his shoulders. 

You relished in the effect that your ministrations had upon him. He was a silent lover beside the occasional soft breath or inhale, but his pleasure revealed itself through his body language; his mouth gaped slightly open, eyebrows furrowed, head arched back. You couldn’t help but admire him.

The two of you moved in harmony, soaking in your collective loss of inhibitions as your pace grew faster. You’d caught yourself imagining this a few times late at night, cursing yourself as your hand crawled down to the hem of your nightgown. 

It felt so much fucking better when it was real. 

You scratched deep marks in his skin as ecstasy washed over you, climbing closer to your high, your walls clenching against his cock. Suddenly he was trying to move you off him, and the spell was broken as you looked down at him in confusion.

"Lay down on your stomach," he instructed, and again you bent to his will.

You felt his arm snake around you from behind, his hand clamping down around your neck. You went lightheaded from the sudden loss of oxygen, and a moan escaped your mouth as you felt him enter you again.

"Is this man enough for you, chérie?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear as he rammed into you from behind.

He was pounding you mercilessly, and you knew that to tell him to stop was to reveal further weakness. You moved to brace yourself against the bed frame, but his hands were on your arms, pinning you down so you were entirely at his mercy.

"Tell me I'm a fucking coward now," he challenged.

"You're - not - a - coward," you managed to choke out, his thrusts continuing to increase in intensity, the sound of skin slapping against skin reverberating throughout the room.

He hummed his approval, before taking ahold of you and flipping you onto your back. His left hand moved to play with your clit as the other returned to your throat. Your back arched in anticipation, your body tingling from the combination of his cock thrusting into you and the movement of his fingers.

"I'm gonna cum," you cried out.

"Ouais, cum for me."

Your body trembled under the weight of your orgasm. As soon as you'd collapsed back down, he quickly pulled out of you, letting out a guttural groan as he shot his load over your tits and upper stomach.

He reached his index finger into the mess, drawing a heart in the sticky liquid and completing with an arrow through the center. The juvenile gesture caught you entirely off-guard until you looked up to see the amused, self-satisfied expression on his face. 

He pressed his finger against your lips, gently nudging for you to open it. You took his finger into your mouth, sucking it clean.

The Marquis laid down beside you, his eyes roving over your body. You surveyed his in return, unused to seeing the skin that he always had hidden under layers of a suit. You half-expected him to tell you to get out, maybe even toss you a twenty-dollar bill, but he said: "Do you want to sleep here tonight?"

It took you a moment to process the question. "Uh- yeah, I guess I will."

"Très bon. I will get you a cloth to clean up.”

He rolled off the bed. As you listened to him rifle through the cabinets, you were hit with the realization that you'd crossed a line you couldn't come back from. You'd fallen into his trap and given yourself over to him, just as he'd always suspected you would. 

He returned to your side, handing you a plush washcloth. You wiped off the evidence of your clandestine encounter, but as he turned off the lights and pulled you under the covers with him, you knew it stained you somewhere deeper. 

When you closed your eyes, all you could see was the haunting portrait. And all that lingered on your mind was a deal with the devil. The Table still had its claws in you.

#bill skarsgard #smut #john wick chapter 4 #marquis vincent de gramont #marquis de gramont #john wick #jw4 #marquis x reader #marquis vincent de gramont x reader #the marquis de gramont #john wick 4 #the marquis x reader

[eatommo]

Common Tongue [d.d]

A/N: Here she is! Just in time to get ready for kinktober! My first Din Djarin fic, it's drastically different than writing for Matt, but I do think I have a good understanding of his character. Star Wars is my home fandom, so I'm very excited to expand my writing to that universe.

Summary: Damage to the Crest causes you and your crew to seek refuge in a very crowded Inn. Left with few options, you make do.

CW: Multiple orgasms, mutual pining, playing with light, sensory depravation, p in v, creampie, fingering, mentions of sexual fantasys, smidge of breeding kink, one bed, helmet stays on, touch starved Din, glove kink, mask kink, implied squirting

You had never seen so many people on one planet before, down every street you turned there was another hoard of people going about their business. Typically, you would feel small, scared to get swiped off the street by some street gang looking to make a quick buck, or worried about getting lost. Luckily enough you had the shiniest beacon in the galaxy parting the crowd in front of you, the Crest had taken yet another beating and was in desperate need of repairs.

So here the three of you are, the little green child sitting in Mando’s satchel at his hip, cooing at you when you make eye contact. You’ve grown quite attached to the little thing over the last few months, just a few nights ago he had crashed in your bunk with you while Mando was out grabbing rations for the limping to Hosnien Prime for repairs.

For being a bounty hunter, he was surprisingly considerate of your needs and always made sure you were fed and slept, and even would occasionally make stops on planets just to show you something he had told you about. From meadows filled with luxurious flowers, or planets with seas raging under lifted platforms, to forests with trees taller than you thought possible.

Then there was this crowded metropolis, neon lights and holograms reflected off the helmet you kept a steady gaze on, half tempted to hold onto his cape to make sure you don’t lose him. A gruff-looking Trandoshan mumbling something incoherent to himself steps between you and your fierce guide. Dread fills your body but quickly dissipates when you hear your pilot’s modulated voice, “Step away from the girl.”

The crowd parts around you, and the lizard-faced man is speaking to you in a language you don’t speak probably a form of Dosh. You shake your head, eyes pleading to the visor of Mando’s helmet for help. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

You hear the unmistakable sound of beskar on beskar as the spear from his back is drawn, “She isn’t interested now beat it.”

Scaly hands draw up in defense, and you know he is swearing under his breath, but the way his body moves away you can picture the spear sitting at the base of his spine. As he steps aside, you watch the helmet tilt and look you up and down. “Are you okay? Did he touch you?”

You shake your head, “I’m okay.” You wipe your hands on your flight suit, “What did he want?”

“I don’t speak Dosh, but I could guess.” He offers his arm to you, “Stay closer, I don’t want to call too much attention to us or the kid.”

You take his arm, the cold touch of his vambrace soothed you, reminding you of the cold walls of your bunk on the crest, “Where are we headed?”

“An inn, it's just down the street here, I’ve stayed a few times but not recently.” His body is tense with caution, his hand remains on his blaster for the remainder of the few-minute walk.

You step into a modest looking in, and before you can speak to your surroundings he is handing you the kid to go and speak with the gorgeous green-skinned Twi’lek at the counter. His posture changes as he talks to her, and you wonder if they have a history together, knowing that he is constantly moving across the galaxy, and he doesn’t seem to have any exes or flames that you’ve heard about but you know there's bound to be someone in the endless systems he tells you about.

The thought bounces around in your head for a while, who was this mystery man? For all, you knew he was married, or a Wookie, or something even more improbable. He could be hundreds of years old, he’s traveled more than the last 3 generations of your family combined. After all, Grogu is 50 years old and he is hardly more than an infant, so you find it difficult to pass up the idea of a geriatric old man under all that armor.

You are broken from your ridiculous stupor, by a little bit of laughter in the lobby in front of you. The Twi’lek is fiddling with her lekku like those teen girls you used to watch in holodrama’s, you feel something bitter crawl up your spine and cause you to lick your teeth in disgust.

You continue to peer at them while running your finger over the child's ear, attempting to lull him into sleep. You straighten as Mando does, beginning to bounce the babe in your arms in second nature. “I trust that conversation went well.” Clocking the slightest tick of his helm to the side at your words.

“It’s not a large room, but it’s a roof over our head. Even managed to get some food delivered to the room.” His hands reach and take Grogu from your arms, “They even have warm water.” The child nuzzles into your chest, refusing the embrace of his dad who threatens him with a bath.

You smirk at the T-shaped portion of his visor, raising your eyebrows in a taunt as you pull the babe away from him playfully. “To that, we say dinner first. Right little man?” He grins with delight, hand coming up to your cheek before reaching for the metal piercing in your ear.

“There will be enough food ad’ika, maybe even some Spotchka for you.” He adds, with a sigh at the little one’s pout when you turn your head away from him. “You’re going to hurt her.”

He leads you to a room through a maze of hallways, you follow him closely, slowly growing deliriously tired. The door of the room slides open as you walk up, revealing a plain room with a simple bed and a desk against the wall. You set the child down, letting him explore the new space, if he wasn’t tired enough to sleep soon you may collapse.

You sit on the edge of the bed, ready to curl up like a loth cat and sleep for days. “You should probably freshen up, I’ll get the kid fed, and then we can switch if you’d like.” You remember when he was a man of few words, but you noticed that with each passing day he was getting more accustomed to having you around, time and time again he was surprising you.

You nod, beginning to unbutton your flight suit as you walk towards the fresher with your bag. When the fresher door doesn’t close directly behind you, you glance around searching for an access panel and you notice that it just tints a sheet of glass in front of you to a white smudged appearance. Interesting.

“It doesn’t look like there’s a door. Just some sort of privacy shield on the outside of the shower.” You set your bag on the sink, digging through it for a tunic to sleep in.

“The room is only meant for one person, she is bending the rules to accommodate us.” The modulator relays reality to you, and you feel as though your brain has to stitch the pieces together from fiction.

Sure enough, as you turn to heel and glance around, there is no door leading to a separate room anywhere, not even a storage area or a closet. Your eyebrows are lifted as you take in and process the situation more, to the single bed. Grogu is currently rifling through Mando’s bag in search of something he is seemingly desperate to have; a snack. “Huh.” You glance around more as if the punchline will land the moment your eyes fall on a door you missed. “Dibs on the bed.”

“You can have it Cyar’ika.” You both turn and look at the child who is trying to open a pouch of ration bars.

Your heart swells at the mysterious nickname, he uses it sparingly, and you can’t fight the fear it's something cursing you or belittling you. You haven’t the guts to ask. You’ve got plenty of things to call him, but his kindness fights the bubbling defensive tone in your throat.

“You’re too good to me.” You whisper under your breath with a laugh, a blush creeping up your cheeks as you undress and step into the warm water that falls from the ceiling like rain.

A knock on the door and you hear the clang of silverware as you run your fingers over your skin, checking for injuries that could need tending. “The food is here.”

Your foot slips on the metal floor beneath you, you barely catch yourself on the glass wall of the shower. You start to laugh in embarrassment but as you look up a metal visor is standing above the blur or security glass peering down at you, “Are you okay?”

You struggle to try to retain some of your dignity by covering your breasts and shooing him away, “Go! I’m fine!” The embarrassed laugh escapes your mouth, but you’re not as bothered by the situation as you should be.

Your cheeks start to hurt, with a smile not leaving your face as you finish up, enjoying the clean feel of your skin after nothing but desserts for almost two weeks while camping on Tattoine following a tip on a bounty.

You walk out into the room, wearing a tunic that falls just above your knee and some underwear, the chest band you wear getting on your nerves over the last few days.

The baby is curled into a blanket in a crib that must’ve been brought with the food, passed out. You look at Mando and nod in approval. He hits a button on his vambrace and the crib is enclosed similar to the kid's own that was destroyed.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. You just surprised me.” The blush creeping up your neck makes you want to physically shake it off. “No spotc-”

He pulls a carafe of the glowing blue liquid swirling it before handing it to you, “The rest is yours, I did have a little bit.” He admits with a tilt of his head, you swiftly bring the bottle to your lips, eager for a sip of the sweet liquid. You don’t notice a drop from the bottle fall down your chin and drip onto your breasts. Staining the white tunic you wear blue.

He does.

You finish some blue milk pancakes and half of a Ronto wrap. Downing sips of Spotchka in between bites of food. “Did you eat something?” You ask, taking a few seconds before you finish the last of the pancakes.

“Yes, I ate most of the pancakes.”

Your ears prick at his voice, he seems exhausted you can’t even recall the last time he slept, knowing it’s been even longer than yourself. “Maybe we can share the bed, it's bigger than both of our bunks on the crest, I know you must be exhausted.” He’s nodding with you, and you smile to reassure him, “It’s gonna be just like a wake-over.”

“A what?” He asks, slipping his boots off before crawling up to sit against the headboard. You swirl the little bit of liquid at the bottom of the carafe.

“A wake-over? You know when a friend comes over and you’re up til odd hours talking about life and boys and sex..” You trail off, waiting for him to recognize what you're describing, he’s just shaking his head.

“I guess I’ve never been to one.”

Your mouth drops open in surprise, even with your dim childhood, your dad working in mines for the empire you had a few goofy childhood memories to hold onto. “Well, I’ll show you the ropes.” you finish the rest of the alcohol its warmth spreading over your skin like wildfire, before settling next to him.

……..

“Do you usually sleep in all that armor?” You tap the silver metal with your fingernail, amused, and the light ting that rings in your ears. The heat from the alcohol feels like it's spreading into the air of the room, and sticking in the words between the two of you.

“I’m not usually sharing a bed with a pretty girl.” His tone is lighter than you’re used to. “But no.”

“It can’t be comfortable, c’mon Mando.” You tease, the foot or two between you feeling closer by the second. “I don’t bite.” You can sense the clenching of his fists in the sheet, between you, unable to see it in the dark.

“I do.” He teases, the words are almost regretful or frustrated. “I can remove the armor, is it bothering you? I just have to leave the helm.”

“Isn’t it heavy?” you muse, lifting the plate slightly with your finger. Wishing you could reach into his mind and unburden him.

“It’s like a second skin, I do fall asleep in it sometimes.” The room is pitch black, but your nerves are on fire with each little shift of the sheet, trying to calculate his body position. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, very.” You shift your hips a little, inching closer to him. “When was the last time you were with a woman? Do you get to take the helmet off for anything?” Having already cleared the topic on the agenda for your little sleepover experience, you cross the threshold for your typical conversation.

“I haven’t shown anyone my face since I was a foundling, I haven’t been with a woman since my clan was disrupted on Navaro.” He is honest, and it feels strange to hear him speak so vulnerably, but you still press on.

“I know foundlings are very important but are you required to marry Mandalorians?”

“No, that doesn’t matter, and it’s almost better because our numbers are so small.” His voice is almost a whisper, the modulator barely catching the small sounds. “One might even say it’s encouraged.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat, and it's like a rubberband snaps some clarity into your brain. He’s inches from your face, this is the closest you’ve ever been to him apart from him having to squeeze past you while making repairs. Even then you felt a surge of energy in your chest, an unnameable force drawing you closer to him, it frightens you because you’re so unsure of his feelings.

“So do you have a special someone? Maybe this generous Twi’lek? She was very beautiful.” You tease, doing your best to hide the jealousy in your tone.

“Twi’leks get me in trouble,” his eyes never leave your face, watching the temperature reading on your body shift as his words poke at your brain, “Do you not speak Mando’a?”

He feels your laugh reverberate off his chest plate, “Of course, I don’t speak Mando’a. I hardly know Rodian and I grew up in a Rodian’s mechanic shop.” You chuckle slightly unsure of what he’s going to say next, “I am pretty good with droidspeak, not that's any help around you.”

“I’m sure it’ll come in handy sometime. You’ve become a very important part of our little…” he pauses for a second as if looking for the right word, “crew. I’m very thankful for the way you look after the child. He likes you.”

You smile softly, eyes growing heavier by the moment as the warmth of the alcohol settles in your cheeks. “You’ve been very kind to me Mando, for a Wookie.”

“You’ve got me. I’m the galaxy’s shortest Wookie, who also happens to be a Mandalorian quite the story. Maybe I should write a holodrama.” His dry humor surprises you, but your heart thumps in your chest as you ask a question that has been bouncing around your mind since you met him.

“What is the story? I don’t know how much you know or what you’re allowed to say. But who’s the man behind the mask?” You let your finger run over the center of his chest plate feeling the ridge rise and fall with each breath.

“I don’t remember much, I was a foundling like the child.” he takes a deep breath as if chasing your hand as it pulls away to adjust your pillow.

“I’m sorry.” Your heart swells in your chest, you’ve seen him interact with the child and the love he carries for his covert. It moves you to know that this skilled and deadly man lying in front of you is also the best possible thing to have happened to you and that he has brought with him the adorable little man you’ve grown to love. “Thank you, for everything you’ve done for me. I think you and the little guy are the best things to happen to me.”

You’ve never wanted to see his face so badly. It’s as if you’re feeling your relationship with him shift, feeling the need to be closer to him with every passing beat of your heart.

Goosebumps spread across your skin when his hand comes to rest on top of yours between your faces, “Cyar’ika, I don’t know where else the adventures with the little one will take us but I hope, after he’s reunited with his kind, I can still find more places in the galaxy to show you.”

