#slow down molasses

[bleaksqueak]

Well, I feel a bit like a Dumb of Ass. Maybe you remember me hurting my back some months back and that slowing my art production down? I never *fully* recovered from that. It would get better, but then it would flare back up if i so much as blinked wrong (or slept in a Very Normal pose - like for example, a cactuar pose or Hail unto Gloria (Gloria a Las Plagas, maybe even). I've been fortunate my whole life not to ever deal with back, arm, shoulder or hand pain despite the lifestyle of drawing like a manic art weasel, so it turns out, due to that, I might not have known how to deal with back pain after hurting myself... and for extra stupidity points, "it's just a mild thing, so I need to rest, it's not worth a special doctor visit and complaint" ... so guess who took resting too far on top of far reduced physical activity o nthe heels of lockdowns and got into a severe inactivity loop that trapped them in a recurring pain loop due to it. (Hint: It Were Me) SO UH. PSA, DON'T DO THAT TO YOURSELF. Good news is I'm doing something about it because I reached my breaking point of annoyance over being Slowed Down and Achey. My brain going 90 miles a minute and wanting to slather everything down does not mix well with a body LARPing as a bedridden victorian urchin boy: "Oh, what tragedy.... A Breeze [Contorts Into Pain Pretzel]"

The rest of the good news (but also maybe the sad part) is just after getting back to doing basic stretching and getting back into exercise break routines, I already feel way better with way less pain. My back/neck/traps had become a giant (and possibly sentient) knot.

#This is also me grumbling about how frustrating it's been to be slowed down on my usual art output #Always been able to get my ideas out like lightning and then one back injury later around my birthday and I've been in molasses hell #Got so caught up in being confused why it wasn't getting better that I forgot about that whole Use it or Lose It thing #tldr dumb stupid dumb #I say that in an affectionate way bc it's important to knuckle yourself in a loving way instead of actually beating yourself up over it #I'm just glad that I'm starting to feel actually better and that my back is feeling less and less like a limp noodle #my health has never been stellar but i've always liked to be physically active #but no more dogs to take on runs and lockdowns and straining my back turned my think meat into mush and decided Lets Become as Potato #Anyway hi how are you guys

[dreamswillbeyourwintermeat]

God save me from product people who don't know what utc means or what a modal is

#look i am trying to extend grace #but you are making it very very difficult #a good product person is worth their weight in gold #a bad product person will slow you down like molasses

[merrysithmas]

send me cheerful obikin headcanons please!!

#i am having a really cruddy week #it's been a mindnumbing slodge of ptsd like im stomping through snow in an avalanche or hauling myself through molasses #my mind is on slow down like when you hear a song that's been altered to avoid copyright infringement #so yes happy cute headcanons majorly appreciated #like how do they make each other smile?? what is anakins fav song??? what kind of nonJedi activites do they like to do together #what's obiwans fav thing anakin ever invented for hj #him #how do they make each other laugh inappropriately in serious moments #who is the senator obiwan hates the most #i need to know #whats anakins fav tea blend #obikin

[onismdaydream]

kento nanami would be so soft, his voice gentle and smooth as he praised you, lips pressing against the column of your neck and jaw. strong hands resting on your hips, occasionally squeezing as he encouraged you.

"does that feel good, darling?" you nodded your head, eyes screwed shut and lower lip between your teeth. nanami hummed a soothing sound deep within his chest. he drews back slightly, gaze falling to the spot between your legs.

you were making such a mess on his thigh, the fabric getting darker as you dragged yourself up and down. the material of his dress slacks didn't make for the best friction, but it felt so smooth. the slick dripping from your hole only added to the easy glide of your body.

"kento, w-wanna cum." your forehead fell to his shoulder, hips moving faster and more desperate, mouth open as you panted.

nanami couldn't deny just how much you affected him, how much his cock ached from watching you chase your orgasm on his leg. the way your face scrunched in pleasure when your clit pressed against him just right, the way your breath hitched when his hand covered one of your breasts, the way your body was so warm and soft — it drove him mad. he would be satisfied making you feel good, never once asking for pleasure in return, as long as you gave him those reactions.

"i know, baby," he pressed a kiss to your temple, his palm resting on your leg so his thumb could rub at your sensitive clit. your fists gripped at his shirt, the material wrinkling under your touch, as you tried to ground yourself, orgasm building inside your stomach.

his sweet praise whispered in your ear is what pushed you over the edge, your thighs shaking from the intensity. the euphoric feeling spread through your veins like molasses, sticky and slow, drawn out.

as you catch your breath, body relaxing against his own strong frame, nanami held you through it. he wouldn't trade this for anything.

#BLEH gross. #what is it about him that makes me so sappyyyyyy #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #kento nanami #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #perce.doc #| ☆ | — jjkai

[anantaru]

cw. tit play, fem! reader, first time seeing you naked, flustered zhongli & a little pervy zhongli

zhongli has never seen you naked before, and although your relationship was still new and in its early stages, his thoughts had already drifted into the imagination of how otherworldly beautiful you must look underneath those clothes— ugh, he just couldn't help himself.

and it's so embarrassing when you first show him your tits all intimate and exposed as you moved smoothly around the skin, his golden eyes following your every move as you proudly cup the mounds in your palms while squeezing them for him, putting on a sensual show, enjoying to watch how his thick bulge was growing just at the sight of you.

he hums deep into his chest before exhaling through his nose, and nothing was in between you besides a breeze of air rising and falling with zhongli feeling a bit lightheaded and dazed by your bare body— thinking back about all those times where he had touched himself at the thought of this.

you see it hidden in the sparkling glimmer of his eyes that your boyfriend was just strong enough to resist burying his face in your chest, and you furthermore lean into him before taking a seat on his lap— your hands sliding from your breasts to come up and cradle his blushing face, signalizing your deep lust for him because it just wasn't enough anymore.

at the sight of this, zhongli knows now that he would do everything right when it comes to pleasuring you, he'd make it his duty to fuck you how you deserved— make his length brand your searing spots with his aching veins, waiting until your pussy remembers the shape of him as your walls introduce his shaft to your addicting trace— your cunt constricting and clenching down on him softly, sweetly and like you never want him to leave again.

over and over until you're squirming for mercy.

the way zhongli knows you would sound so sweet as well, those concealed noises simmering below the surface, dripping like candid molasses on his tongue, his mind wandering through his wild imaginations before your voice draws his attention right back to you.

"do you want to touch them?" you ask with a slight wink, your tits bouncing as you go back to squeeze them roughly, "if you let me," he pants back, answering a little too fast to his own liking.

but you really do not have to tell him twice.

zhongli clenches his jaw as he swallows the budding saliva on his tongue— and it's creating a new spark of tension when you let go of your breasts before he places his palms on top of them, starting off slow between kneading and squeezing the flesh and enticing you with the promise of more.

you slant into his touch to relax and are so close to him now, so close that you could feel the heat of his body rattle through your skin as zhongli pinches and twists one nipple before leaning his head forward to take one in his mouth.

well, it's sudden, and you didn't expect him to use his tongue right away, but you knew that he was yearning for this, you could evidently witness the hunger in his eyes, and you whine out through a strangled sound, instantly losing yourself in the hot sensation of his mouth as he hollows his cheeks to suckle on the flesh.

an unquenchable thirst simmers through your desiring touches as you arch your back into him, your toes curling as you look at the mess on your chest coaxing out a shiver from your body— copious amounts of saliva oozing through the splits of his mouth and curving over your frame.

it's all so messy and filthy that it makes you drool at the sight, squeezing your thighs again and again as your sobs and wails grow louder, needier and more desperate before you suddenly press his head into your chest, your stomach fluttering from being stimulated so fucking dearly.

you're done for, in fact, you both are, and you wonder how long this will go before zhongli notices the heavy outline of his bulge on his slacks, because it certainly must hurt him by now— having to deal with those tight pants making it quite difficult for his shaft to twitch and ache in his boxers.

but if you're being honest, you're a little proud of turning him into this.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

#genshin x reader #genshin smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin Impact smut #zhongli x reader #zhongli smut

[ervotica]

strange fascination

warnings: dark!ellie williams + dark!abby anderson x reader, noncon, DARK, smut (18+ only), threesome, ellie refers to her strap as a ‘cock’, drugging, tribbing, throat fucking, almost somno, r is fucked with a strap, cunnilingus, fem!reader, 1.5k words

kinktober masterlist

It’s slow at first; the way the world slowly starts to tip on its axis. Your vision swims, halted still only by Abby’s hulking presence in front of you on the ragged couch. You sniff and bat away the blunt in her hand, though your movements are disjointed, like your limbs are filled with molasses, heavy and sticky. One of her thick, calloused hands coasts the length of your arm, an action which would soothe you under normal circumstances. But you don’t feel right.

It’s an uneasiness settled in the pit of your stomach, a churning for which the cause is undetermined.

“Abby,” you mumble; your voice won’t stretch any further.

“Yeah, hon’?”

The door to your shabby one bedroom apartment creaks; your heart ticks, loud in your own ears.

You regain some awareness as Ellie latches the door shut and comes to crouch in front of you on the couch watching amusedly as you tilt your head, legs dangling from the edge of the worn fabric.

“Hi, gorgeous,” she smiles, all teeth and dimples. It’s unlike her to be so chipper.

You’re frowning. You don’t realise you’re even doing it before Ellie’s reaching a slender hand out and smoothing the creases in your forehead out.

“She’s quiet.”

You almost answer before you realise she’s not speaking to you.

The bigger girl’s hand settles on the back of your neck and squeezes. She taps your chin, settling the blunt between your lips once more.

“Have some more, baby.”

You cough and gag around the paper, trying to expel the smoke from your lungs even as the two girls encourage you to take more of it in. By the time she lets up, you’ve slumped, glassy eyed against Abby’s side.

You’d never noticed how she towers above you before now; you’ve never felt so small, so vulnerable in her presence, even more so with the other girl to your left. Ellie’s sidled in now she knows you’re still and compliant, the very point of her nose nudging at your jugular with a fervour you haven’t seen before. She nips at your earlobe and you squirm.

“No, stop,” you slur through your honey sticky mouth and slack jaw. “Don’t wanna.”

“Lift her for me, Abs,” Ellie murmurs; her voice suddenly has an edge that makes you uneasy. You moan in protest, too far away to form any words, let alone stop them. Abby’s fingers curl around the back of your neck, drawing you up and into her chest, her other hand against your bum as she lifts you into her lap.

“I know, honey,” she coos, breathless between rough kisses and nips to your exposed neck. “You wouldn’t let us take care of you sober. You should’ve made it easy for yourself. Silly girl.”

Your eyes grow hot and well, tears gathering at your waterline. How could your best friends do something like this to you? Cold hands grope at your ass, Ellie’s fingers fumbling with the button on your jeans and tugging the taut material down your legs.

“Oh, fuck,” she moans. “You’re so hot, baby.”

You grow hot and clammy with nausea. Your eyes feel like they’ve been superglued shut as you blink, peeling your eyelashes from each other.