Your chest constricts, trapping a light gasp you suppress. “What does Cyar’ika mean?” The air in the room is electric, and you can feel each nerve in your body brim with energy like you’re ready to combust.

The only word you can use to describe his tone is bashful, the faceless man smiling the word, “Sweetheart.”

You surge closer to him, aching to kiss him before catching yourself, his hand finding up to your face and tilting your forehead to his. The cool metal only makes you realize just how warm your skin is. “I can’t take it off, but this is a Mandalorian kiss.” He runs his thumb across your cheek soothingly, “I will kiss you mesh’la, that is more of a need than a promise.”

You nod, not able to help the rush of need overwhelming your thoughts. You wanted to see him, feel his skin under your hands for the first time, and you wanted the taste of blue-milk pancakes off his tongue. You gulp, “Am I allowed to touch you?” You lift a corner of his chest plate in question.

The bed moves and dips beneath you, and before your heart can stop you hear the clang of his armor hitting the ground. The helmet hisses out a groan as his body presses against yours, the flight suit and your tunic the only barrier between your wanting skin and his. Briefly considering turning on the light, just so you could get a glimpse of your companion, you hesitate for a moment before you let your fingers run over the endlessly broad expanse of his chest.

The first thing you clock is his warmth against your palm, then you feel it rise and fall with his breath, the clip of his heart echoing with your own. You let your hand shift, more confident now, creep up to the back of his neck letting your fingers run over the little bit of hair peeking from below his helmet, his body tensing for a brief moment before practically keening into your touch. “I want to feel your skin, my sweet girl.”

You nod, sitting up briefly to lift the tunic over your head the cool air of the room immediately sending a shiver up your spine. His gloved hand ghosts up your side, every nerve in your body being coaxed into submission by his finger. He caresses your cheek, and you’re stunned by its size and the tender swipes of his thumb over your lips before he’s pressing it into your mouth. Instinct kicks in and your teeth bite at the soft leather offering a small tug, you are rewarded with a muffled groan.

His hand slips out of the glove with ease, immediately falling to caress your breasts, pinching your nipple between his fingers. You gasp as the sharp jolt of pain turns to pleasure as he soothes the sensitive bud with his thumb. “So beautiful, so soft.”

Blush continues to heat your cheeks and you nervously laugh, “Can you see?” your voice is a little timid as you feel the shift of his gaze wrack over your body through the emotionless veil of his visor.

“Everything mesh’la,” The strain in his voice is a warning before he’s pulling your body flush against his, “beautiful.” He offers the translation this time and the adjective seeps into your skin with each caress of his hands over the rises and falls of your curves.

You try to count the fingers that are touching you, you feel for scales, tentacles, and even the hairy palms of a Wookie. All you discern is warmth and tenderness, nerves on fire making you unable to sit still.

You press your forehead against his helmet, attempting to urge him to move on. “Can I see your skin?” You let your hands toy with the zipper at the base of his throat, letting your fingers brush over sparse but coarse rough hair and warm skin. Does he have a beard?

“I don’t want the lights to wake the child.” His pram sits a few feet away, “Next time.”

You nod, pulling the zipper down lightly asking for permission, he moves away from you but pulls up to sit straight as he stands. His body towers over you, and you let your hand tug the zipper down a few inches, barely able to discern the swell of his pectoral muscles, and the delicious hollow above his collarbones. You run your fingers over the rigid muscle tone of his chest, lavishing in the soft skin, fingers brushing over a rougher patch, a scar, or a birthmark.

“It doesn’t hurt, it was from a bounty on Yavin-7.” You nod, gently tracing over the raised skin, wondering what other old wounds you could soothe and memorize, each little story behind the marks on his body. Pulling the zipper down to his hips, you see the dark contrast of his briefs against his skin, a moan catches in the back of your throat. You reach to push the fabric of the flight suit off his shoulders, but he beats you to it, stepping out the pant legs and pulling his arms free.

“Keep your hands on me, please.” He guides your hands over his abdomen, the dip of his navel, the waistband of his underwear. He pauses, asking for permission to continue, your heart slams in your chest, the need to satisfy him in any way possible the only thing on your mind. Your hand brushes over the length, pleasantly taken aback by his size. Your thumb rubs small light circles over the head of his cock while staring up towards his visor. You’re unable to make anything other than his silhouette out, but you feel his gaze steady and hot on your exposed bodies, watching your every move.

“See what you do to me Cyar’ika?” His hips push against your hand, his voice as breathless as you feel, “It’s all for you sweet girl, take what you want.”

Not wasting any precious time, you lean forward slightly, letting your tongue run across his length clocking the slight shutter to his breath through the modulator. A trail of wet, open-mouth kisses follows as you let a finger trace over the waistband half teasing and a half asking for him to remove them.

When you lift your hand a moment, you blink and they’re around his ankles then gone, discarded in the cloud of darkness that surrounds the two of you. His cock bobs, aching and dripping in front of you and you hurry, falling to your knees, to suck down the beads of precome he offers you.

“Maker,” husk sounds fall his helm and reverberate in your ears, “I’ve never done this before.” When you pull away from him slightly, he chokes out, “Had someone’s mouth on me like that. Never had time. Please.”

Not one to deny him, at least not this time, you let your tongue swirl over the sensitive head of his cock before taking it into your mouth. His abdomen tenses under your palms and his hips lift to push further into your mouth on instinct, you adjust accordingly swallowing around him eagerly. You begin to move your head in time with his short shallow thrusts, taking as much of him as you can bare without gagging at first, wanting him to be as comfortable as possible.

You hold his hips steady as you lower your mouth further, relaxing your throat and tears brimming as you try and take as much of him as possible, your jaw aching and throat constricting around him as you struggle to accommodate his girth. His fingers find purchase on your scalp, tangling in your hair and pulling lightly.

Letting him take control you relax further, flattening your tongue to add more pressure to the underside of his cock, milking more of that salty precome down your throat as his thrusts grow rougher spurred on by your eager moans.

He pulls away after a few moments, panting and staring at the obscene sight of your lips swollen and wet with spit that dribbles onto your chest. He pushes your body up onto the bed, fingers running through your drenched folds, you find yourself writhing against him aching for any stimulation he offers you.

He brushes a skilled thumb over your clit, listening intently for a hitch in your breath he may or may not have heard from your bunk too many times to count.

You throw an arm to cover your eyes, focusing on the way he rubs small focused circles over your clit, moving every so often to gather your slick from your core, before circling back up. Fighting the urge to beg and fuck yourself against his hand, you whine low and desperate.

“What is it, sweetheart?” His tone is almost taunting like he’s pulling you up to the precipice of climax on sheer luck alone. “Is there something you need?” He swipes over your entrance before sinking two digits to the hilt and immediately curling it up pushing against the spongy spot inside you that makes your vision white. He draws out your first orgasm of the night expertly, your legs shaking with the force of the sudden release.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your skin, making your hair cling to your neck and forehead and breath coming out in shaking gasps. “You’re more beautiful than ever mesh’la.” If there was excess blood in your body, it was in your cheeks, you weren’t sure of the look on his face but he was smug and proud of the mess you made for him in his voice.

He pulls his fingers from you, and his hand disappears and you hear a moan from above you, “So fucking good, sweet girl.” You struggle to comprehend his words when you’re pulled to the edge of the bed, legs falling apart in desperation.

His hands ghost over your breasts again, coaxing your body as if he was guiding it with string. If you didn’t know any better you’d think his helmet needed repairs, the gruff static of his breath washed over your body, wondering how much detail he could gather from the gaze of the helm. He circled your navel, bringing a single finger up to the tip of your chin and tilting it up.

A bright flash of light blinds you. You flinch away, trying to let your eyes adjust. The first thing you see is a tan human appearing hand spreading across your chest possessively. You can see the goose flesh littered across your skin, but when you try and look at the Mandalorian's helm the light obscures your vision.

You make out a familiarly broad chest, a tampered but muscular abdomen, and a light trail of dark hair partially obscured by his thick heavy cock bobbing angrily in time with his movements.

He sinks his fingers back into you. A small plea falls from your mouth, fists gathering the comforter at your sides. He’s gentler this time, he works at an agonizingly slow pace. Scissoring and twisting his fingers under the harsh scrutiny of his tactical light, lifting his free hand to rub delicately over your overstimulated clit.

It takes every ounce of self-control to not crawl away from him, the sensitivity almost unbearable, but his movements are seductive. Like the movements of his hands are rewarding you with each passing stroke of the pain.

Slowly you begin to grind against him, shifting your hips so you can almost bounce on his hand aiming for the spot you know he’s avoiding. You’re writhing under him before you know it, filthy pleas and whines are spoken outside of your consciousness. It’s not until the brink of your second orgasm that you realize the words are coming from you.

His pace is steady and unrelenting, the fire in your belly building with each passing second. He notices the roll of your hips becoming more dramatic and your jaw falling slack in a silent cry. “Make some noise for me Mesh’la. Cum for me before I fuck you as I’ve dreamed about.”

You try to focus your vision on the flex of his arm and the veins straining under his skin, but his cock is the real star of the show. Thick and glistening with a mixture of your saliva and his precome. You’re eager to feel him splitting you open, to know the way his cock feels when it sputters rope upon rope of cum inside of you.

The thought of being filled by him sends you over the edge, your orgasm careening through your body as you thrash against him again. A rush of your cum coats his fingers, and you watch closer this time as the helm tilts up and his fingers disappear and presumably sink into his mouth.

He moans, swearing under his breath and fisting his dick in his free hand. You struggle to hold your head up to watch, your neck and body exhausted.

Your chest rises and falls as he strokes himself under the harsh light of his helm, before letting the head of his cock trace your entrance. Gathering your wetness on the tip he brushes over your hypersensitive clit, a smug huff coming from the strong man above you.

The gaze of his helmet is heavy and delectable as you arch, displaying your body and the spoils of your release for him, silently begging for more.

Finally, he sinks into you in one slow and satisfying push, both of your moans mixing as you fight to sit up, wanting to see him seated inside you completely.

You throw an arm around his neck for support, the shift in angle making the impossible stretch even more delightful. He bends and presses the cold metal bite of his helm to your forehead, another kiss. You follow the tilt of the beskar down to the glorious view of your pussy flushed and glistening, covered in your cum being absolutely split open by his thick cock.

The two of you watch enamored as he slowly pulls out, sick squelches echoing in the quiet room as he continues to work you open. “Mesh’la,” he picks up the pace, the pleasure quickly overwhelming your brain. “Fuck this might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

His praising words weaken your posture, feeling the adoration wash over your skin like you would stroke a loth cat, coaxing you to relax and fall against the mattress; mouldable clay under his breathless flattery. The long strokes feel like ecstasy each one making your fists furl tightly into the sheets.

He shifts your body slightly, lifting you so your ass is partially dangling off the bed, allowing him to pitch his hips up into you. You feel his hands settle on your lower belly, applying a soft pressure before he picks up his pace, fucking up against your g-spot with sniper-like precision.

Fuck.

The change of angle has your muscles limp, unable to do anything but revel in the pressure building in your gut. Even staring into the black abyss of the ceiling, you feel his stare fixated on the movement of your breasts in pace with his hips.

He swears under his breath, something in a language you don’t understand, but he brings a hand to rest on your throat, you keen, exposing yourself more.

A man of his capabilities wrapping a hand around your neck should bring panic and fear to your heart, but instead, a rush of liquid pours out of you, coating your thighs and his abdomen glistens with your release smearing between the two of you as he follows suit, pushing deep and spilling into your spent cunt with a modulated groan.

His shoulders fall slightly, visibly exhausted and tense with sensitivity. You let out a small giggle at the nervous tension growing between the two of you. The helmet quirks to the side defensively, and you quickly add “Thank you.”

He lets out a dry chuckle, “Thank you?” your cheeks warm as he caresses the line of your waist with a single finger, “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time, I should be the one saying thank you.”

Catching his hand in yours, you offer a reassuring squeeze. “I’ve wanted it too, must’ve been the language barrier.”

He pulls his softening cock from you, letting the light fall to the sight of his cum sliding out of you before clicking off and your vision going with it. You give him a moment to move around you before pulling yourself to lean against the headboard.

The fresher light kicks on as din walks to the sink, finally getting a good glimpse of the crisp muscular lines of his body as the fluorescent lights highlight them artfully. “Can you bring me a-”

“Beat you to it.” He turns to hold a damp cloth in his hands. The muscles in his arms are prominent and lead your gaze to the rows of corded muscles that stretch through his pecks. The light dissipates as he crosses the threshold again.

Suppressing a frown you let him clean your thighs, and as he discards the towel you find the courage to speak your mind, “You’re pretty mesh’la yourself Mando.”

You take the shy wheeze from under the helmet to heart, enthralled to be so close to him that the words straight from his breath fall to your ears.

“Say it again.”

#the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #mandalorianedit #the mandalorian smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin #din djarin smut #Star Wars #star wars fanfiction

[moris-auri]

A Sermon on Desire

Aemond x Abeni of the Summer Isles (oc)

Summary: Vexed and nearly at his wit's end, Aemond Targaryen, in a rare moment of weakness, seeks refuge in the Sept. Will a chance encounter give him the divine answers he seeks?

Warnings; NSFW 18+, oral (m receiving), smut, alluded praise kink, overstim, teasing, edging, sexual tension, religious guilt, p in v sex

A/N; a collab w/ the lovely @bottlesandbarricades 💕💕💕, the sheer fun I had brainstorming and writing this in DM's with you is indescribable and I adore you 💕💕🥰

Word count: 6.4k

Torn. 

That was the best way to describe it, the feeling of being pulled in so many different directions. Of being stretched so thin that it wore at the very threads of him until he had one choice left but to let the weight of the tension, the expectation and ultimately the guilt swallow him whole. 

It was an amusing thought really, for a man, a prince to boot, one who prided himself on presenting a front of perfection to the world, to be in such a state of disarray behind closed doors. That his internal identity would be so fractured and contradictory with a crack running through his core that was as deep and jagged like the scar on his face, splitting and dividing his very soul until he strained under the weight of duty and loyalty that would always be his burden to carry.

He would never truly be able to balance the scales or quell and silence the whispers that he was not Targaryen enough; not Hightower enough that dogged his every move no matter how hard he tried. It was like trying to combine oil and water, a seemingly futile effort. 

An endless cycle where one would always outbalance the other like an elixir that would forever be just out of his reach. After all, there are no chartered courses for second sons, no preset destinations but to be adrift, left to rot and rust and bob aimlessly in the harbour. 

For as long as he could remember, he could always feel it, the restless pull of the tide that clung to him like an iron lock with no key fastened around his ankle, leaving him with no set route as the moorings suffocated and closed in on him, all but dooming him to drown in doubt as uncertainty began to gnaw at him, eating away at his insides like wildfire as he blindly grasped for some form of conviction and purpose. 

**

True faith was still a mystery to him, the worship of the gods, both old and new. It had never quite come easily to him, not in the same way it did for others, like it did for his mother for example, who never seemed to doubt her unwavering belief in the Seven for even a moment, wearing her piety like it was her shield, her armour. He remembered, before he’d lost his eye, obediently trailing behind her as a child every time she had visited the Sept, kneeling beside her for hours till his knees ached, never saying a word. Never questioning, always obeying. 

Then came the conflict. 

As he grew and his studies progressed, his youthful past ignorance gave way to newer thoughts. With the more he learned, the more knowledge he gained and acquired, the more he struggled to reconcile the queer customs of his ancestors, whose Gods seemed far more liberal in regards to the strict doctrine of the Seven and what which was regarded as sin by the several aspects expressed within the pages of his seven-pointed star.  

So he did as he'd always done, turning to books and using them as a means to escape. He’d tried to read his way out of his emotions and doubts, searching for the divine within the pages and the walls lined with books, rather than at the foot of an altar. 

He studied them all. From the Old Gods of the North and the Drowned God of the Iron Islands to R’hllor of Essos and beyond, translating the writings of the Moonsingers of Braavos and the Ghiscari Graces of Slaver’s Bay and deciphering the stories of the Great Stallion of the Dothraki and the lesser-known beliefs of the Summer Isles. 

He found parallels and contrasts within them all, common threads and other little details that bound them together and highlighted the differences so distinct that showed how they were truly worlds apart. 

But what was the truth of it? Who had the truth of it? 