“We’re losing her, Ellie,” Abby murmurs, undeterred in her mission to free your tits from your tank top. When they spill free, she twists a nipple meanly and grunts.

“‘S okay,” the slender girl laughs, “Don’t need her awake for this part.”

Your head falls limp, dead weight on Abby’s shoulder as she wrestles the tank top up and over you; she balls it up in her fist, discards it on the floor somewhere. Despite your weakness, you’re painfully aware of what they’re doing to you. You’re a prisoner in your own body.

You’re slumped against the muscular girl somewhat unceremoniously, eyes forced shut as Ellie finally pulls your panties aside to get a good look at your dripping cunt.

“Little whore is a liar!” She grins, triumphant. “She’s fuckin’ soaked. You like it.”

You can’t so much as lift your head to answer. Ellie draws your hips back and pushes between your shoulder blades to create a beautiful arch. You feel her thumbs against the crease of your cunt, spreading your petal soft lips to reveal your dripping hole.

“Attagirl, knew you wanted this,” Ellie murmurs.

Your mind goes blank as two of her fingers disappear, engulfed by your swollen lips. “So wet.”

You want to cry and scream and push them away but no movement will come from your body. Abby hooks her hands under your armpits and lays you flat on the couch.

“Don’t be greedy,” she snaps. “I wanna feel her pussy.”

She crouches, dragging your bare lower half until you’re hanging over the lip of the couch with your legs firmly settled over her shoulders. Her biceps bulge where they’re curled round your thighs.

She wastes no time in licking a broad, flat stripe up the entire expanse of your cunt, nosing at your clit and inhaling deeply.

“Fuck, she tastes good.”

Pleasure lights your every nerve ending on fire despite your protests to the situation. If you could kick her, you would.

She eats you out like she’s been starved of it her entire life, slaking her thirst on the almost constant drooling of your cunt. Despite your limited movement, you’re drawing to your peak with a weak cry, the coil drawing tight in your abdomen until Abby slips two fingers into your fluttering hole and you snap.

She grins like she’s the one going mad with pleasure and Ellie, who was previously pinching and twisting at your nipples until they darkened and swelled, dives forward to kiss you.

You lift a wrist in protest and can’t do much else in your current predicament; her tongue invades your limp mouth, your lips numb as hers glide over them. She pulls away gasping.

“Gonna put my cock in you, sweet girl.” She heaves a breath, unbuttoning her own jeans to reveal the silicone strap at her pelvis. You’re like a fish out of water, squirming and choking back a sob as you try to push her away. Abby hooks an arm under your back and you slump, eyes rolling as the effects of the drugs only increase.

The muscular girl sits and spreads her thighs on the couch to situate you with your back to her chest. Ellie looms, menacing over your helpless body as she drags the tip of her strap through your cunt, catching it on your still sensitive button.

When she pushes in you think you black out. Her forehead beads with sweat, nose inches from yours and breath hot as she immediately locates your sweet spot and pummels it with a force you’re not used to. It’s bruising on your cervix, painful in a way that only increases the pleasure they’re forcing onto you.

Abby reaches forward to tweak at your trembling clit, her other hand clasped firmly around your throat as your head lolls against her shoulder with every thrust.

Your body seizes as white hot pleasure shoots through you; you’re frozen with it, limp as an orgasm unlike any one you’ve ever felt before rips through you.

Your eyes flutter closed with a small cry as Ellie pulls out, spreading your lips as your hole gapes and shrinks at the absence of the strap.

Abby throws you to the side as though you’re useless as she strips herself of her bottom half of clothes; once she’s bare, she’s lifting your thighs to slot her own between them, her clit bumping against yours. It burns, the way she rubs against you so forcefully, still raw and swollen from the last two orgasms the girls have pulled from your slack body.

“Make her suck it,” she grunts, motioning for the slender girl to open your mouth. Ellie does just that, prying your lips open to feed her strap, slick and wet with your juices, down your throat.

Your throat bugles at the intrusion; you gag softly around it, and then with more force as you realise she’s not letting up.

“Fuckkk, look at her face!” Abby moans, pressing her clit to yours even harder as she creeps up on her peak.

Your eyes grow heavier as your vision blacks out at the edges; Ellie only pushes deeper into your throat, thumb pressed to the protrusion it makes.

Abby’s thighs tremble around your own and she soaks you, white knuckled where she’s clutching your knees.

You retch and gurgle around Ellie with one final fight to pull away before she takes pity on you. The spit that’s pooled at the corners of your mouth starts to leak down your face.

“That’s enough.” Abby’s tone is final.

The two girls retreat and pull on their clothes so fast you’d think they were being chased. Ellie crouches next to your ruined body and tips your chin up. You vaguely register a glob of spit hitting you in the face.

“Fuckin’ whore,” she spits. Abby’s eyes darken.

“Have some fuckin’ respect, Williams. Let’s go.”

They leave you there, passed out in a puddle of cum and drool, naked and exhausted.

They’ll be back before you know it.

#urvampgf’s kinktober 2023 #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #writer #writers on tumblr #writing #abby anderson x reader #ellie williams x reader #ellabs x reader #dark!ellie williams #dark!abby anderson #ellie x abby x reader #ellie williams smut #abby anderson smut #tlou smut #dark!tlou #ellie williams fanfic #abby anderson fanfic #ellie smut #abby smut

[help-itrappedmyself]

Danny Punches a Clown 4.5

Little snippet as a thank you for 100 followers (Part 5 is in the works)

Masterpost

~~~~~~~~~~

“You are absolute morons.” Red ranted as he picked himself up off of his brothers. “You couldn’t just leave it to me, noooo. You all needed to see him for yourselves. Ignoring the fact that he is clearly traumatized, exhausted, and scared. Probably hasn’t slept since getting kidnapped and escaping from the Joker. Not to mention whatever happened before he even got to Gotham. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Dick and Jason both seemed fully chastised, but were also back up and ready to go find him again.

“Boys, I have him on a camera in a warehouse two buildings down from you. He didn’t get far and he is bandaging wounds right now.” Oracle said over coms.

“Well he can’t run very far.” Dick stated. Red glared at him.

“Can you guys just give me a minute to try and talk to him without a crowd?”

“Nightwing, take Robin back to the cave on his bike.” Batman orders. “Red will be using the batmobile to transport Danny, I will use your bike to monitor. Hood, Batgirl, finish up patrol and meet back at the cave.”

~~~~~~~~~

@that-random-fangirl, @sebas-nights, @whataspectaclebear, @wolf-iz-2000, @bl-webtoonweeb @daydreamsandcrashingwaves @molasses-being-slow @kiana996 @randomafterthought @icarusinstatic @fandom-gremlin-1987 @littlebreathoflight @blep-23 @okami-love @dasha022 @wolfeyedwitch @mushroomymoss @nonbinary-disaster @imsotiredfanficlovertm

#dc x dp #batman #danny phantom #red hood #red robin #nightwing #batgirl #oracle #my writing #danny punches a clown #Also #this is my 200th post guys! ✨❤🎉

[charlessainzz]

can do like reader with charles getting quite a few feature on dts here and there moments. thank you! i don't really like dts but I love the ferrari bits!!

My first request! Thank you for requesting this, it was fun to write! I hope it’s good! 

Drive to Survive’s Newest Star is… Not a Driver?? 

Take One: 

Cameras were everywhere. It was another Drive to Survive filming day. These days always made you nervous. More cameras than usual, more eyes than usual, and more opinions than usual. Luckily you were feeling good. You were decked out in head to toe Ferrari merch. White lace cami, vintage red leather Marlboro pants, red peep toe Manolos, with a number 16 cap. You looked the part of a die hard Ferrari fan. More importantly you looked the part of a die hard Charles Leclerc fan. And you were. His wonderful, supportive girlfriend of 2 years. His biggest fan. 

You felt the camera pan to you as Charles made his way through the garage you. He had just finished FP1 and well lets just say it wasn’t looking great… He needed you now and Charles could care less if the DTS cameras were watching. Your eyes light up as you see him getting closer to you. He grabs your waist and nudges your nose with his. 

“Hi,” you squeak, anticipating a kiss. 

“Hey..”, he whispers. “That was pretty bad wasn’t it”.

“Mmhmmm car looks pretty rubbish”, you giggle. “But that driver…. He’s pretty great. Makes a worthless car worth driving”, you say as you give him a peck. 

You both embrace in a tight hug and another kiss. Feeling the cameras rolling and hearing the photographers clicking away, you both start laughing. Oh this will be Netflix gold. 

Take Two:

Rain in October and in Austin, Texas. What are the odds! A usual dry race with an unrelenting sun had turned into a gray, storm filled race. The track was almost flooded. The radios of drivers shooting off justifiably angry that the race hadn’t been red flagged yet. The DTS cameras were here of course. Another perfect scene for them, they’d definitely be getting the footage they wanted.

Your hands enclosed in a prayer, begging for the officials to do something. To call for a pause, to cancel! There was no way the race could continue like this. Visibility is almost next to zero. You intensely listen to the radio, checking for Charles’s voice. He’s mad, he can’t see, and he’s ready to get out of the car. 

You’re watching the screen as the cars begin to slow around a turn, you see Charles and Pierre bump sending Charles off the track. It was all in slow motion. His car and your reaction moving at the speed of molasses. While the bump seemed minor, there were more cars headed his way. That’s what scared you. Just as that thought enters your mind, Checo’s car shoots down the track and narrowly misses Charles sending water crashing into him. You let out a shriek and cover your face crouching to the ground. The cameras all turn to you, documenting your reaction. You peek through your fingers seeing everyone staring and the lens facing you. At first you feel embarrassed but then you remember, that’s your man! You stand back up, straightening your posture, and brushing your hair off your shoulder. Arthur envelops you in a hug and points to the screen. 

Charles is being rescued by the emergency crew and he’s making his way back to you. He’s coming back to the safety of the garage and the safety of your arms. The DTS cameras know what’s coming next, and they stay on you waiting for the paddock’s favorite couple to reunite. 

Take Three:

Silverstone was always packed. But this year felt different. The crowd looked like sardines packed into a tin can. No room to move or even breathe. 

Charles held open the car door for you and grabbed your hand. He knew you didn’t love these crowds. He held your hand tight as you walked into the paddock. Cameras flashing, fans screaming, and DTS film crews lurking. You and Charles had one mission. Get to the Ferrari building as fast as possible.

Hands stuck like glue, you’re both practically running through the paddock. Of course, Charles being the man he is, has to stop and take pictures. But this leads to more attention and bigger crowds. You don’t mind, you know they love him. He deserves the love. Yet, the crowd becomes more…. pushy, more desperate for a glimpse at the Ferrari man. 

As he takes the millionth picture, you feel someone clench your arm and rip you from Charles. Letting out a scream, you fall into the ocean of the crowd. A man, desperate to get a picture, had done the unthinkable. He put his hands on you. Charles felt you instantly leave his presence. He snaps around grabbing your hand once more, and focuses his attention at the man. 