He persisted nevertheless, soldiering on as he poured over volume after volume after volume of various religious texts, hunched over at of the many tables in the Keep’s library night after night, tracing the scrawled words with both eye and finger, his only source of light being the candles he had burning late into the night, blinking as he felt the exhaustion slowly set in, the words and ideas began to blur together, the lingering thought that there had to be answers, and that one way or another, he would find them. 

The lingering knowledge that he knew there was a possibility that he would never truly understand remained, for there seemed to be no closure to be found, and his faith stayed unaffirmed, and instead of the enlightenment he sought, it felt like the exposure had infected his mind as the questions only seemed to multiply. 

Aemond sought distraction after distraction as he chanced on books of a more sinful nature and rife with temptation. Something to take his mind off the thoughts of lost faith that swirled and uncertain guilt which lurked in the pit of his stomach. He knew he would marry one day, that he would be tied to a girl of some noble House that in the end, would bolster Aegon’s claim when he was placed on the Iron Throne. After all, that wasn't always the plan? 

He knew that no matter what the other Lords loyal to his elder half-sister wanted to believe. What his father refused to see. That as harsh as it was, the truth would never change, and it was both by precedent and by his right as the firstborn son, the Iron Throne would always be his brother’s. Aemond would do his duty, as he always had, shouldering the weight of his duty with a stiff lip and an even stiffer spine, letting his reservations and his bitterness fester on his tongue like spoiled sour wine.

**

He had been in the Sept for hours, having slipped past the great doors after the sun had set the night before, one thought on his mind. His knees had long since grown numb and stiff from the cold as he knelt with his hands joined before him in the silence, suffering the pain with a quiet stoic dignity, alone save for the incense swirling around him in opaque wisps, silently repeating the many prayers that had been ingrained in his core by his mother and the Septons as soon as he was old enough. 

For what was pain in a place like this? A place where his Mother’s gods were watching and judging his every move? That’s what he hoped anyway, what he so desperately wished to believe. Then again, if these were the true Gods, then surely they would see through this facade of false piety he performed for the sake of appearances, that they would see him play out this false mummery of deceptive devotion daily. Part of him wondered if this was his punishment, that maybe the Gods remained silent to torment him further. After all, did he, of all the people in this city, deserve absolution? 

There was a feeling now as he knelt, seeing his face reflected in the polished marble. A strange, out-of-body feeling washing over him that he, with his silver hair and violet eye, had no place here. 

His musings were cut off when a small noise pulled him from his thoughts, a signal that he was no longer alone. His head jerked as the faint sound of bells broke the stagnant quiet, body twisting around to see a woman standing in the centre of the Sept with her head tilted backwards. At first glance, he supposed she must hail from the Summer Isles, judging from the feathers so sought after by the ladies of the court upon her garb. 

Her hair was long, swept behind her and braided and adorned with a hundred little gold beads woven throughout that chimed as she moved. Her dark eyes drifted curiously over everything, from the statues of each godhead, from the pale stone and hints of brushed brass to the votive offerings and low burning candles to the vaulted ceilings and high windows, which cast streaks of light onto the polished slabs. 

Aemond groaned as he stood, the cold of the Sept’s floor little help to his aching limbs, the sound faint yet loud enough for her to hear over the distance. Her sandalled feet were almost silent, save for the low sound of her heel clicking softly on the cool stone floor as she turned around, catching his eye upon her, flashing a set of pearly teeth as she sauntered closer towards him. 

“I’ve never seen a Sept before,” she explained in a hushed voice so as to not disturb the tranquillity. “It is very… dark.” Her accent was unusual to his ears, yet her common tongue was excellently spoken. “And cold,” she added, rubbing her bare upper arms as gooseflesh prickled across the skin. It was then that he noticed the other bits of gold that adorned her, the delicate bangles enclosing her wrists and the intricate bands of gold in her ears and at her throat. 

Aemond noted that her dress was more suited to a warmer climate, brightly coloured and richly embroidered, it stood out vibrantly against her skin, making the Sept itself look almost plain, commonplace and colourless around her. Sleeveless and cut away at the waist, it revealed more flesh than anything he'd seen worn by even the most daring Westerosi women of high fashion. It was very much the sort of thing that his Mother would turn her nose up at in silent judgement as a moral failing and default of character, yet Aemond could not find fault in her appearance. 

Whoever this stranger was, there was no doubt that she was a woman of means.

“I cannot feel the Gods here I fear.” The stranger sighed, running her ringed fingers along the smooth surface of the altar. “This place is beautiful, yet it feels closer to a crypt than it does a place of worship. So still, so silent and lacking life.”

A crypt. Aemond had never considered how truly alike they were, remembering all the times when he had wondered if he was talking to the dead, rather than the Gods his mother so cherished as he knelt at the altar with his hands joined. 

"It is more open where I am from," she said, and he could hear the fondness she had for her home. "We are a freer people, ones not so restricted as you are."  

Aemond realised now that he had not yet spoken a word, though that did not seem to bother the young woman, who seemed content to continue her observations without his input. As if he were one amongst the statues of the Seven, himself. A silent observer constructed of carved marble. 

The opportunity to take his leave came when she turned away from him to admire the figure of the Stranger, allowing him to slip away like a ghost and leave the Lady to continue her explorations in peace. 

**

The blistering sun, already high in the sky, beat down on the city when he stepped out from the gloom of the Sept, hit almost instantly by the dazzling sunlight and the dry air of the city. It took a moment for his eye to adjust, the pupil expanding and contracting as it grew accustomed to the brightness, his relief disturbed only by the twinge of pain behind his eyepatch. 

"You are Prince Aemond Targaryen, are you not?" He stopped at the sound of his name, not having noticed her following him. His pause gave her the chance to catch up several steps behind him. "I've heard of you." 

I’ve heard of you. 

They were words Aemond was not fond of hearing, knowing that his reputation left much to be desired. He remained silent as a muscle ticked in his jaw, only letting out a hum of affirmation in response, squinting through the bright sunlight. Amusement danced across her face as her lips twitched, her gaze sharp as she studied him from where he stood before her. "You are the rider of the largest dragon in the realm. Or so I heard."

“Yes,” he answered stiffly, his throat feeling as dry as the dirt under his boots. He’d never been the best at small talk, for it was an art he had no natural skill in and even attempting to converse when the topic surrounded himself was a task of even greater difficulty, as well as one he fervently disliked.

"Dragons are almost all things of myth, where I come from, beasts of legend and lore," she said lightly, excitement written plainly across her fine features as she talked. “What a blessing it must be to be bonded with such a creature such as yours.” 

Aemond turned to face her, grateful for the change in conversation. “I don’t believe I have caught your name?” he asked, breaking the silence. 

"Abeni of the Summer Isles, my Prince." 

Bold and self-assured, she offered a small bow. It was graceful, yet unsteady enough Aemond could sense it was unpracticed. “I apologize if this is incorrect. I am not quite as familiar with Westerosi greeting practices,” she laughed, causing Aemond’s mouth to twitch upward at the sound. 

“You are far from home then, my Lady,” Aemond replied, clasping his hands behind him. Encased in his leathers as he was, the sun on his back was uncomfortable, beads of sweat forming at his temple and under his collar before sliding down his spine. 

She let out another laugh at that, richer than the last. “I am, indeed. Though the world seems not so vast when you have a fast ship," she said as she glanced his way, "Or a dragon, I suppose.” 

“Pray, what brings you to King’s Landing?” He enquired politely, courteous as always. 

“A little business, a little pleasure.” Abeni smiled playfully, streams of light catching in her dark hair, as black as a raven’s wing. A breeze wafted in off the bay ruffled against her skirts, sending perfume wafting towards him, a rich scent that carried undertones of something floral that he could not name. “Alas, for now I must return to my ship,” she murmured apologetically, “It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, my Prince.”

Aemond bit the inside of his cheek as he struggled to find words, hampered once again by a stilted awkwardness.

“I could show it to you sometime,” she offered, sensing his discomfort. Her ability to read him was rather unsettling, if not intriguing. “If you wish, that is? I would never seek to presume-” 

Aemond flushed, color flooding his face when she smiled, eyes alighting with delight. “Of course,” he agreed hastily, the warmth of her natural charm and charisma putting him slightly more at ease. He cleared his throat, “My Lady.”

**

She'd been in the city for several turns of the moon when restlessness began to set in, the itch for adventure and return to the sea growing day by day, and had taken to spending most of her time on the docks, where the stink of the city was lessened slightly by the sea air, and Aemond, more than desperate to escape the stench of death as the King grew weaker and weaker, had grasped the opportunity for what it was with both hands, taking her up on the offer.

The first time he had seen her ship, he had been more than a little in awe of it, listening with one ear as she spoke. The name, she had murmured, was a rough translation from Summer Tongue as The Wanderer in Common Tongue. He knew little of that particular ship, but had read bits of how swan ships could sail faster than galleys, but without wind to steer them, were useless, not that Aemond was well versed in the usefulness of ships and their qualities. 

It was truly a marvel to behold the longer he had looked at it, the curving, swooped lines adding an elegance to its design. The red-stained varnish that coated that exterior of the vessel was constructed from set it apart from the other, duller ships, the shade of it not too dissimilar to the stones of the Red Keep itself, and it seemed more of a work of art than a functioning ship, befitted with large white sails and finely carved figureheads of various birds. 

“I hear the skull of the Black Dread resides in your Keep, my Prince.” 

Her voice came from his blind side, and he startled, half turning towards her when he felt her hand slide to rest in the crook of his elbow. He tilted his head down to meet her gaze, looking down his nose at her. "Abeni." 

The strength of her grip on his arm was unexpected, but not surprising from someone who spent most of their time, if not all of it, at sea. “I would like to see it,” she added, looking at him expectantly. “If you would indulge me?”

**

The reds and oranges and yellows candles lit before the massive dragon skull are reflected in her eyes, adding more warmth to the rich hue. Aemond wondered what she was thinking, whether she was envisioning what the Conqueror’s dragon had been like before age claimed him, and Meraxes decades before, leaving Vhagar as the last living remnant of the Conquest. 

His eye widened when she muttered something under her breath, the all too familiar tones of High Valyrian falling from her lips. “You speak Valyrian.” Aemond commented, failing to hide his surprise. A new light dawned in his eye as he looked at her, one that was an equal combination of enthrallment and carefully concealed curiosity. 

“I speak a few languages,” she shrugged, not tearing her gaze from the skull before her. “During my studies, I found many errors in the translations by the ones you call Maesters.” Abeni explained, running her hand along the side of the skull. “It was then that I realised that if I truly wished to understand a text, it was best to do so in its original tongue.” She said, moving her fingers higher, edging closer to the rows of jagged teeth. 

A kindred spirit? Aemond’s blood burned with excitement at this newly revealed common ground. Written word after all was one of his favourite pastimes. Devouring philosophies and histories in the same manner most men consumed meat and ale. “The attitude of a true scholar.” Aemond smiled subconsciously as he moved closer. “I have come across some truly shameful translations in my time. Ones that were pitiful, to say the least.” 

"Oh?" This seemed to have caught her attention as she pulled her eyes from the skull to focus on him. The low glow of the candles illuminated her curious brown eyes. "What was this mistranslation?" 

"It was one of the more depraved texts," Aemond responded, "Something about Valyrian Dragonlords entering sexual congress with dragons to achieve their bond.” 

“Blood of the dragon, indeed,” she laughed. Her face shone with excitement at this new matter of conversation. “I, myself, am inclined to believe the bond was forged as the result of blood magic - spells and such.”

“Tis a ridiculous notion. There is no evidence for copulation with dragons,” he huffed indignantly. “After all, the people of Old Valyria would not have engaged in such…sexual immorality. They were a five thousand year old civilization who were…” he fell silent when something flashed across her face. Whatever it was, Aemond could not tell. 

“When it comes to texts that have been translated by someone within a religious sect,” she kisses her teeth, “I am always suspicious of a suppression of truth to serve an agenda, my Prince.” 

“I think it is always unwise to pass judgement on sexual behaviour between those willing and able. Who gets to determine what is moral and correct, but the Gods themselves?” Abeni continued, her words sharp.

“The Faith is very clear on sin. On wanton depravity and mindless fornication like we are naught but beasts,” Aemond replied, and for a moment he had surprised himself, it felt as if his mouth had moved of its own accord and his Mother’s words had come tumbling out. 

Like a red rag to a bull, it only seemed to infuriate her more. The scalding realisation washed over him then, the implications of his careless words. She stiffened, crossing her arms across her chest as she raised her chin defensively. “In the Summer Isles, The arts of love are a holy skill,” she said hotly, eyes bright. “Tis not something to be ashamed of,” she snapped, too angered by what he had said to remember who she was speaking to.   

“I.. I was not suggesting anything-” he babbled, fumbling for words. “I only meant that-” 

"Is this not what the gods have fashioned us for? To love and be loved?" she challenged, her accent growing more with each word she spoke. "They've fashioned us in their image," she continued vehemently. "Gave us our hands to build and our voices to sing.”

“I-” struck speechless for once, the words he’d wanted to say would not come, as if they were trapped, locked within his throat by some higher being. “The faith-” he said finally, albeit weakly. “I believe that-”

“I don’t believe you,” she bit out. “I watched you in the Sept," she admitted, her vehemence fading slightly, her shoulders slumping. “You were there out of duty, not to show devotion to your Gods.” 

He blinked as she raised a brow, studying him before she crooked her finger in his direction, beckoning him closer. “I want you,” she murmured quietly when he was within reach, one hand gripping his shoulder as she stretched up on her toes to brazenly brush a kiss along the ridge of his cheek. “Tonight, before I depart,” she clarified. “Let me show you what your Gods of cold marble deny you. What you deny yourself in worshipping them.”

His hands curled and flexed at his sides, brow furrowing as apprehension settled over him. “Not here." he said, feeling his skin begin to prickle uncomfortably, for though the dragon was nothing more than a time-darkened skull, Aemond still felt the weight of it behind him, heavy and oppressive as he wrapped his fingers around hers, tugging her from the room.

**

Within the privacy of his chambers, they were a tangle of limbs as her hands moved over him, her fingers nimbly undoing the clasps of his tunic one by one before moving onto his breeches, and lastly, his boots. 

Her gaze trailed over him from head to toe when he finally stood bare before her. The expression on her face was carefully set, yet he could see the slow stirrings of something in her dark eyes. Before he could even utter a word, she had stepped even closer, her breath puffs of air against his cheeks. She trailed the tips of her fingers up his face, stopping on the raised skin just below the not so innocuous square of leather of his eyepatch. His last shield; his last defense to hide the cavity where the sapphire stone sat in the ruin of his eye. 

Her eyes flicked up to his when he curled his hand around her wrist, stilling her movement. “Don’t.” He murmured, swallowing his relief when she didn’t push. He let his hand fall back to his side as he watched her, his eye following the path of her fingers as they moved over the line of his shoulders and the planes of his abdomen, each touch of her hands on some part of him cool on his scorching skin. 

She stepped away suddenly, her hands reaching for the strings that held her dress together, twirling them around her finger slowly until the garment pooled at her feet. His eye stayed on her as she turned around, glancing once over her shoulder at him, one hand on the edge of his bed.

“I quite like you like this,” she murmured after he had scrambled behind her. He flushed, large patches of red dusting across the fair skin of his cheekbones and across the base of his throat, an almost unnoticeable tremor in his hands as his long fingers flexed at his sides.

“Like what?” he swallowed, feeling the shame that welled inside him at her words, potent and as rich as summer wine. 

“Debauched,” she briefly settled back on her haunches to survey him, trailing her fingers over his stomach teasingly, watching with rapture as the muscles shifted under his skin. “Beautiful,” she added after a pause. She shifted suddenly, the bed dipping under her weight as she leaned forward, brushing a loose strand of his hair back. 

Aemond shuddered, the sensation of her fingertips ghosting across his skin sending sparks shooting through him at her praise. “What are you doing?” he stammered the words, panting and wide-eyed. His heart began to beat a rhythm against his ribs, skin glistening in the low light of the candles from the fine sheen of sweat that coated his skin and pooled at the base of his throat. 

"You are too tense," she demurred, hovering over him as she pressed him backwards, threading her fingers with his. His breath hitched as the ends of her hair brushed across his stomach, the sensation raising a wave of gooseflesh across his skin. “Relax,” she clucked her tongue, pressing a kiss to his hip. 

His mind spun, any and all thoughts that had been in his head disappeared as she retreated, going lower with a singular focus. Her movements were lazy and unhurried, each slow and tormenting swipe of her tongue along the underside of his cock driving him mad.

He tried to think of something, anything, to distract himself from the sight of her between his thighs, but failed, squeezing his eye closed so tightly tears leaked from the corners, the feeling of her mouth on his cock ripping a strangled, ragged moan from his chest as his muscles spasmed, going rigid as he stiffened. 

Too much. Too much. 

And yet he wanted more.

For how could depravity be so beautiful? This was not like the base and corrupt like that in which Aegon indulged. Not immoral or degrading. It was exquisite pleasure as natural as breathing. A sublime thrill. Pleasure for pleasure's sake. Not born of duty, but of something else. 

Something else that could not be found in any holy text. 

The exchange of heat. The exchange of energy. Finding balance at last. Giving and taking. Back and forth. Achieving an elevated state of being for but a brief moment, to make you thank the Gods you were alive. A blessing in more ways than one. For what was worship if it was not warm and soft and loud and joyful? It was not meant to be cold and hard like marble beneath his knees, nor made of silence and sorrowfully murmured scripture. 

Aemond jolted, squirming as she nipped at the skin over his ribs, and again when she licked a stripe down his stomach before blowing air over it. "Please," his voice cracked as a fist tightened at the base of his spine, the veins in his hands growing more pronounced as his hand slapped against the bedding, bunching the sheets in his fist. His head fell back, a silent plea building on the tip of his tongue as the warmth of the room seemed to close in on him, suffocating and unbearable. 

She retreated, stretching like a cat as her fingers trailed a path over his shoulders as she leaned down to brush her mouth against his, the friction of her body sliding against his too much, yet not enough. “You are temptation in the flesh, come to torment me,” he exhaled raggedly against her skin as his hair spilled behind him, sliding over his shoulders in silver waves, so locked within a haze of lust and pleasure, he didn't know where his body ended and hers began. 

“There is no shame in it," her legs tightened around his waist as she grasped at his jaw, pulling his face away from the side of her throat. "Let them hear you.” Her words slipped into a tongue foreign to him then, and though their meaning was lost to him, their sentiment transcended spoken word. It felt like flying. Like he was weightless. Like he was floating on water and untethered from all mortal bonds without a care in the world. 

He mumbled her name, once, twice, three times, a desperate cry clawing at his throat at the high that swept over him with a force so violent it knocked the breath from his chest before he fell boneless and limp on his back beside her, panting as he fought to regain control of his breathing, reduced to nothing but a patchwork of trembling limbs and frayed, ragged edges. 

**

“It’s futile asking you to stay, isn’t it?” Aemond murmured quietly. He felt her as she moved in the dark, from where the length of his arm pressed flush against hers. He could hear the small ornaments in her hair chime as she moved, the delicately worked gold warm against his skin. The bed shifted as she turned onto her side to face him, propping one arm underneath her. 

She inhaled deeply, running the end of her tongue over her teeth as she mulled over her words. “Tis futile as asking you to come with me, I imagine. You have a duty here, my Prince. One that binds you to your family." She smiled sadly at him, brushing the pads of her fingers over the sharp angles of his face, tracing them down from the top of his head all the way to his jaw and back again in a soothing motion that brought forth a deep sigh as his eye fluttered closed. Aemond could hear the sorrow that she could not quite hide, an undercurrent woven just under the surface. 

He did not push, instead returning his gaze back to the hangings over his bed as a fresh wave of conflict began to form inside his chest, twisting and writhing inside him. He’d always been so careful, so precise in everything that he did. He was the blood of the dragon, and yet Abeni, with her foreign gods and her foreign ways, had single handedly unwound and unravelled everything he thought he knew. 

She was a maelstrom, tearing through him as she obliterated and shattered his beliefs into nothing more than jagged, broken shards. And yet in a small way she had given him a miniscule taste of the freedom that she lived and breathed with nothing to hold her back. 

She was right, though. The chains of duty and familial loyalty would always be constricting, too tight and too heavy for him to shake completely, and though she had loosened their pinch, he would never truly be able to escape them. It seemed their paths were only destined to cross for the briefest moment. She must go, and he must stay. Able to coexist, but unmixable. A case of oil and water once again. Time was luck and Aemond desperately wished theirs overlapped more. 

Or for longer. 

Afterall, what could he truly offer Abeni? His love? Possibly, one day, maybe. But nothing more than that. He was not free to marry whomever he wished. Not free to live however he wished. He knew that if he asked her to stay, her life would be constricted to a gilded cage, a prison of red brick walls filled with secrecy, the conditions in which she would wither and fade into naught but a shell of herself. 

Aemond could never, would never, do that to her, not even if she was willing. He could never watch her clip her wings in such a fashion just for the sake of his desire to possess her. Like the birds engraved upon her ship, wild and untamed like a dragon, she wasn’t something to be chained as he was, free in more ways than one, free to go wherever she wished and to do whatever she pleased, unburdened by both duty and the expectations of others.

"Let me return the favour," he rasped, pulling his hand away from her hip.

She stared up at him, desire sparking again in her dark eyes. “Oh?” 

"Yes." She squirmed as his hot breath fanned over her already sensitive skin as his hands drifted higher, the backs of his knuckles brushing across the swell of her breasts. He grinned at her reaction, running his nose along her throat.

"You learn fast," she observed, her arms looping around his neck as he moved, lightly running his fingers along her ribs, squeezing at her waist. As his lips grazed over her navel, he shifted off the edge of the bed, bare knees meeting the plush softness of the rug.  

“Feels oddly familiar," he smirked, nipping at the inside of her thigh just above her knee. "Though I must confess the view from the foot of the altar is rarely as remarkable as this is.” 

Even in the dim candlelight, he could see the wetness glistening between her legs. He teasingly dragged his fingers through the slick that had gathered, the evidence of their earlier tryst mixed with fresh arousal. Grasping the meat of her thighs to pull her closer and grant him better access, he gently spread them, admiring the way she clenched around nothing. The sight was enough to make his cock ache with renewed want where it rested against his thigh. 

His eye trained upon her face with burning intensity as his arm curled around the curve of her waist, lifting her slightly to angle her hips, responding to her gasps, guided by her low moans as he slid his finger deep within her, experimentally searching until he found the spot he sought, the one that made her back arch so nicely. He revelled in her scent and in the rise and fall of her chest as she gripped the edge of the bed. 

A sight worthy of worship, of reverence. 

Filled with deep satisfaction at her response, he pressed forward with new confidence, running his nose between her folds, allowing his tongue to explore with tentative licks. Aemond fought the urge to smirk as he wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked. 

Trial and error. Toying with pressure and the movements of his tongue. Technique evolving with the intoxicating sighs and moans he coaxed from her mouth, watching her grind her hips, craving more pressure, more friction, bowing upwards as her moans grew louder. 

Urged on by the shake of her thighs, Aemond doubled his efforts. He hissed when she tugged at his hair, encouraging him further to bolder action. Delighting in the feeling of her groans and rewarded with the juices which coated his lips and chin. “Look at me,” he panted, gently grasping Abeni’s chin between his thumb and finger. Her eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze, the dark of her pupils blown wide and hazy, unfocused with pleasure. 

Gods, she was a vision. A breathless beauty in a twist of sheets. 

Unable to resist, Aemond softly swiped his thumb across her bottom lip before capturing her mouth with his own again, little more than a messy meeting of teeth and tongue, his lack of skill made up tenfold by a feral, ardent hunger. He was in his element as he committed every second of this to memory, swearing he would never forget this as he gripped the swell of her hips, pleased by the way she met his thrusts. 

Chasing the feeling building in his gut, Aemond pressed his forehead to hers as he leaned heavily against her as his pace began to falter, only faintly feeling the pain where her nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders. His eyepatch caught in her hair as he did, slipping free from his head before falling to the side, and his breath froze in his chest. He pulled away, the lust and desire that had been there but a moment before fading. He turned his face away, tensing further at the feel of her fingers tracing over his scar. 

“Why do you hide?” The feeling of her fingers drawing circles on his arm pulled him from his thoughts as she observed his face with an expression of interest, as if she was trying to read his mind. He didn't answer, keeping the marred side in shadow. Abeni slid her hand under his chin, tightening her grasp slightly as a means to make him look at her. "Why?" 

Aemond searched her face, seeing no disgust or revulsion at the sight of his wound. He swallowed and fisted the sheet, throat bobbing with the movement, his sapphire glinting as it caught the candle flame, sending spots of blue tinted light over the sheets. "I-" 

He licked his lip, hand flexing atop the bedding. It was as if a stone lodged in his throat, the words he wanted to say echoing around in his head, but refusing to come out. 

“I need you to make me a promise, my prince.” Aemond's eye fixed on her again, watching as she bit her lip, fighting the urge to shiver when she set her hand over his. “Promise me that you will remember to live while you’re diligently toiling away for them,” Abeni smiled, a trace of sadness lingering in it. “Life is hard enough without restricting yourself from simple pleasures. Don’t forget to indulge. Please.” 

He stayed quiet, pulling her to him with one hand on her back. His breath mingled with hers as he kissed her again, softer this time, as if to pour everything he could not say into it. 

#my fics #house of the dragon #aemond fic #aemond x original character #fyeahhotdocs #fyeahgotocs #a song of ice and fire #hotd fics #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond the kinslayer #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond smut #aemond targaryen fan fiction #allaboutocs #ocappreciation #oc character #aemond oneshot #aemond #prince aemond

[euphoriacafe]

If you're down to write Star Wars, I would love to read some Obi-Wan smut cause that man deserves a good time after all he's been through. Maybe he's had a series of rough days with Anakin being a general menace on their last mission and he's finally home and he just really needs to take it out on the reader who is more than willing to help him de-stress?

Dangerous Woman

Author Note : I was in a hurry to write this since I had other things to do, but I will make a better one later when I have the time. I'm sorry it's a bit short. I hope you enjoy this still!

WARNING : Mentioning of P in V, MDNI, sexual tension, aggressive (I don't usually do the fluffy smut)

As Obi-Wan stormed into the room, his frustration was palpable, his shoulders tense and his jaw clenched. (Y/N) glanced up from her meditation, concern etching her features as she rose to meet him. "Obi-Wan," she murmured softly, her voice a soothing balm in the midst of his turmoil.

He paced restlessly, his mind swirling with the chaos of the recent mission, his words tumbling out in a rush. "(Y/N), you wouldn't believe what Anakin did this time," he began, his voice strained with frustration. "I swear, he's like a whirlwind of chaos, leaving destruction in his wake."

(Y/N) listened attentively, her gaze steady as she watched him pace, her heart aching for the weight he carried. She moved closer, instinctively drawn to him, her hand reaching out to gently touch his shoulder. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through them both, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Obi-Wan's breath caught in his throat at her touch, his eyes meeting hers in a moment of raw vulnerability. For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still as they lingered in the space between them, the air heavy with unspoken desire.

In that moment, (Y/N) knew what he needed - not just comfort, but release. Without a word, she stepped closer, her body fitting against his as she wrapped her arms around him, offering him solace in the warmth of her embrace.

Obi-Wan sighed heavily, the tension slowly melting from his body as he buried his face in her hair, his arms tightening around her. In that moment, with (Y/N) by his side, he found refuge from the storm raging within him, his heart finally at peace.

As Obi-Wan held (Y/N) in his arms, the room seemed to crackle with an electric charge, a magnetic pull drawing them closer. His breath mingled with hers, their bodies pressed together in an intimate dance of comfort and longing. He could feel the heat radiating between them, a fire that threatened to consume all reason.

"(Y/N)," he breathed, his voice husky and low, "I've needed this. Needed you." His hands tightened on her waist, fingers digging into her flesh as if trying to anchor himself in the whirlwind of emotions. His lips grazed her earlobe, and he couldn't help but release a shuddering exhale, the proximity to her awakening a hunger he'd kept buried for too long.

She tilted her head back, meeting his gaze with an intensity that matched his own. The air was charged with unspoken desires, and he felt the familiar pull of temptation. Every fiber of his being ached with a need that had been festering since he left for the mission.

"I've missed you," he confessed, his voice tinged with a raw edge. "Every moment away, all I could think about was coming back to you." His hands slid up her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine, a desperate attempt to convey the depths of his longing.

(Y/N)'s breath hitched, her heart pounding in sync with his. The room felt smaller, confined by the unspoken tension that hung in the air. Obi-Wan's lips sought hers in a fervent kiss, a release of pent-up desire that sent shockwaves through them both.

Their kiss was heated and desperate, a collision of suppressed emotions. Obi-Wan's control wavered, the walls he built around his desires crumbling in the intensity of the moment. His hands roamed her body, seeking solace in the closeness, the hunger between them escalating with each passing second.

"I can't resist you," he admitted, his voice a low growl against her lips. "Not anymore." His hands moved with a possessive urgency, fingers threading through her hair as he deepened the kiss, losing himself in the intoxicating taste of her.

As their kiss deepened, (Y/N)'s hands roamed over Obi-Wan's body, fingers tracing the contours of his muscles with an urgency that mirrored his own. She gasped into their kiss, the heat between them igniting a firestorm of desire that threatened to consume them both.

"I've been waiting for you," she whispered between kisses, her voice a husky breath against his lips. "I'm more than happy to de-stress you, Obi-Wan." Her words were like fuel to the flames, reigniting his hunger with a fervor he couldn't contain.

With a primal growl, Obi-Wan's hands found purchase on (Y/N)'s clothing, fingers fumbling with the fabric in a desperate attempt to remove the barriers between them. There was a hunger in his touch, a need that bordered on desperation as he tore at the fabric, his desire laid bare for her to see.

(Y/N) responded in kind, her own hands moving with a frenzied urgency as she stripped away his clothes, each article of clothing falling to the floor in a heap of discarded fabric. Their bodies collided in a tangle of limbs, skin against skin, the heat of their passion threatening to consume them whole.

Obi-Wan's lips trailed feverishly down (Y/N)'s neck, leaving a trail of fiery kisses in their wake. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as she surrendered to the primal desire coursing through her veins.

Their movements were frenetic, driven by an insatiable hunger that refused to be sated. In that moment, there was no past, no future, only the here and now, lost in a whirlwind of passion and desire.

With a primal growl, Obi-Wan's desire surged, his need for her consuming him entirely. In a surge of raw passion, he pushed (Y/N) against the nearest wall, a hunger burning in his eyes as he devoured her with his gaze.

She gasped as the impact jolted through her, her back arching against the hard surface as Obi-Wan's lips crashed against hers in a fierce, demanding kiss. Their mouths melded together in a frenzied tangle of tongues, a symphony of desire that echoed through the room.

Driven by an insatiable hunger, Obi-Wan lifted (Y/N) effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his bare waist as he pressed her against him with a primal need. The heat of their bodies melded together, skin against skin, as they surrendered to the fiery passion that blazed between them.

With a desperate urgency, Obi-Wan's hands roamed over (Y/N)'s body, fingers tracing the curves of her form with a possessive intensity. He could feel her heart racing beneath his touch, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she surrendered to the overwhelming desire that pulsed through her veins.

As their lips continued to meet in a heated frenzy, Obi-Wan's arousal pressed against (Y/N)'s core, his need for her driving him to the brink of madness. With a primal instinct, he positioned her over him, her slick heat sliding against his aching member, both of them trembling with the intensity of their desire.

As their bodies melded together in a feverish dance of desire, Obi-Wan's grip tightened on (Y/N)'s hair, his fingers entwined in the soft strands as he pulled her head back, exposing her neck to his hungry gaze. With a guttural groan of need, he guided her core down onto his throbbing member, their connection igniting a blaze of ecstasy that threatened to consume them both.

As he began to thrust into her with a primal rhythm, each movement driving them closer to the edge of oblivion, Obi-Wan's voice dripped with raw desire as he unleashed a torrent of degrading words, each one a cruel caress against her skin. His words were like a whip, lashing out with a savageness that left (Y/N) trembling with a mixture of pleasure and pain.

"You like that, don't you?" he growled, his voice thick with desire. "You're nothing but a filthy little whore, begging for my touch." His thrusts grew more aggressive, each one driving her closer to the brink of ecstasy as he claimed her with a savage hunger that knew no bounds.

With each harsh word, (Y/N)'s arousal surged, her body responding to his dominance with a fervor that left her breathless. She surrendered to his control, her moans mingling with his as they danced on the razor's edge of pleasure and pain.

In that moment, there was no room for gentleness, only the raw, primal need that bound them together. Obi-Wan's grip on (Y/N)'s hair tightened, his thrusts growing more frenzied as they chased the elusive peak of ecstasy, their bodies moving in perfect harmony as they surrendered to the carnal desires that consumed them both.