“Don’t you dare touch her!”, Charles growls with a finger in the man's face. That’s when you notice a boom mic over you capturing every second of this interaction. You let out a groan knowing that this will probably be in an episode. But hey! Your man was protecting you! 

His arms wrap around your shoulders and you both rush through the crowd heading towards the Ferrari hospitality. To the safety of your second home. Fans still hot on your tails screaming, “Leclerc! Y/n! Wait!”. Unknown to you both, DTS cameras are right behind you. Capturing the knight in shining armor protecting his princess. After what felt like a marathon, you see the Ferrari crew waiting at the entrance to welcome you in. Like deer leaping through a field, you both jump through the front doors. Doors closing, the cameras catch you both hunched over trying to catch your breath still clinging to each other. Like a wildlife documentary they sit at the door documenting two creatures that had just escaped a near death experience. 

After taking that moment to pause, you turn and see cameras pressed against the door recording you and Charles. You can’t help but let out a big belly laugh tapping him on the shoulder to look. Charles sees, grabs your hand, and flips off the camera pulling you towards his room. 

This episode will definitely be talked about! 

Take Four:

He takes the checkered flag! Charles Leclerc wins the Las Vegas Grand Prix!

The whole garage erupts into celebration. Charles wins! Carlos in 2nd. It’s a 1-2 result for the Ferrari team. What more could Fred have asked for. The whole garage runs towards the podium, awaiting their boys. You take off running towards the barrier followed by a film crew of course. Unsurprising to anyone, the Drive to Survive team is here to capture the lavish race that is Vegas. 

The podium waiting area is front to back red. You want to see him, you need to see him. But how can you get to the front? Not wanting to be rude, you tap shoulders and whisper ‘excuse mes’. As people turn ready to shout at the person cutting through, they recognize you. With sheepish smiles they usher you through to the front. Cameras following, but you could care less. 

Finally, you're at the front waiting for the drivers to exit the cars. Barriers crushing your ribs, you can feel your heart ready to leap out of your chest in anticipation. Then there he is! He leaps out of the car and throws his hands up. He points to the sky, and then points to the team. Jumping down he sprints to the Ferrari team ready to welcome back their champion. He leaps into the arms of the first team members he sees. Everyone reaching to touch him, to congratulate him, to get a glimpse of their driver. He scans the front row looking for you. He knew you’d be there but where are you? As he takes off his helmet he sees you. Tears have stained your cheeks and hair a mess from running. 

Charles jumps to you and grabs your face. Hands over your jaw, he brings your lips together. The kiss says everything and more. Cameras push in closer and closer as you continue kissing your driver. You break apart and laugh knowing what they’re capturing. Charles looks you in the eyes and says, “Another kiss for the winner?”. 

“Always”, you beam and bring him back into you. Charles takes a hand and pushes the lens away from you both. Trying to get some privacy in the most public situation ever. The film crew lets up knowing they just got their shot. They just got the money shot of their number one F1 driver and Drive to Survive’s newest star… who’s not a driver. Who would’ve thought!

#request #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #writtenbycharlessainzz #f1 x y/n

[moonchildstyles]

whats this aster curious gazes im seeing ?🥸

wordcount: 2.7k+

—————

Mikaela impatiently checked the time broadcasted on the clock above the auditorium's entrance, trailing after the molasses-slow minute hand. How had it only been three minutes since she last checked and not the twenty she had sworn it had been? She and her group had already finished peer reviewing each other's papers ten minutes ago, but they were all confined to their seats for fear of Professor Rian marking them down for leaving early—one of his favorite activities Mikaela had learned about the hard way during the second week of courses.

"How much longer?" Bria bemoaned from across the table, her own boredom showing in her dull gaze. (Y/N) perked up at Mikaela's side at the question, though she stayed just as quiet as she always was. 

"Another thirty," Mikaela murmured, a moment away from rolling her eyes, "I feel like we've been waiting for, like, an hour." 

Around them, the remaining groups were still chattering, some speaking about the essays while others seemed just as checked out as them. Running a hand through her long hair, Mikaela convinced herself to stay strong. 

"At least it'll be the weekend after this," she reminded the table, looking to Bria, "You're still set on getting your tattoo this weekend?" 

Bria plucked up at the question, her brown eyes sparkling in excitement. "Mhm! They called and confirmed yesterday with me, so I'll be in tomorrow morning, first thing!" 

"Are you going to be with the same guy that you had the consultation with?" Mikaela asked, picturing the long haired, heavily tattooed man she had seen when she went with Bria the first time to set up the initial appointment. She almost booked one for herself after seeing him; even the scowl and less than friendly demeanor couldn't detract from his... everything. 

Leaning across the table as if sharing a secret, Bria raised her eyebrows with a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. "I hope. I might cancel, if not." 

Mikaela laughed along with her friend, knowing exactly where she was coming from. 

Piping up with a small smile on her features, (Y/N) asked, "Where are you going for your tattoo?" 

"It's not too far from here actually," Bria started, settling her chin in her hand as she spoke to (Y/N) at Mikaela's side. "It's called 17Black." 

(Y/N)'s expression brightened at the mention of the tattoo parlor in a way Mikaela had never seen before. Though she usually came to class fresh-faced and dewy, there was now a glimmer in her eyes that almost gave the illusion of glitter having fallen in her lashes.

"They're the best," she bubbled, her smile wide, "It's gonna turn out really, really good. You said you know who your artist is going to be?" 

"Yeah—um—hold on," Bria muttered, reaching into her bag, "I got his card last time I was in—I think he's the owner, or something." After a moment she pulled out a black and white business card, reading the name off: "Harry." 