As he buried himself deep inside her, a guttural groan escaped his lips, the sound reverberating through the room like a primal declaration of dominance. His words were harsh, dripping with lust and desire as he degraded her with each breath, his voice a wicked symphony of pleasure and pain.

"(Y/N)," he growled, his voice thick with desire, "you're mine. Mine to use, mine to pleasure, mine to command." His thrusts grew more fervent, each movement driving them both closer to the edge of oblivion.

(Y/N) gasped at his words, her body trembling beneath him as she surrendered to the overwhelming desire that consumed her. With each thrust, she felt herself teetering on the brink of ecstasy, her need for him overwhelming her senses.

"Please," she whimpered, her voice a breathless plea, "more. I need more, Obi-Wan. Please, don't stop." Her words were a desperate prayer, a plea for him to take her higher, to push her beyond the limits of pleasure.

Obi-Wan's lips curled into a predatory smirk, his grip on her hair tightening as he drove her closer to the edge. With a primal instinct, he responded to her plea, his movements becoming more relentless, more intense as he chased the elusive climax that danced just out of reach.

#star wars #smut smut smut #smutty #smut #star wars x oc #star wars fanfiction #star wars reaction #obi wan fanfiction #obi wan star wars #obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi #obi wan and anakin #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x oc #star wars smut #star wars x y/n #star wars x you #star wars x reader #ewan mcgregor is so fine #ewan mcgregor #ewan mcgregor x reader

[mintytealfox]

*carb walks in*

*holds up a question*

*yeets*

What the au where norton is big and alice(and melly) are tiny like did they found kurt book but don't know how long it last and norton is now stuck being the babysitter till the their normal size again or is it drugs?

MUAAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHHA AAAAAAAAHHHHHHAHAHAHHAHAHA MUAAHAHAHHAHHAHA

THE AU HAS BEEN ASKED ABOUT MUUAAAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAAAA 🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌

Perfect timing too honestly cause I was feeling sad about Netease being emo as frick with the Norton stuff lol (there is an ask in the inbox about it and I am gonna go so wild once I collect my thoughts 👀)

-rubs hands togetherrrrrr-

so this one with Melly:

was a little one off thing cause I love Navi from Legend of Zelda and I imagine she is so tired of Link and I had Da Capo on the brain and was like 'aw yea these two' LOOOOOOOOOOOL

----------------

The other one with this stuff:

is super MaCross coded 👀🤌 if you are familiar with Zentraedi then you got a gist of what is going on here lol but here is a link to a intro to the au: here Then this one has the links to everything I have written for it so far: here

I am more of a report writer rather than creative writer anymore these days. So, if its bad then my bad LOOOOOL! If you don't want to read all that then here is this to get the gist of what is up with the world

"Some background:

Two species of humanoid now inhabit the same planet. One from another dead planet and seeking refuge and a new place to live (the humans). This was met with hostility from the original habitants (the larger one). A war broke out for 10 years, for the humans to come on top in the end. The larger species are now used as a sort of work horse in most cases. Some manual labor, others protecting the area and hunting, etc. there are still Nobels and high ups in politics but the less well-off tend to be put to difficult work and conditions. Even though the humans have the tech to make it easier, just don’t want to waste resources.  It’s a political way to keep them down, busy and obedient basically. 🙃

Norton, of course, works in the mines." ----------- BUT I LIKE WHERE YOUR BRAIN IS GOING -rubs hands together- a thiirrdddd au cookin I seeeee~ LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL

Knowing Alice, its probably DRUGS that did it -WHEEEZE- Then Melly having to get involved trying to be like "oh my gosh stop sniffin D R U G S" and tries to take it away but it just gets all over~ nice and cliche 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

But I can see Melly having fun with the size change cause talk about an entire new perspective for her research of insects lol -can pet beetle like dog- "who would have thought they liked little pats on the head" So much new research to be done 🤣🤣🤣 Her command of insects is broadening LOOK OUT -WHEEZE-

Now for Alice, there is no stopping her now, every nook; every cranny is now hers to explore LOL no locks can keep her out now!! No document/letter/sensitive information can hide from her -WHEEZE- No drawer or box left un-sifted through PFF No conversation left un-eavesdropped! She is more of a danger to society's secrets now than she was before IM DYING LOOOOL

Yea Norton is definitely gonna have to babysit these two MY GOSH! Good L U C K BRO LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL

(THANK YOU FOR THE ASK!! I L O V E talking about this stuff HA! And needed the distraction honestly SO THANK YOOUUU)

#identity v #norton campbell #idv #idv prospector #alice deross #idv norton #identity v norton #idv journalist #nortalice #idv alice deross #identity v alice deross #idv alice #identity v alice #idv melly plinius #melly plinius #idv melly #identity v entomologist #idv entomologist #journalist idv #identity v journalist #prospector idv #identity v prospector #ask #asks #minty speaks #minty answers #minty art #idv au #niche au #STUUUFFFF

[heich0e]

hola liv, hope you’re doing well, just thought about samu manspreading and maintaining eye contact with u with a glass of scotch or whiskey in his hand opposite u with an unbuttoned white shirt, and i thought you would appreciate this thought

i love u but also i hate u a bit just fyi <33

neither you nor osamu particularly want to be at the stuffy v-league event, but you have to be there as part of the PR team for the Schweiden Adlers, and osamu simply grew tired of listening to his brother begging him to attend and had eventually agreed after three FULL days of atsumu cycling through every method of persuasion he knew to wear his brother down.

you're confused the first time you spot him from across the room: he's tall, broad, and handsome--though certainly not the only man in the room that evening who meets that description--but what's most shocking is that miya atsumu has dyed his hair.

you stare at the setter rather intently from afar for a good few moments before he notices your gaze, just after popping a small hors d'oeuvre into his mouth. he looks a little taken aback to be on the receiving end of such an intense stare, but seems to put the pieces together faster than you do. with his cheeks full of canape and eyes wide, he points up at himself with the hand not holding his drink, then he points to a figure a few metres away (a bleached blonde figure that seems very familiar even though you can only see his back), then back to himself.

you watch as he chews and then swallows.

brother.

you read the word formed by his lips.

oh... that makes sense.

you're a little embarrassed at having been caught staring, so you quickly skitter away--missing the little smile curling up at NOT miya atsumu's mouth.

but for whatever reason, be it fate or cosmic punishment, you just can't seem to avoid him.

it's a big party--there's got to be at least two or three hundred people in attendance--and yet around every corner, at every turn, you keep running into him. finally, you surrender yourself to your fate, slumping into a seat across from him in a quiet seating area set up in a corridor branching off from the main hall where the event is taking place.

there's no one around. it's quieter here. and frankly you're grateful for the opportunity to get off your feet--your high heels have been pinching your toes uncomfortably since the moment you'd left your apartment.

neither of you says anything as you sit down with a weary sigh.

you deliberate pretending he's not even there, but your manners get the better of you after a quiet moment of consideration. your eyes flicker up to the man seated a few paces away.

he's discarded his tie since you ran into him last; dark silk tails stick out from the breast pocket of his suit jacket that's just a little ill-fitting, like he borrowed it from someone whose body is similar but not quite the same build as him. his white dress-shirt has been unbuttoned at the collar too, revealing the base of his throat and the slightest glimpse of his chest. he has a glass of amber coloured liquid in a rocks glass held by the rim as it rests atop one of his knees, his thick thighs spread as he slouches back in his chair.

his eyes meet yours.

and that's when you realize you made two mistakes upon first sight of this man. the first was mistaking him for his brother, and the second was thinking that any man in the room you were seeking refuge from held a candle to how handsome he is.

he smiles. a subtle, unintimdating curl of his lips that only makes him look even more devastatingly attractive in the low light of the corridor.

"miya osamu," he introduces himself, and the first sound of his voice is enough to send heat rushing to your face. enough to make you squirm. like he knows what the mere sound of his voice is doing to you, his smile curves a little higher, his knees spread a little futher apart. "seems like you and i've been skirtin' around each other all night."

"i'm sorry for staring earlier," you rush to explain something he'd asked no question about, your eyes fluttering down to your hands where they're fidgeting in your lap. your fingers twist together nervously atop the skirt of your fancy dress.

"ya thought i was my brother," osamu remarks lightheartedly, his tone understanding, "yer not the first. plus i'd have to be a bit foolish to be insulted for being mistaken for a professional athlete."

"still," you say quietly, a little less frenetic than your apology had been, "it was rude of me to stare."

he laughs--a deep, warm sound--and your eyes flicker up to meet his.

"well i'd really have to be a fool to have a problem with catchin' someone as pretty as you starin' at me, wouldn't i?"

your lips part in shock, scarcely able to process the words he's just spoken.

osamu doesn't wait for you to reply as he leans forward in his seat, shifting so his elbows rest atop his knees, his half-drained drink dangling from his fingertips. the low light catches in the facets of the polished glass.

"so, any chance of gettin' yer name now?" he asks you with a brow raised, and you feel goosebumps prickle along your skin as you peer into his deep grey eyes, "because ya keep runnin' off every time i've tried to ask tonight."

#osamu x reader #osamu x you #miya osamu #miya osamu x reader #miya osamu x you #osamu miya #osamu #hq writing #hq drabble #writing #liv got mail

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖.

DAY NINE OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: zombie apocalypse au + "every moment might be our last, let's make the most of it."

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, angst with happy-ish ending

summary: After a massive ecological disaster, the world is overrun by mutated flora and fauna, along with infected humans that sprout vines and flowers. Nature itself has turned against humanity, and you thought Peter would be by your side. That Spider-Man would protect you and those close to you—you never thought you'd be wrong in both aspects. But now he's back, and you don't know how to react.

word count: 1.8k

warnings: arguing, death/grief, brief mention of readers little sister dying, angst, peter is still spiderman in this, emotional sex, piv

a/n: to be completely honest I don't actually think peter would just leave you to fend for yourself in this situation but I really wanted some angsty arguing and this is all I could come up with fgbgfb

The word had gone to shit. You lost everything while seeking refuge. Your friends, your family—everyone. Nature had claimed what was hers violently, poisoning those who came close and changing them as she saw fit. It was beautiful, yet horrifying. Petals sprouted from skin like daisies, eyes replaced by fuzzy pistils as the skull slowly bloomed into beautiful large petals. These were called bloomspawns and they walked aimlessly, looking for their next target to rid the world of humans once and for all. 

New York had quickly became a mess. Planes crashing and humans running over each other to get away. You were amongst them, hand in hand with your sister, trying to find safety. 

Peter was with you then, which meant Spider-man was with you and you felt safe. 

But then he left. Soon after, you lost everyone one by one, your sister’s death hurting you the most. You couldn’t protect her, and she was still young, muscles not strong enough to outrun a bloomspawn. You had to put a bullet in her before she turned and saw nightmares still. He’d said he had to help and that it was happening all around the world. You knew Peter was smart, which meant he needed both his brains and his brawn. 

Some part of you believed there was another reason for his sudden departure, you saw fear in his eyes the day before when you were almost killed—it was the fear of history repeating itself, that you would die too, taking another part of his heart. 

Now, you’re alone. Not a person or any other being in sight as you walk through the ruins of the city you once called home. The chill of the night slowly settles as the sun sinks into the horizon. You’re looking for shelter, any place that can be safe enough for you to spend the night. A soft sigh parts your lips. You’re not even sure why you’re trying to be completely honest, the apocalypse wouldn’t be ending anytime soon. 

Deep in thought, you don’t hear someone moving with haste above the rubble of concrete. 

It all happens in a flash. A covered hand clamps over your mouth, halting the scream that threatens to bubble from your throat, you thrash within the solid embrace of the stranger, attempting to kick him but his legs always seemingly out of reach. You can’t reach your gun or your knife and this time you’re certain death is near—

“Shhh it’s me—it’s me. Peter.”

Peter? 

The grip around you loosens a bit when your struggle slows and becomes nonexistent. You’re breathing heavily, shoulders still tense and untrusting. “Peter Parker,” he clarifies, clearing his throat. “Don’t know why I just said Peter, as if there’s not a million of us.” 

His hand finally falls away from your mouth but he’s still holding you flush against his body, your back pressed firmly against his chest. 

“Peter?” you say, almost brokenly. “You’re. . . here?” 

You part away to turn around and he lets you. He doesn’t have the mask on but is wearing the red and blue suit. Your heart somersaults, body caught between a deep yearning and violent anger. He smiles as your gaze meets his but the expression quickly flickers and disappears. The sky above you transitions into twilight, painting the horizon with a mesmerizing palette of deep purples and shades of dark blue. You wrap your arms around yourself, tearing your gaze away from him. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” you ask, voice soft and silent despite the words. “I needed you with me, Peter.” 

Peter attempts to take a step forward and stops when he sees your arms tightening around yourself, “You know why,” he says, knowing well it’s a weak excuse. “They needed me. We’re so close to a cure.” 

You almost want to laugh, what good is a cure when you’ve lost everything. 

“Everyone’s dead, Peter,” you finally look at him, challenging the comfort he came to offer after abandoning you. Venom drips from every word. “She’s fucking DEAD, Peter!” 

You do walk up to him then. Full of rage and bloodlust. You push him away but he barely moves, his eyes gradually moving between your face and your balled fists. “It’s your fault!” you shout again, side-fists hitting his chest. You know he doesn’t feel it. That you’re not strong enough to hurt him—and you don’t want to hurt him, but you’re just so mad. “Sarah’s dead because of you! B—Because of me.” 

You break down and your knees give way, you manage to remain upright just in time for Peter to hold you, wrapping strong arms around you as you begin to sob into his chest. 

You’re shaking, nose stuffed, and throat raw. No matter how many times you blame Peter, it was your fault too, you had to share the blame. He holds you tight, biceps tensing every time you dare to move away from him. He cradles the back of your head, lips touching your forehead. 

“It’s not your fault,” he mutters. “If you want to blame someone blame me. I’m the asshole who left. I was the one afraid and bolted the first chance I got. You’re a survivor, unlike me—I’m truly sorry. I never meant for this to happen.” 

“She really liked you, you know?” you answer, ignoring all that he said. Your voice bounces off of his chest. “She believed you would come for us. That there was no way you would just leave and if you did, it had to be for something great.” 

Peter doesn’t answer and you continue, “If you found a cure, I guess she was right.” 

“I should have never left you or her,” he says, tilting your head up from your chin. A soft gasp parts your lips. Your anger melts away, leaving yearning and want to fill the void it left behind. The whites of his eyes are stained with red, glimmering with unshed tears. You hold his face between your hands and pull him close until your lips brushes upon his. You almost smile as you hear Peter’s breath hitch, a sound that you’ve missed so dearly. 

His lips meet yours halfway. His kiss is a lifeline in a world that's fallen apart, a fragile connection to a time when things were simpler, when your sister's laughter filled the air, and the bloomspawns were nothing more than weeds underneath your feet. The taste of his lips is just like you remember. Sweet, tender. You want to give every part of yourself to him. Every inch, every scar, every wound. 

You pull him closer, fingers tangled in the tattered remnants of his suit, as if trying to hold onto the past, to the world that once was where Spider-man was enough to save the day. 

Peter responds in kind, his kiss deepening with the tilt of his head. You feel his tongue tracing the seam of your lips and you part for him with a soft whimper. He licks himself into your mouth, tongues moving in unison, your body rapidly grows hot. Arousal pools between your legs and he swallows all the tiny noises that you make, his hands deftly moving over your body. 

Everything happens so quickly. You two find a small room that is solid enough to keep you safe for the night, not that you’re worried when Peter is around, he strips your quickly, kissing every patch of exposed skin as he lays you upon the old dusty bed. Your hand moves down between his legs, feeling the heft of him through the thin fabric while he sucks on your neck with an insatiable hunger. Peter groans into your skin and ruts into your palm. 

“Been so long,” he whispers, pulling back to look at you. “I’ve missed you, I don’t deserve you.” 

You kiss him again, long and deep and before you know it he’s pulling away. He shreds himself from his suit and climbs between your already spread legs with his cock in his hand, “Why?” he chokes out. 

"Every moment might be our last,” you smile despite yourself, your grief momentarly forgotten thanks to him. “Let's make the most of it."

You swear you see his pupils dilate. He strokes and spreads the beading precome all over his length. He lines himself up with you, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. 

“I really need to be inside you right now,” he murmurs against your lips. “Is that okay?” 