Passing the card across the table, (Y/N) eagerly read over the stylized font and the glossy logo on the other side. "He's amazing—you're super lucky, Bria." 

(Y/N)'s smile wasn't one that could be shaken as she passed back the card. Mikaela thought she looked like she was proud, even. (Y/N) was always so reserved, seemingly more comfortable in the background and only chirping up when needed, Mikaela had never seen her so bright like this. 

"Have you been there before, (Y/N)?" she asked, trying to imagine someone like (Y/N) with any tattoos—especially done at a place like 17Black. 

Not that there was a specific kind of person that could have tattoos or that the parlor wasn't nice, but she had a hard time picturing (Y/N) with all her ribbons, pink sweaters, and shimmer flouncing into that building and getting a design inked into her skin. Especially by someone like Bria's artist; she was already shy enough, Mikaela doubted his scowls and curt tone would be anything of comfort.

That left her raising her brows in surprise when (Y/N) happily nodded her head. "Yeah! I only have one tattoo, but Harry did it and it's"—there was a moment something dreamy flashed over (Y/N)'s gaze then—"It's perfect." 

"I didn't know you had a tattoo," Bria interjected, her expression surely mirroring Mikaela's with her own perked brows and searching gaze as if they had both somehow missed an obvious marking. 

"It's really little," (Y/N) explained, settling some in her seat, "It's on my side, like, on my ribs, so people don't really see it." 

"I never pictured you with a tattoo," Mikaela added, "And especially on your ribs. You're brave." 

"Honestly," Bria started, bouncing full brows over her eyes "I don't know how you got through it, especially with him." 

A cinch appeared between (Y/N)'s brows. "What do you mean?" 

"You probably had to take your shirt off for the rib tattoo, right?" Bria prodded, watching as (Y/N) flustered some before ultimately nodding her head, "I don't know how to act around that guy—Harry—with my clothes on, I think I would combust if he asked me to take them off." 

It wasn't hard to see that (Y/N) was bubbling with embarrassment at Bria's remark—though Mikaela did hardily agree. She wondered if (Y/N) felt the same way; it was hard to picture her getting flustered over someone like Bria's artist. There could be that whole opposites attract thing going on for them, but Mikaela could only really see the scenario where Harry would crush the marshmallow that is (Y/N).

"Oh, I don't know," she muttered half-heartedly, trailing off without a real answer, "You know, he's just..." 

"It's okay, I get it," Bria finished for her with a bubbling laugh that had (Y/N) cracking her own polite smile. "He's pretty intimidating, honestly. Not for everyone, I guess." 

With her hands a bundle in her lap, (Y/N) tilted her head, "I wouldn't say that—" 

Not a moment too soon, Professor Rian made his way back to the forefront of the auditorium—something Mikaela wished he would have done a half an hour prior. "Class dismissed. Next Wednesday we'll do our final draft reviews and the finished essays will be due next Friday at midnight. Have a nice weekend." 

"Finally," Bria exasperated, immediately rushing to pack her things just as Mikaela had before Rian had even finished talking.

(Y/N) had done the smart thing and had her things ready to go once they had finished peer reviewing, only having to sling her bag over her shoulder while she quietly waited for the pair of them to get their own shit together. 

It was wild how much more awake Mikaela felt now that class had been dismissed, leaving behind the exhausted state she was lulling into at her desk. Shrugging into her jacket, the mental list of tasks she had to accomplish before her sister, Mira, and her boyfriend would be over for dinner didn't sound so bad now.

"What are you getting, Bria? For your tattoo, I mean," she chirped up, peering around Mikaela as they walked into the corridor, steps in sync with one another. 

"The moon and some stars and stuff on the top of my hand," she explained, "It's kind of hard to describe without a picture, but it's this whole thing." 

"That sounds really pretty," (Y/N) smiled, sincerity in her voice, "Hopefully it won't take too long—I hear the top of your hand can hurt sometimes with the bones and all." 

"It might not be so bad if it took a while, right?" Mikaela piped up, shooting Bria a look from the corner of her eye. Maybe, if Mira and her boyfriend didn't overstay their welcome tonight, she'd go with Bria in the morning and see if her artist had a girlfriend or something. 

(Or was at least open to hooking up on one of the tattoo chairs). 

Leading down the hall towards the main entrance of the building, Bria nudged Mikaela's shoulder. Ahead of them, (Y/N) reached forward and opened the door for the three of them to pass through. 

"Definitely wouldn't be bad," Bria laughed, the chill of the winter air seeping through the sleeves of Mikaela's jacket as they stepped outside. "I don't know, I might even—Wait, oh my god." 

"What?" Mikaela asked, brows furrowing at the abrupt change in her friend. 

Instead of the amused bubbly expression she wore just a moment prior, Bria now looked ahead with wide eyes and gaped lips, her steps slowing over the concrete. 

(Y/N) noticed the change in her demeanor as well, peering around Mikaela as her own features molded into something of worry. "What happened?"

"He's here," Bria muttered, looking straight ahead towards the student parking lot, "That's literally him right there, isn't it? Why is he here?" 

"Who? Who's her—" 

Following Bria's line of sight, Mikaela felt her own words get stuck in her throat when she saw just what had her friend going limp. 

As if summoned, Bria's tattoo artist—Harry—had somehow found a prime parking space in the student lot and was now waiting.

He was ever the intimidating figure with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the hulking frame of the black Range Rover behind him. (Because, of course, he would drive a Range Rover). Even with the chunky black cardigan draped over his form, he didn't look any less imposing than when he had stalked through the tattoo parlor. He perfectly matched his car, all black, tattoos tracing over his skin, including the heavy chest pieces on display from the low scoop of his top. A pair of sunglasses were holding his hair back on the top of his head, with his lips set in a firm line, lip ring and all.