“Yes,” you gasp, back arching. “Peter, please—” 

Your plea is enough for him to press forward, burying himself wholly with one smooth thrust. Your cheeks heat up at how wet you are and how easy your body made it for him. Experimentally, Peter pulls back and sinks into the tight fist of your heat again, wet sounds echoing from where you two connect. 

“Holy shit, baby,” he groans, eyelids fluttering. “Are you this wet for me?” 

He doesn’t wait for your answer and fucks himseld deeper into you. Peter’s movements are sloppy and full of need, an ache you’ve been feeling all this time when you were apart from him. Your breathing is labored and your chest heaves with the effort of his thrusts. But his rhythm is perfect, hitting all the right spots within you, as if he'd memorized the map of your body after all the times before. Your body trembles against him as pleasure builds within. 

He nibbles your neck and teases your skin with his fingers and kisses, pushing you that much further. He rocks his hips forward, making the bed move along with you, your body dripping for him. 

Your fingers curl against his skin and your eyes close in delight. You sense Peter straining. You nearly wrap your legs around his waist wanting to feel him in your deepest parts but he pulls out. He presses his sweaty forehead against yours, his chest eheaving as he fucks his fists. He shudders on top of you, thick ropes of come dripping down his fingers and onto your stomach. A shiver crawls up your spine. You arch your back, letting out a moan of your own as he continues to stain your skin. 

When he’s done, you expect him to wrap his arms around you, but you’re pelasantly surprised as Peter moves down your body, lifting both your legs above his shoulder. His warm breath tickles your soaked pussy, forcing the clench of muscle. 

“Did you think I would leave you hanging?” he asks, tone playful. “Fuck, I’ve missed your taste so bad.” 

Your eyes roll back as his tongue licks between your folds. In that moment, nothing else matters. Jut him and you, in this room, hoping that this broken world would soon heal.

No matter what the future brings, you know you are safe in the arms of your Spider-Man.

#peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker x you #peter parker x you #tasm!spiderman x you #tasm!spiderman x reader #the amazing spiderman fic

[dameronscopilot]

check, please!

Dmitri Antonov x f!reader

Summary: When Joyce and Murray finally reconvene with Hopper in the Russian prison, the group—with the help of Dmitri—manages to force the bloodthirsty Demogorgon back into its cage. Taking advantage of the confused chaos unraveling in the building, they escape, seeking temporary refuge at Dmitri’s apartment. His remaining time in Russia is short-lived, so Dmitri opts to spend his last evening in the country paying a visit to the one bright spot in his life—the pretty girl that works at the diner downstairs. 

Rating: 18+ EXPLICIT

Word Count: 6k Content: NSFW, smut, porn with a little bit of plot, oral sex, unprotected p in v, creampies, spanking, spit kink, daddy kink, choking, soft!dom dmitri, rough sex, dirty talk, anal sex, knife kink, squirting

When you pull back slightly for air, nearly gasping, he steadies you, and you ask him boldly, “Are you coming in?” He cups the side of your face, caressing your bottom lip with his thumb as his gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, and he nods. “Please”

Dmitri swipes his keys from their usual spot on the small, rusty hook inside of his locker in the staff break room, thankful that he had long since made it a habit not to carry them while on duty (after several other guards had suffered the misfortune of being slyly pickpocketed by prisoners). The other various odds and ends inside of his locker had likely been dumped immediately after his traitorous secret had been discovered—probably unceremoniously tossed in the incinerator—but the small keyring had luckily escaped unscathed, and it was the only thing he would have missed, anyway. 

Making his way back out into the hallway, Dmitri hastily ushers Hopper, Joyce, and Murray in the direction of the exit doors and then toward a dark green SUV sitting in the parking lot. They all pile in, and he momentarily glances at himself in the rearview mirror, taking in the exhausted expression lingering on his face before turning the key in the ignition, pulling out onto the main road, and slamming his foot down on the gas pedal as hard as the snow-covered motorway will allow.

A tense silence hangs in the air, punctuated only by the sounds of their chattering teeth and Murray’s fumbling attempts to get the heat going from his spot in the passenger seat. Joyce eventually pipes up from the back, “So uh…Enzo, right? Where exactly are we going?”

A car coming from the opposite direction passes by, and Dmitri tightens his grip on the steering wheel. He responds tightly, “My apartment. We’ll be there in just under an hour, so please do try to keep your reunion festivities in my backseat to…a minimum,” vaguely flourishing a hand in she and Hopper’s direction.

Hopper coughs, and Joyce crinkles her nose and asks, “But isn’t your apartment the first place that someone would come looking for you?”

Dmitri meets her gaze in the rearview and smirks, “Now what makes you think I would let a place like that keep my real address on file?”

The car settles back into a tentative, uneasy silence, which remains until they arrive in the small, nondescript town that Dmitri calls home. After parking behind his building, Dmitri leads the Americans down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and to the familiar, faded red door of his apartment. His hands shake ever so slightly as he inserts the key into the lock, turns the handle, and flicks the lights on—part of him was certain he’d never see this place again. Not that he could stay here now, though, anyway. His false address would only give him a head start against potential retribution from the prison, but if he remained in Russia, they’d find him sooner or later.

Despite the looming sense of dread, Joyce convinces everyone that showers are in order before anything else. Dmitri isn’t sure if it’s for the woman’s own sake or if she’s just grown tired of the sight and smell of their dirty, bloody, appearances, but either way he’s thankful to be afforded a bit of time alone, nearly drowning himself under the hot stream of water.

Afterward, once he’s picked through the back of his closet for various odds and ends that are at least partially suitable for his guests to wear in place of their filthy clothes, Dmitri casually suggests that they head to the diner below his apartment to strategize over food and coffee as he runs a thumb over a faded, torn piece of receipt paper in his pocket with a heart drawn on the back of it. And if he has ulterior motives that involve seeing a familiar, comforting face in the wake of the worst night of his life, well, they don’t need to know that.

---

The jingling of the bell above the diner door jolts you out of the daze that you had been lost in, having spent the better part of the last hour leaning against the counter attempting to stave off sleep—it was an uncharacteristically slow evening. You straighten up, hand automatically reaching for your faded yellow notepad and your favorite blue pen, and your heart leaps in your chest when a pair of familiar blue eyes meets yours. Your favorite regular has arrived with three companions in tow.

Originally from Chicago, you’ve spent the past two months in Russia as a part of your graduate studies. In that time, Enzo’s caffeine habits have become a daily staple of your shifts. The night that you met—your first shift—you’d somehow managed to get his fairly simple order of coffee and toast entirely backwards. Your program here, which is a remote offshoot of your school back in Illinois, is in English, and your meager attempts at studying conversational Russian before packing your bags and hopping on a plane certainly left something to be desired. Though you had initially thought you could string together enough competency to get by as a waitress for a few months, your mortification in that moment whilst you accidentally sputtered an apology in English had left you poised to run on foot to the nearest airport. However, the annoyed reply you were waiting to hear from the man you were serving never came. Instead, Enzo’s eyes had crinkled at the corners in amusement as he chuckled, pulled a pen out of his pocket, grabbed a napkin, and wrote out the Russian words from his order in the English alphabet for you.

After that, Enzo made it a goal to teach you something in Russian every time that he came in, kindly coaxing you on your pronunciation of the letters and words while watching you intently over the rim of his coffee cup with a gleam in his eyes. When you’d get something right, he’d reward you with a grin that made your knees weak; it was something you were almost embarrassed to admit you’d grown to shamelessly savor each day. In return, you’d started writing things on the back of his receipts in Russian—it was normally small, inconsequential nonsense, but the soft look it always brought to his face when he glanced down at it on his way out would leave you feeling warm long after he left. Sometimes you'd even been brave enough to doodle little hearts in lieu of words, though you didn't dare look to see his reaction to those.

Now, Enzo’s face lights up as his eyes gently take you in, and he gives you a little wave before he heads over to his usual booth in the back corner with his companions. Your pulse quickens in response under the brief scrutiny of his friendly gaze as you make your way toward their table.

When you approach, you notice that the others are conversing in English, and you raise an eyebrow in Enzo’s direction. Shrugging, the corners of his lips tug upwards, and he says by way of greeting, “I figured you could use a break from the language lessons tonight.” 

After you bring them a round of coffees, Enzo introduces you to his company: Hopper, Joyce, and Murray, who are apparently visiting Russia from Hawkins, Indiana. Excited by this information, you explain that you’re from Illinois. One of the men, Hopper, chokes on his drink, prompting Joyce to frantically begin patting his back in concern. 

“You’re American?” Hopper asks, eyes wide.

You tilt your head to the side, uncertain why the news is so surprising to him. “Yes…?”

Wiping his face with a napkin, he pointedly looks at Enzo this time as he flatly states, “She’s American.”

Enzo takes a deep breath, flicking a glance up at the ceiling and clenching a fist before replying, “She is.”

A shit-eating grin makes its way across Hopper’s face, and he offers up his best impersonation of Enzo’s accent, “Oh, so it’s fine when YOU have an American woman—” Hopper is cut off by a loud bang from underneath the table, and he grunts in pain, scowling as he reaches down to rub his shin. You snort and busy yourself by collecting their food orders. 

Recognizing that Enzo and his friends are wrapped up in what must be a serious conversation, heads bent together over the table as they murmur in hushed tones, you focus on cleaning and serving other customers. You try to ignore the warmth that blooms in your chest every time that you discreetly steal a glance over at their table, only to find Enzo’s steady gaze already on you. 

Two rowdy men make their way into the diner, collapsing into a booth in a fit of boisterous laughter, and you groan inwardly. You finish topping off Murray’s coffee, and as you turn to put the pot away so you can begrudgingly serve your new arrivals, you’re stopped by a hand wrapping loosely around your wrist. You turn around and look down at Enzo, whose eyes flick over to the men before giving you a silent, questioning look. 

You brush your pinky over his thumb as you steel yourself and say, “I’ll be fine.”

Twenty-five minutes into serving the two men, and you’re far from fine. Both of them reek of alcohol, and after hearing the non-native slips of your tongue when you took their order in Russian, they had since begun making suggestive hand gestures while jeering at you with words you had yet to learn. One quick glance at Enzo out of the corner of your eye tells you all that you need to know about what exactly the men are saying to you; his eyes have darkened dangerously in anger, and if he grips his fork any harder, it’s likely to split in half. 

Hoping to hurry them along, you begin to clear out some of their empty plates, but when you go to make your way back to the kitchen, you feel a hand brush against your waist in an attempt to grab you. You yelp in surprise and jump backward, nearly dropping the dishes, just as Enzo smoothly steps in between you and the edge of the table. The men go quiet as Enzo casually picks up a knife and twirls it in his hand for a moment before stabbing it directly into the center of a half-eaten sandwich. You notice Hopper standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, a concerned look on his face. Enzo cooly mutters something at them that you can’t understand, but whatever it is sends them scurrying out of the diner, leaving nothing but their payment and a generous tip in their wake. 

You don’t realize that you’re shaking until Enzo turns to look at you and places his hands on your shoulders, steadying you. “Are you alright, солнышко?”

Your heart rate picks up as he uses the nickname you’ve grown to love hearing fall from his lips—sunshine. You try to hide the tremble in your tone as you respond, “I’m alright. Thank you, Enzo.”

Joyce and Murray have come to stand beside Hopper, jackets on and poised to leave. Enzo glances back at them, sighs, and then turns to you once more and asks, “When does your shift end?”

Your eyebrows raise of their own accord at the question. Though an intoxicating tension has slowly been simmering between the two of you inside of the diner day in and day out, neither of you has dared to actually cross that line yet. You tell him, “In an hour, why?”

He shrugs, giving you a small smile as he explains, “You mentioned before that you don’t live far. I’d like to walk you home, if that’s alright.”

You bite your lip to contain the pleased grin that sneaks its way across your face and nod, “Meet me out front.”

Enzo’s friends bid you farewell and make their way out the door, a gust of snowflakes and cold air flying inside as they exit.

---

As promised, when you shrug into your coat and slip outside an hour later, you spy Enzo leaning against the brick wall of the building with his hands in his pockets, gazing over at you with a thoughtful expression. As you approach, he pushes off of the wall and offers you his arm. And if you happen to lean into his warmth a bit closer than necessary as you begin to walk, he doesn’t seem to mind.

The walk is regretfully short, just a few blocks, and the two of you make your way down the deserted sidewalk in a comfortable silence. When you arrive at the door to your apartment, Enzo finally speaks up, “I’m going to be going away for a while, back to the United States with the people you just met. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, but I wanted to thank you for your company these past couple of months. I admittedly did not actually drink coffee that frequently before I met you.” He scratches the back of his head as he laughs weakly. 

Your chest begins to ache at the implication of his words. You place a hand on the junction between his shoulder and his neck and lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and murmuring, “I’ll miss you, Enzo.”

He slides a hand over yours, holding you in place before you can step backward, and his warm lips graze the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Dmitri. Call me Dmitri.” His other hand slides down to rest on your waist, and he shifts to lean his forehead against yours.

You feel the caress of his breath as it makes its way across the infinitesimal space between you, and you close the distance as you quietly speak his real name against his lips, “Dmitri.”

A small sound escapes his mouth in response, and Dmitri crushes his lips against yours, both of his hands slipping inside of your jacket to pull you flush against him. Whatever dam was standing in between the two of you before breaks open now in a flood of heat and desperation. Dmitri’s tongue dances at the seams of your lips and you open your mouth to give him access. You wrap your arms around him, holding him tight as you let him devour you with his lips, tongue sliding against yours warmly. You bite his lip and he chuckles, kissing the corners of your mouth before slotting your lips together again, and you dare to push your lower half against him, a whimper building in the back of your throat as he responds in kind, grinding against you.

When you pull back slightly for air, nearly gasping, he steadies you, and you ask him boldly, “Are you coming in?”

He cups the side of your face, caressing your bottom lip with his thumb as his gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, and he nods. “Please”

You struggle to pull your keys from your pocket, eager to feel his lips against yours once more. When you reach out to place the key in the lock, you nearly fumble as Dmitri snakes his arms around you from behind. He kisses you squarely on the back of your neck, and you shiver in response.

Once you’re inside, you stumble through the threshold, barely finding the time to flick the lights and toss your jacket in the direction of the hook before your chest is pressed up against the wall. Dmitri kneels down on the floor behind you, running his hands up and down your stocking-clad legs before slipping his hands under your skirt to knead your ass. 

Pressing kisses to the backs of your knees, he drawls, “Beautiful girl, you always drive me crazy with this uniform.” 

Dmitri grips your left ankle and pulls it outward to spread your legs further apart as he teasingly runs a finger over your cunt, dick beginning to ache when he feels the dampness soaking through your panties and the stockings. Lust clouding your brain, your response falls from your lips before you can think better of it, “Sometimes, I like to imagine you bending me over the front counter, lifting up my skirt, ripping a hole in my stockings, and fucking me where everyone can see.”

“Naughty girl,” he groans, rising up and pulling you flush against him. He undoes several of the buttons of your uniform shirt while kissing and sucking on the tender spot between the bottom of your left earlobe and the corner of your jaw. You gasp as he slips a cool hand inside of your bra, cupping one of your breasts and running his thumb over a hard nipple, and you press your ass into him in response. Feeling the outline of what’s undoubtedly a large cock straining against the seam of Dmitri’s pants, your mouth begins to water at the thought of him slowly stretching your cunt open with it before fucking you relentlessly. 

You breathe out, “I hope you plan on fucking me with this tonight,” running a hand over his dick and squeezing.

Dmitri chokes out a response that’s caught between a moan and a laugh, “I hope that your pretty little pussy can handle my cock, princess,” bringing a hand back down under your skirt and smirking when he sees that your arousal has begun leaking down the inside of your thighs.

He turns you around, kissing you deeply, fucking your mouth with his tongue, and his jacket falls to the ground as you pull it off of him. He unbuttons the rest of your shirt, and you let out a breathy little gasp as he untucks it from your skirt, pausing to squeeze your hips firmly in his large hands. Tossing your top to the side, he marvels at the way your breasts spill out of your bra before reaching behind you to unclasp it. Dmitri leans in, and you run your hands through his hair, panting as he traces circles with his tongue before starting to suck on your nipples. 

A small sound of surprise leaves your mouth as Dmitri’s strong hands return to your ass, giving a quick squeeze as he begins to hoist you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist. You both kick off your shoes, and he carries you toward the kitchen, placing you down on the edge of the island. His eyes scan the room for a moment, considering, and he squeezes your thigh briefly before walking toward the sink. He returns a moment later, a knife in his hands, and you bite your lip to stifle a gasp as you realize what he’s about to do. Bunching your skirt up around your waist, he carefully trails the dull side of the blade up the inside of your thighs and then slides the curved tip of the handle over your hot core, sending another jolt of desire through your body. He gazes at you for a moment before he opens your legs wide and pulls the stockings outward at the junction between your thighs. You hear the sound of tearing fabric, and then he puts the knife down.