"He doesn't go here, right?" Mikaela blanched. Why else would be here, if not to go to class, right?

(Y/N) looked just as bewildered as they were, a cant to her head as she took him in. "What is he doing here?" she muttered, voice quiet enough to be speaking to herself.

Their small trio stood off to the side, out of the way as the rest of their classmates trickled around them as well as other students meandering through campus. From where they stood, Mikaela could see the way the tattoo artist scanned over the student body, searching for something—or someone.

He didn't come to see Bria, right? That would be crazy, leaning on certifiable—even if he was hot.

Mikaela's eyes widened when she saw (Y/N) wave her hand above her head. What was she doing? Did she not think this was weird that he had showed up to campus when he really didn't have any reason to? 

She watched as he caught sight of (Y/N)'s waving arm and his features almost immediately softened. Even from where they were standing, it was clear to see the tension releasing from his body in a breath. He pushed off from where he was lent against his Range Rover and started towards the building—towards them.

Was (Y/N) insane or something, and they'd just missed all the signs until this moment? Why would she ask him to come over here?

"He's coming over here, what the fuck," Bria murmured, just as lost as Mikaela. 

It didn't take long for his spanning strides to cross the concrete and take him to where their small group had taken root. Seeing him this close again, Mikaela realized her memory didn't do him any justice—he was more than gorgeous. Unfortunately crazy, but still hot. 

Had he always had his nose pierced? Had his eyes always been that green? Had they always been pinned to (Y/N) like that? 

"(Y/N), do you—" Bria started, only to cut herself off when (Y/N) excitedly bounced up to her toes once the tattoo artist was close. 

"What are you doing here, H?" she chirped, familiarity in her voice as she looked up at him.

Mikaela figured she wore the same expression that Bria did, with her eyes wide and brows raised, a fraction away from her jaw dropping as they watched the tattoo artist—H—pull (Y/N) into his arms and drop a kiss on the top of her head.

"Came to pick you up for lunch, if that's okay," he murmured, not sparing a glance their way as he kept the pink marshmallow in his arms. "I also noticed there was an extra jacket lying around my room that I thought was supposed to be with you." 

Sheepishly looking down, (Y/N) shook her head. "I forgot, I'm sorry." 

Adoration was clear on the tattoo artist's—her boyfriend—features. "'S alright, lovebug. I brought it with me so y'can have it the rest of the day, jus' don't keep forgetting it. 'S only getting colder out, I don't want you to get sick." 

"I won't," (Y/N) sighed, looking entirely at home as she clutched his sweater in her hands and fluttered her lashes at him as if he were a king. "Thank you." 

Mikaela couldn't help the simmering of her blood beneath her skin, surely a flush painting her complexion as she thought back to just what she and Bria had been saying during class. They talked all about how hot (Y/N)'s boyfriend was to her face, implied he was intimidating and not her type, and she had even heard them freak out thinking he had come to see them. She was never going to pair with them for peer review again.

(Though Mikaela will give herself credit for not speaking about the lingering fantasy she'd had involving one of those tattoo chairs and Harry's hair pulled back so he could focus). 

"Um," Mikaela sounded, almost cringing at how stupid she sounded from just a single syllable, "I think we should probably go, but we'll see you next week, (Y/N)." 

(Y/N) turned with her expression going bashful. Her boyfriend's hands didn't move from where they were on her waist though he finally looked up from her to see the rest of the world around them. 

"I'm sorry," she apologized as if in reflex. Looking at the man behind her, she started with a shy smile on her lips, "Harry, this is Bria and Mikaela. They're the girls from one of my English classes I've told you about." 

Back was the expression she recognized from when she had dropped by the tattoo parlor. His features hardened some, going less open and easy to read than they had been just a moment ago. He took them in with a stilted smile on his lips. 

"Nice to meet you," he murmured, his gaze flicking to Bria for a split second longer, "Actually, we've met before, right? You're my nine a.m. tomorrow." 

"I am, yeah," Bria said, sounding just as lame as Mikaela felt. It was easy to see Bria was floundering for anything to say before she finally settled on, "(Y/N) didn't tell us she had a boyfriend." 

His smile turned lopsided at that, amusement flickering in his gaze as he looked down at the marshmallow in his arms. "She didn't?" 

(Y/N) looked to the pair of them, biting back a smile as if remembering what was said back in class but deciding it was their secret to keep. "It just didn't come up." 

"Right," he smiled, squeezing her waist just enough to get her bouncing at his side with a short huff of laughter pouring out, "Are you ready to go?" 

"I think so, yeah," (Y/N) agreed, craning her neck to smile up at him before returning her attention to Mikaela and Bria. "I'll see you guys next week."

The pair shared similar goodbyes, hoping they didn't sound as embarrassed as they felt. Walking away from them, Mikaela watched Harry tangle his fingers with (Y/N), slowing just long enough to press a kiss to her forehead before leading her towards his Range Rover.

"We are the most annoying people in the world," Mikaela said, breaking their silence, "We literally said all of that about him to his girlfriend." 

"She's never going to partner for peer review with us again." 

Despite the guilt and bits of humiliation floating through her system, Mikaela couldn't shake off just how sweet it was to see (Y/N) interact with someone like that—especially someone like her boyfriend. They were clearly in love, that much she could tell.

"Oh my god," Bria said, whipping her head around to look at Mikaela with horror stricken eyes. 

"What?" Mikaela asked, taken aback at the sudden urgency in Bria's voice. Was another person they had lusted over to their partner, about to round the corner? 