A sob of pleasure falls from your lips as he uses the new hole he just made to push aside your panties and slide a single callused finger through your dripping folds. You whine at the loss of contact as he pulls his hand away, placing his now glistening finger in his mouth and sucking it clean. Your pussy aches for more stimulation, and you unconsciously buck your hips upward toward him. Dmitri smirks and tuts, “Patience.”

He leans in to kiss you deeply, swallowing your moans as you feel two thick fingers sliding against your hot core. He plunges one inside with a wet squelch, slowly pumping a finger in and out of your needy cunt. He bites your lip, sucking on it for a moment before letting go, leaning his forehead against yours, and murmuring appreciatively, “So wet, you lovely girl. Is this all for me?”

You nod, unable to do anything but pant and moan as picks up his pace and inserts another thick finger. Entranced by the sight of your arousal pooling out of your wet, sloppy cunt all over your stockings and onto the counter beneath you, Dmitri palms himself roughly over his pants before leaning down to taste you. You cry out in pleasure as he grabs your ass with either hand and buries his face in your cunt, eagerly fucking his tongue into your hole like a man starved. You allow him to continue to hungrily lap at your folds for a few more moments before you’re overcome by the need to feel his cock splitting you open, and you grab his hair, pulling him in for a filthy kiss, tasting yourself on his lips. 

Clad only in your rumpled skirt and your torn, soaked stockings, your breasts bounce as you slide down off of the island. Dmitri watches you intently as you kneel down on the floor in front of him, taking your time to remove his belt and unbutton his pants. He cups the back of your head as you pull his thick, leaking cock out of his boxers. A strangled moan escapes Dmitri’s throat when you spit on his dick, pumping it with one hand as you cup his balls with another. 

Dmitri grunts in pleasure as you put your lips on his cock, licking and sucking at the tip. You run your tongue up and down it before eventually taking him whole into your mouth, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as his dick hits the back of your throat. Feeling his hand still resting gently against your hair, you push back against it. His eyes widen a fraction as he realizes what you want him to do, and you look up at him, squeezing the backs of his thighs in affirmation before he begins fucking your mouth. A line of drool begins to spill down the side of your mouth, and when you slip a hand under your skirt to play with your aching cunt, Dmitri has to fight not to shoot spurts of hot cum down your throat right then and there. 

“If we don’t stop now, your pretty little lips are going to be dripping with my cum, sweetheart,” Dmitri breathes out, voice wrecked.

You pull your mouth off of his dick with a pop and look up at him, a challenge in your eyes as you say, “You’d better get your cock inside of me, then.”

He asks you huskily, “You want me to fuck you like this? Right here?”

You nod, and a feral sound leaves his mouth as he pulls his dick out of your mouth and bends down to pull you to your feet. He turns you around so you’re bent over the counter, and you hear a tearing noise as he rips the hole in your stockings even wider. You whine, and he leans his body into yours, pinning you down and pressing your face down sideways against the counter as he nips at your earlobe and whispers in your ear, “Such a dirty little girl. Look at you, your messy little pussy is dripping everywhere, begging to be filled. Do you want to feel my fat cock inside of you?”

Your response is drowned out by the shameless moan that falls from your lips unbidden when he lazily begins to pump his fingers in and out of your cunt again. 

“I need to hear you say it, солнышко,” he says calmly, voice a direct contrast to the way his fingers are eagerly fucking into you. 

“Please fuck me, daddy.”

The last word comes out before you can stop yourself, and a depraved, feral noise rumbles in Dmitri’s throat as he kicks your legs wider apart, pushes your panties aside, and slides his thick, leaking cock inside of you, reveling in the way your tight pussy clamps down on him. You grip for purchase on the counter as Dmitri stretches you open. Your hard nipples rub against the cool countertop as his hips snap to yours in a brutal pace, and his balls wetly slap against your ass as he bottoms out in your cunt.

White hot pleasure begins to build inside of you as you Dmitri fucks you harder, and you both brokenly moan in unison. He reaches a hand around your waist, and with the added stimulation of his deft fingers on your clit, the peak of your pleasure hits you like a freight train. Your palms skid along the counter as your vision goes black at the edges, and you cum so hard it leaks all over Dmitri’s cock as he roughly fucks you through your orgasm. 

Your lust-addled mind supplies another unspoken part of your aforementioned fantasy, one that you now desperately want, and you smoothly push him off of you and turn around to kneel down in front of him again. You lick your cum off of his cock, sucking and pumping it briefly before pulling off, leaving your lips parted slightly as you stare up at him with a needy, inviting gaze, looking absolutely debauched with your glossy lips and smudged eyeliner. He groans in pleasure when he understands what you want him to do, reaching down to fist himself, pumping his cock roughly until thick spurts of cum are shooting out of it, splattering all over your waiting face and tits. 

After he comes down from his orgasm, he shuffles off for a moment in the direction of your washroom. He returns with a warm, wet rag, and he kneels down in front of you as he gently wipes his cum off of you. Something tugs in your chest as he puts the soiled cloth aside and kisses you tenderly on the nose, on your cheek, and then on your lips. Dmitri scoops you into his arms, carrying you toward the door that he assumes is your bedroom.

When you reach your bed, he leans down to pull the covers back, placing you down into the bed and taking off your skirt, stockings, and underwear, tossing them to the ground. You reach up to pull his shirt over his head, adding it to the pile, and he removes his boxers and pants before sliding in between the sheets naked beside you. 

You’re not sure how much time passes as you lay there, both on your sides and staring at one another in the dim light washing over your bed from the lone street lamp outside. He lovingly traces a finger from your shoulder blade, to your eyebrows, down your nose, and across your jaw line. In return, you run a hand through his hair, and his eyes close in contentment. 

Eventually, Dmitri brushes a finger over your bottom lip, and you grasp his wrist, opening your mouth to begin sucking on it. His eyes shoot open as you bob on his finger, and he inserts another, his gaze turning heated as drool leaks out of your mouth and down his hand. You brush a hand over your stiffening nipples, moaning softly, and he cups your breasts as he leans over to lick into your waiting mouth. 

Pushing himself up slightly so that he’s leaning down over you, Dmitri tilts your chin to look into his eyes as he purrs, “Are you going to behave for daddy?”

You nod, your cunt clenching down around nothing, and you can feel sticky, wet arousal beginning to leak down the inside of your thighs again. Dmitri smirks, moving his hand down to grip at your throat, tightening his grip when you moan in response. 

“Open,” he rasps.

Without hesitation, you comply, and a shiver goes down your spine as he mutters, “Good girl,” before hooking his thumb over the edge of your lips. He slides the digit deep enough along the inside of your cheek to make you gag slightly before leaning down to roughly spit into your mouth. Obediently, you swallow it, and Dmitri hums in pleasure. 

You reach for his hardening cock, stroking it as you push him onto his back and climb on top, straddling him. Dmitri runs his hands over your hips, praises falling from his lips as you slide your soaked cunt up and down along his fat cock. He bites his lip and throws his head back in pleasure, gripping your hips tightly when you line yourself up and finally sink down onto him. 

Dmitri gazes at you with hooded eyes as you eagerly ride him, licking his lips as he takes in the way your breasts bounce with each thrust. You catch him staring, and you lean down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss, pulling back slightly to whisper against his mouth, “Fill me up with your cum, Dmitri.”

He growls, and before you know what’s happening, you find yourself on all fours with Dmitri behind you. He slams his dick into you from behind, and you choke out a wail of pleasure. He spreads your ass cheeks apart, marveling at the sight of his dick sliding in and out of your pussy. His thumb brushes over your other tight hole and you moan loudly, pushing back onto his dick desperately. He grins, beginning to rub the hole, and you whine in response, wiggling your hips and nearly panting in frustration. Dmitri spits, generously spreading it around the rim before slowly pressing a finger inside as he continues to relentlessly fuck your cunt. 

“Do you like when I fuck you like this, солнышко? Like daddy’s little whore?” He asks, a strangled edge to his voice.

You nod and cry out, “Please, yes. Fuck me harder, Dmitri.”

He groans, bringing a hand down hard against one of your ass cheeks, and your pussy clenches down harder on his dick at the pleasurable stinging sensation. He smacks you two more times, and you press back into him, urging him to go deeper. Dmitri wraps a hand around your throat as he pushes you down flush against the bed, fucking you roughly into the mattress. 

Grasping your hips, Dmitri pulls you back onto all fours to shove his cock deeper inside of you, moaning when he sees how coated his dick is in your sopping wet slick as he pulls out slightly. He feels your legs begin to tremble as heat builds inside of you, nearly reaching a crest, and flips you onto your back.

He grips your throat, and—dizzy and desperate with pleasure—your mouth falls open. His eyes widen a fraction, and he grins before leaning down to spit inside of it. You swallow, and he hungrily watches the bob of your throat as he slides his dick back into your cunt and begins hammering into you again. Without warning, the heat that had slowly been creeping through you explodes, and you don’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed as clear fluid gushes out of your cunt.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he pants out as he watches you messily squirt all over his cock and balls, and moments later, he cries out as his dick pulses with his own orgasm. You hold him fast against you, milking his cock as he dumps a heavy load of thick, hot cum inside of your pussy. You whine at the loss of contact when he pulls his softening cock out of you and watch as he spreads your legs apart and leans down in front of you to lap at the cum that’s messily pouring out of your cunt, leaking all over yourself and the sheets, before eventually crawling back up to hold you gently in his arms, praising you and whispering sweet nothings into your ears. 

---

You wake up the next morning to the feeling of something thick and hard slowly grinding between your ass cheeks and quiet moans from behind you. Dmitri’s hands trails across your naked body, cupping your breasts and teasing your nipples. Biting your lip, you angle his cock against your folds to show him the slick that’s already begun to gather there.

“So eager for me,” he remarks, using your arousal to allow his cock to wetly slide between your ass cheeks. The head of it catches on the tight ring of muscle there, and you gasp, eagerly pressing back against him, silently asking for more. At that, Dmitri flips you over so you’re face down, and he roughly palms your cheeks as he slides his dick along the crevice of your ass. 

Dmitri leans forward, bare chest brushing against your back as he whispers into your ear, “You want my cock in your ass, dirty girl?”

“Please, Dmitri,” you beg him as you reach an arm out to pull open your night stand, tossing him a bottle of lubricant. He chuckles darkly, popping it open and spreading a generous amount over your hole as he carefully begins to work you open, finger by finger. 

When he finally pushes his thick, lube-covered cock into your ass, a feral moan punches out of him and you nearly black out in pleasure; you feel so full you want to scream. He begins to pump in and out of you at a torturous, leisurely pace, folding himself over you to bite and suck on the side of your neck while he plays with your breasts. Desperate, needy moans pour from your lips at the hot, wet, filthy slide of his dick in your tight hole, and you reach a hand down to your untouched cunt. Dmitri notices and bats your hand away, replacing it with his large, thick fingers. A low, rough grunt leaves his mouth as he pumps them inside of you, feeling you dripping into his palm. Your back arches and your muscles tighten as the smoldering heat in your abdomen takes you over the edge, your pussy clenching on Dmitri’s hands and cum flooding out as he holds you tight through your intense orgasm. 

He pants into your ear, “Daddy’s going to fill your ass up with his cum now, princess,” and he hammers into you so hard that you see stars. His dick twitches inside of you as he reaches his peak, and you can feel it as he begins to ejaculate inside of your ass, roughly fucking pools of his hot cum into your tight hole. When he pulls it out of you, you can feel his sticky seed leaking out of your ass and over the backs of your thighs, and your body shakes in pleasure as you feel his tongue begin to prod and lap at your fucked out hole. 

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispers afterward, pulling you close. 

THREE MONTHS LATER

While you had been tempted to follow Dmitri back to America, the cost and effort you had already put into your studies in Russia prevented you from leaving until you were finished three months later. Now, you’ve been back home in Chicago for two weeks, and you’ve returned to your post as a teaching assistant at your university. After a long day of grading tests, you’re standing at your desk in your small, private office, shuffling paperwork into your bag as you prepare to head home.

In the days since setting foot back on American soil, you’ve toyed with the idea of taking a road trip to Hawkins, Indiana time and time again to find Dmitri. But each time you go to reach for your luggage to begin packing, you freeze, a small, uncertain part of you mockingly asking what makes you think that night with Dmitri was anything more than a pleasurable, messy fuck for him. Though he hadn’t given you many details, you’d gotten the hint that his decision to leave his country for an undetermined amount of time wasn’t exactly a leisure trip, and it feels borderline presumptuous to imagine yourself pathetically crossing state lines to seek him out. 

But now, as you think back to the hushed, intimate moments you had shared before he left, your self-doubt wavers again. After your early morning romp, he had pulled you to him and protectively wrapped his arms around you, and you had fallen asleep to the sound of him adoringly whispering tender phrases that you couldn’t quite understand into your ear. It was that last soft memory, before he had quietly extracted himself from your sheets, pressing a kiss to your lips and murmuring a sad goodbye, that kept you up at night. 

“Здрасте, солнышко.” (Hello, sunshine.)

Your thoughts are interrupted by a familiar voice, and you turn your head incredulously toward the source, heart leaping in your chest as you see Dmitri leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets and a warm smile on his face. 

--

A/N: Please suspend your disbelief, as we're going to momentarily pretend that Dmitri isn't a dad (even though he's definitely a dilf) and also Joyce collectively includes herself in the "from Hawkins" introduction for the sake of simplicity.

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#dmitri antonov #enzo stranger things #enzo #enzo x reader #dmitri antonov x reader #stranger things x reader #dee writes

[ethereallocs]

Eyes On Me- Ser Criston Cole x Targaryen Princess

This is based on a request from @grxce101-blog I hope I did your request Justice.

Pairing: Ser Criston Cole x Targaryen Princess

Content/Warning: !!🔞 PLUS ONLY!!, age-gap, p in v penetration, fingering, cunnilingus, angst, swearing, and smut.

Word count: 2.2k

Summary: Being deprived of true pleasure, you seek it for yourself…

You were one of the youngest of Rhaenyra’s children, but you were her only daughter. In an attempt to build a stronger bond for your house, your grandsire Viserys offered your hand to his oldest son Aegon when you were but a babe. When the time came you and your family were well aware of what Prince Aegon was capable of and the menace he had become within the walls of The Red Keep and it was too late to turn back now.

You and queen were always very close, often seeing her lost innocence within you and promised her knight, Ser Criston Cole to you. And in turn he swore his life, soul, and sword to always protect you. You grew to be a beautiful young maiden inside and out. Regardless of your circumstances you were still so very kindhearted and soft spoken. But, you’d be lying if you said you enjoyed your life. You were either being ignored, by your husband or used like a common breeding whore. Fulfilling his desires and birthing his children, with no care for you wants or your desires.

You often read about love in the many book you found in the library and it left you wanting more. Ser Criston found himself watching you a lot more closer than he should and that wasn’t by much since he was sworn to protect your very life, but he was becoming emotionally attached. He would stand outside of your chambers on those God’s forsaken nights that Aegon decided he would have you and he could hear your pain and it broke his heart every time. It was something he could never get used to.

Such a beautiful soul such as you deserved to be cherished, spoiled, loved, and desired. He would find himself overcompensating for the lack of your husband’s affections. Giving you wildflowers or even just listening to you read. Soon enough he was falling for you, thinking of you constantly. Dreaming of you, fantasizing about you giving yourself to him. He prided himself in how honorable he was, but you were making him question just how important that was to him.

Quickly growing tired of the same routine of being stuck in a loveless marriage you found yourself escaping into the pages of books, imagining yourself being loved and wanted like the maidens in the books. Until one day in search of new material, you stumbled upon an unmarked book. You flipped through a few pages and your pale cheeks flushed and you quickly closed it knowing a lady shouldn’t be reading this type of literature, but your curiosity would get the best of you.

You were like a thief in the night sneaking around like you had truly done something awful, holding the book close to your chest, quickly making your way to your chambers. Criston quickly following after you in confusion trying to understand why you were acting so strange.Tonight your husband was not taking refuge within his own home and you were thankful for it. You could get some privacy. Sitting by the light of fireplace you started skimming through the pages realizing this book was about sex.

You read about a man’s pleasure first, but what really got your attention was the places where they spoke of a woman’s pleasure and something they called an orgasm. “What in the Seven hells is an orgasm?” You spoke out loud, biting your lips at the description of what the act was truly supposed to be like. Not once had Aegon ever asked you did what he was doing to you feel good. Honestly, it did not it hurt most of the time and you normally laid limp while he…finished.

You were in awe and shock as well as anger. Was this really to be your life. A life with no love, not even the smallest thing pleasure. Your pig of a husband deprived you of such and in your anger and defiance you decided she find out what real pleasure was like. Opening your door with a slight crack you called to your knight. “Ser Criston…” He had been standing at your door steadfast looking straight ahead vigilant as always. Hearing your sweet voice call his name he turned slightly to see you there peeking through the door. “Yes, my Princess?” Your hand grabbed his and you tugged at his arm to signal him inside. He hesitated knowing all to well how this could end, but he saw those lilac eyes and that sweet pout of yours and he could not resist your command.

Stepping inside he stood awkwardly and you too never having another man other than your husband alone with you in your room. The two of you sat in silence, Ser Criston clearing his throat to break it before speaking. “What do you need of me, Princess?” You pick up the book you looked puzzled and opened your mouth, but hesitated slightly. “Ser Criston do you know what an orgasm for a woman is?” Red flushing to your cheeks, he almost laughed at how innocent you were. Your eyes wide with curiosity…oh he could teach so many things, but it was not his place. “Y/N, that is not my place to tell you.” He spoke in a sweet tone looking at you like you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on. You put the book down and twiddled with your fingers dancing around the question you wished to ask.

He watched you closely watching the way you debated with yourself. Should you say it, what if he agreed, or worse what if you got caught. Was this worth it…mustering up the courage you stepped toward him and it spilled out. “You don’t have to tell me, but you can show me. Right?” Eyes of lavender searched for an answer in those sweet brown eyes of his and his breath hitched within his chest. “Princess, I cannot do what it is you ask of me.” The thoughts that already dwell in the back of his mind coming to the surface causing his member to harden.

Going out on a limb you grab his hands wrapping them around your tiny waist and pull him in closer. “Please…” You whisper, looking into his eyes knowing that it could only be him to show her. “I know you hear what happens here in this room and it is not what I want for the rest of my life. I want to know what it feels like to be pleased and not used. Please, Criston even if it’s just once. I promise I will not ask this of you again.”

He had thought of you having you just like this, your body in his hands. You wanting him, needing him so. It was all too much to handle with his cock pressing against his breeches and armor. He was in agony what was he to do, the was treason not to mention you’d be put to death if anyone found out, he could not risk your life. It meant too much to him, but this was a once in a lifetime experience. He might not ever get the chance again.

Your hands cupped his face and his gaze found his way back to you. Leaning forward stopping just as your lips touched he broke the barrier and pressed his lips to yours kissing you feverishly. Pulling you in he almost lifted you off the ground as you moaned into each others mouths. Was this what lust and desire felt like. A warm between your legs began to radiate and the feeling of your slick pooling within your undergarments confirmed it. Ser Criston pulled away to remove the annoying armor that kept him from feeling you entirely and you helped quietly placing it aside.

After he was undressed your eyes scanned over his body. He was beautiful and his cock…well let just say you were in for a hell of a ride. He turned your back to him carefully unlacing the corset of your dress letting the garment pool at your feet. He left you in your chemise and took in how angelic you looked. His strong arms picking you up and carrying you to the bed where he laid you down ever so gently .

His hand resting on either side of your head while he hovered over you while his lips crashed into yours again. It felt like he had sucked all the air from your lungs but you wanted more, he pulled the layer of fabric up from your legs pulling it over your head, throwing it aside, finally seeing the body he dreamt about every single night. “You are breath taking…” Calloused hands ran over your soft skin fingers rolling and pinching your hardened nipples causing a whimper to fall from your lips.

He smiled at how you reacted leaning forward to take the stiff pink flesh between his lips slowly sucking. His left arm curled around you to hold you close while his free hand ran down your stomach until his finger spread open your sticky mound. He groaned in excitement feeling your slick coating his fingers already and he hadn’t even placed them inside yet. Two fingers rubbing circles around the ball of nerves sending shocks of pleasure through you. You gasped and your body twitched as he laid next to you burying his face into your neck leaving sweet kisses along your collar bone.

“May I put my fingers inside, Y/N?” Unable to speak you grabbed his hand pushing it further and he smiled kissing your lips once more and one of his thick fingers entered you starving cunt. Your sounds of pleasure only aroused him more, his cock throbbing so much it was almost painful soon another finger followed and he growled and how tight you squeezed just his fingers he could only imagine how it would feel to bury his cock into you.

“Oh Gods…fuck..” He chuckled. “I never knew you could say something so naughty, Princess.” He teased curling his fingers to hit that spot that he knew would send her over the edge. Her head dropped back and her breathing quickened feeling pressure and pleasure building and intensifying within her stomach. “That’s it, my love let…it…go” You listened and releasing you slick coating his fingers he cooed in delight licking them cleaning savoring the taste. “ohh Criston…”Trailing kisses down your stomach, Ser Criston laid in between your legs, pushing them to your chest.

Your exposed cunny made him smile. You looked ethereal this way the light from the fire illuminated your skin and showing him the aftermath of your first orgasm. He licked the entirety of your cunt with hunger relishing the taste. “So…delicious.” He words dragged his desire to have you growing intensely. Your eyes closed and you looked away causing him smack your inner thigh. “Ah, ah, ah…eyes on me, Princess.” The sudden shock from the smack sent electricity through you and it turned you on more than ever before.

“You are a depraved little minx..so innocent, but so naughty.” He groaned sucking and lapping vigorously until he couldn’t hold himself anymore he needed to fill her with his cock. He was now on top of her his cock lined up at her soaking core . “Are you ready?” You looked into his eyes and nodded. Without another word he pushed into your needy heat moaned at how her tight walls squeezed him so. “oh fuck…Y/N..” His voice shuddered and he kissed your lips slowly rolling his hips into you.

Writhing underneath him you wrapped your arms around his body digging your nails into his back as he made love to you. The sounds of your love making carried and you now knew what it felt like to be wanted and desired. You could feel him fucking all of his love and devotion into you and you wanted more. He flipped over now with you on top of him.

You weren’t use to this new position but the way his cock filled your stomach made you understand how good this position was about to make you feel. Your hips rolled hesitantly his cock hitting the sponges flesh inside you over and over causing you to buck your hips wildly against him. The coil in you stomach tightened with each thrust. He was almost close as well grabbing you hips to slam up into. Pulling you in he kissed you lips quickly pounding up in to that pretty little cunt. The sounds of skin slapping and him stirring up those sticky insides of yours sent him over the edge and you quickly followed. Coming together the two of you didn’t even care that he had just spilled his seed inside of you.

In the glow of your orgasms he held you close and kissed your forehead. “I love you, Y/N. I will follow you to then ends of the realm.” You ran your fingers through his dark tresses kissing him once more before he stood up to get dressed and stand at your door once more. “And I love you..”

I hope you all enjoyed the ride. Let me know how you liked it and if it should be continued…

#ser criston cole #ser crispin #criston x reader #criston cole #ser criston #ser criston x y/n #ser criston lovers #read it #fic rec #highly recommend #request

[lyricailove]

So here's that Fiona and Women meta I said I'd do a while ago.

Preface this by saying: This is not Fiona hate because I don't hate Fiona. I actually have a lot of grace and empathy for Fiona. I find a lot of the hate she gets is either greatly exaggerated or outright wrong. That said, I'm all for proper critique and that's what this is.

When it comes to Fiona and how she relates to other women, there's a lot of judgment and competition going on. The only exception is V, and I suspect it's because V is one, already in a relationship so Fiona's not competing with her for other men, and two, because V has a certain kind of feminity that Fiona respects.

Fiona strikes me as the type who is a feminist in name only. She's someone who slips into respectability politics in a way that's counterproductive to actually supporting women. She wants equality for women and for women to be respected but only certain women.

This brings me to her treatment of Mandy, Svetlana, and Debbie.

Mandy

From the moment when Mandy and Lip get together properly, Fiona is very judgmental and rude to Mandy. To the point where Mandy knows Fiona doesn't like her and if my readings are right, it hurts Mandy's feelings. To a certain extent, Mandy looks up to Fiona and even relates to her. They both being the girls in their family who do/have taken care of the domestic duties of the household and who seek refuge in sexual relationships. But just like I think Mandy relates a lot to Fiona, I think Fiona sees herself in Mandy. I think that's what scares her about Mandy and Lip's relationship. Fiona, as most can tell, doesn't like herself very much and because of that anything reminds her of herself she rejects. Granted, she won't kick Mandy out but she's not very warm to her either. It's like cold acceptance of her presence. I think if Fiona had taken the time to get to know Mandy, they would have gotten along a lot better. Maybe even learned from each other. Hopefully at Milkovich/Gallagher Christmases, they've had the chance to talk things out.

Svetlana

I feel like Fiona's feelings toward Svetlana are both clear-cut and complicated. On one hand, Svetlana was the wife of her brother's boyfriend and even if we never saw her and Ian talk about that, I'd imagine Fiona has an idea of that period. Also, how much it hurt Ian to watch Mickey get married and have a family. So, I'm including that as a reason. Not saying it's a fair assessment of Svetlana's role, because I also see Svet as a victim in that paradigm along with Ian and Mickey. There's also the jealousy of Svetlana and V bonding while Fiona is busy. V and Fiona eventually made up but by the time they had that conversation Svetlana was gone and there was no way she and Fiona could've patched that up, which I think they would have. There's the amazing scene where Svetlana actually calls Fiona out for her looking down on Svetlana. She calls out how Fiona judges her while not acknowledging that Svet works hard and is determined to make a life for herself. Svetlana has the confidence in herself that Fiona lacks. I think that breeds a level of resentment, because like a lot of people, Fiona looks down on Svetlana as a sex worker/former sex worker. Like Svetlana says, she works hard and is not deterred from her path so she will succeed. Whereas Fiona will get cold feet and self-sabotage when she's doing well for herself. It's like she thinks she doesn't deserve it. If Fiona and Svetlana had been able to be on good terms, I think Svetlana could've been a good influence on Fiona.

Debbie

I know this is gonna seem like a cop-out but I blame the writers for how Fiona and Debbie's bouts would develop. The only two sisters in a house full of brothers and an alcoholic father who only loves himself. They should've been the closest. But instead, we get power struggles and anti-choice storylines. I have to bring back the fake feminist point from earlier. I think Fiona is one of those women that's pro-choice but only if it's the choice she agrees with. Was Debbie being a teen mom the best choice? No, no one would ever say that. But, by the time she learned of the pregnancy, it was too late to force Debbie into terminating, and that wasn't up to her to begin with. Fiona was working off emotion and not being solution-oriented. She shamed Debbie for getting pregnant, tried to force her to get an abortion, and got physical when she wouldn't agree to it. I don't doubt that Fiona loves her niece now, but the beginning was a nightmare. And in the end, Debbie defied all odds and showed herself to be a top-notch mother. Let's also talk about how Debbie was the only sibling to show Fiona empathy when she was having her breakdown, and how Fiona left Debbie in charge of the house when she left. All that potential to show them being close is left untouched because Shameless is a show created and steered by men and it shows.

#Justice for functional women bonding on Shameless #I still love Fiona and I think she gets way more hate than she deserves #But the way she treats other women is wrong and it should be said #Women stop hating other women challenge #Shameless US #Shameless Meta #Fiona Gallagher #Debbie Gallagher #Svetlana Yevgenivna #Svetlana Milkovich #Shameless #Mandy Milkovich

[seetangus]

Flowers - Azula x reader - Part V

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part VI, Part VII, [main masterlist]

Azula x reader, requested by 🌹-anon, warnings: arranged marriage, feelings of great sadness

1.007 words, please alarm me about any mistakes if you find any. Please have fun :)

You arrived home.

It did not feel like home, though. The last years of your life you had spent in the royal palace and on missions in the name of the fire nation, over time losing almost all bounds to your birthplace. You hadn't even realised how distant you had grown from this place until you arrived. Still, the place did not seem completely foreign - many memories of your childhood were connected to it, and somehow everything felt familiar.

Maybe this place would not seem so distant if there was a different reason for your arrival; maybe it would truly feel like home if you hadn't come here just to be married off to a stranger and taken away again in a matter of days. Suddenly, the belief that taking this path instead of staying in the palace didn't seem very convincing anymore. Would it have been wise to oppose the marriage?

That thought had crossed your mind several times while you were traveling here, and just like all the other times you pushed it away. You pushed it so far that it would, at least you hoped so, not occur again until the marriage had been accomplished. You had to keep your family's honor intact. Also, you tried to force yourself to believe that your suitor maybe wasn't so bad - maybe they were a nice and likable person, not all people who wanted to marry someone were bad, were they? Surely the wish to marry you without ever having met you originated from them having heard good things about you and not because you had held a high ranking position in the royal palace up until now, being on missions with the princess and her elites, having gained quite an impressive reputation in the process, right?

That did not sound very convincing. But now was not the time to waste any more thoughts on that matter, as the moment of meeting your future spouse came closer and closer. You just hoped that this marriage would show Azula that rejecting you in such a shameful manner had been a mistake, although you had to admit that the probability of Azula even being able to feel something like regret was pretty low.

But that had been enough thinking, your mind was now entirely focused on something else - you heard footsteps coming closer, and they were not of the shoes of any servant or the such coming to gather your luggage, rather it was the unmistakable sound of leather boots - in your time in the palace you had heard this exact sound a thousand times, as they were typically worn by both soldiers and firebenders - you wore them too. Could it be your fiance? They were a firebender too, weren't they?

Gathering all the courage you could, you stood straight and mustered the best smile you were able to form under these circumstances - many feelings you had tried to suppress flooded your head; every emotion from excitement to fear seemed to rush through your thoughts. The footsteps came closer. Any moment, they would enter this room. You swallowed.

< two days later >

It had been horrible. All of it. Your future spouse and the treatment they gave you had transformed the last two days into a hell of sorrow and the thought of how dreadful your married life would be had never left your mind, scratching on your sanity like a demon housing in your soul.

Most of the time of the dinners you shared with your parents and your fiance you had spent crying, withdrawn to your chamber so that no one could see you. Every minute you could spend alone you gladly did, most often seeking refuge under a tree you had spent many hours laying under in your childhood, being thankful for a place far away from that cruel person your parents had chosen for you.

Just when your tears had dried once again and you stood up from your cowering position below the tree, which you had shed more tears under in the last two days than in your entire childhood, your fiance appeared, marching towards you. Was this your life now? Was that person who dared calling you things like "my love" and "dear", the phrases of affection sounding dead and blasphemous in their mouth, sent only to bring sadness and despair over your life?

Would they ever change for the better? Would this ever end? You laughed at your naive optimism. If your suffering was supposed to end, t h e y had to end.

After moments of silence only interrupted by the continuous sound of their unworthy feet coming closer to your tree, they were here. Again. When would they not be there anymore, once you were married? You should really get used to it. Pretending that this would not be your life from now on was pointless and would only make it harder to accept in the future.

They grinned at you and held their hand towards you. You dared not to look at their face, fearing that it might appear in your dreams. Tragically however, you could not refuse to take their hand, yours hesitantly making its way over to theirs, your entire soul screaming and screeching when your skin touched theirs. Their hand groped greedily around yours, its hold felt more like metal binds than like human touch.

Walking towards 'home' with them, you suddenly perceived the sound of a Komodo Rhino, which was very uncommon for this lonely town. Even more surprised you were when the beast you just heard jumped in front of you on the road, preventing you from continuing your walk.

The animal was saddled, ridden by someone you had hoped not to see anytime soon as you thought that she was to blame for all the misery of your marriage, as it would never have come this far if she had accepted you in the first place.

Right before you stood Azula, glancing furiously at the sight of you and your future spouse holding hands.

< • ◇ • >

I'm so sorry, originally I planned to do the whole finale in one go but somehow I got so invested in describing how awful the suitor person is, it just kept going 😭

Anyways I hope you enjoyed the chapter, even though it is a bot different from what 🌹you had written in your request.

#azula x reader #azula #azula x y/n #atla azula #atla #atla x reader #azula avatar #azula x gn reader #azula x you #fire lord azula #princess azula #character x you #character x reader #x gn reader #gn reader #x reader #x y/n #x you