"I have to see him again tomorrow," Bria whined, "And, (Y/N)'s probably going to tell him what we said." 

At that thought, Mikaela really hoped her sister would overstay her welcome tonight—give her a reason to stay in bed and leave Bria to her appointment alone. 

—————

this is the first time im trying out this kind of pov so I really hope everyone like it! thank you sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and please lmk if you have any ideas you want to share!

#anon #writing #harry #harry styles #harry one shot #harry imagine #harry blurb #harry fluff #tattoo artist harry #harry x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #tattoo artist harry styles #harry styles fluff #harrys house #love on tour #as it was #satellite

[moondirti]

animalic (6)

← chapter five // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 4k summary: misery makes good company warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, angst, i mean it guys, miguel o'hara is really not nice in this one, fighting, death/extinction, morally questionable characters, weapons of mass destruction, implied drug withdrawal, reader is given a backstory notes: apologies for what's to come. it's okay if you hate me after

“Don’t move. You’ll make it worse.” 

There’s a warm hand cupping the back of your head, callused fingers spread to steady the junction between it and your shoulder. It’s the first thing you notice when you wake; that, and the breath fanning across your face.

You think it odd. Signs of life pound beneath you like the febrile concoction of a dream, burning hot in emphasis that you’d survived. A heavy pulse behind your brow, the headache pinching at every sense until they all dim to conductive static. Your tongue, pasty on the roof of your mouth. The hind of your arm itches, the urge running bone-deep, humming from flesh gracelessly torn apart by a gutter. When you shift to examine it, a fire roars up your neck, the smouldering pain robbing you of any effort. 

(The only other time you’d been this uncomfortable, you were bitten by a spider the third month of your internship with Alchemax. The puncture site didn’t burn so much as the delirium that followed.)

“What did I just say?” 

And, there’s that voice. You find it difficult to discern its more unique attributes, words muffled from behind the wavering pane of your lucidity – yet, even still, it stands as the most tangible thing present. Deep, resonant. Smoked with a ruggedness you can feel in your teeth. It doesn’t occur to you why it seems so unfamiliar; perhaps it’s the fact that you catch it through its source, your ear pressed to a muscled chest. Or, that’s it’s whispering. 

You’ve never heard him whisper. Not to you. 

The need to retaliate swells once you realise who holds you. It’s nothing productive, not the string of questions you should be asking – what’s happening, where are we; but it’s the only natural instinct that overcomes you. When you attempt to make good on it, though, the clutter of jokes, gripes, and snubs tangle in your throat, emerging as little more than a groan. 

And the act wears you more than it probably should, exhausted tremors wracking your frame. A tender ache ripples from a point on your ribcage – separate from the area you’d fractured at the quarry. The pressure here is more centralised, a focused bruise you locate the source of with a wriggle of your elbow, when a rock comes loose and clatters to settle underneath you. It joins a mound of similar rubble, a pseudo-cushion of chalky cement broken off the larger slabs surrounding you.

You assume they do, at least – based on what you can tell of the terrain behind your back. In reality, you have no means to confirm your circumstances. The space around you swims in ink-blot darkness, the type that is almost material, where sheer absence of light could be considered an element of its own. You squeeze your eyes shut, then widen them, and find that there’s no difference between the two. 

So – dark, dusty and… cramped. You’re positioned across Miguel’s lap, his legs running under and perpendicular to yours. Neither of you can stretch them to their full extent, however, forced to cross and bend in unwieldy ways, tangling further in each other's limbs. Your clothes are worn out enough to allow you to detect when any surface of his body – tense abdomen and thick thighs – twitches, thrumming with a molasses-slow tension that starts to diffuse through you. 

Not a scenario of his own choosing, then. 

But the turn of events that might’ve converged to this are lost on you, white noise fluffing the space they’d evacuated. Last you recall, you were staring down a cop car, the lingering comfort of a child’s trust filling you with a remarkable sort of purpose, that which you cannot place. Had you acted against that convict? Or left it up to the man cradling you? 

As if on cue, he speaks. 

“You’re trapped under a collapsed building.”

He says you like he’s not a confounding variable in this equation. You know it’s meant to single your blame in this, stranding it somewhere where you can brood without cross-examining him or why he’s here too. It nests on a well of guilt you keep suppressed for good reason, irking you in a particularly special way. 

“Figured that out for myself, thanks.” Despite the trouble you put into getting the retort out undisturbed, it ends up sounding more unconvincing than not. Miguel waits for the coughing fit you have afterwards to subside before pitching in his acknowledgment. 

“Did you, now?” 

Little shit isn’t even trying to hide his sarcasm. 

You ignore him, continuing with your scepticism. “I’m just wondering why we’re still here.” 

Because it’s a genuine conjecture. While you’re not a part of the educated camp in spider-hero abilities – being so clueless to the extent of your own – you’re far too familiar with that infamous super strength. You’d sensed the difference for yourself; your increasing aptness in carrying hefty weights, the fluidity with which you cruise through life, physically unperturbed. And you’ve been on the receiving end of the spectrum too, your skin littered with scars that point to the sheer power of your companion. 

A few tonnes of demolished concrete should be a walk in the park for him.

He clicks his tongue like it’s obvious. “I pulled under a steel arc in time for the debris not to crush us. If I disturb this pocket, or try to rearrange a tunnel, then I run the risk again.” 

The logic makes sense, as much as you hate to admit it. Of course, that doesn’t stop you from picking at the contrivances in his language. It was you when discussing what went wrong, and now it’s I when it comes to the out. You realise it’s probably unintentional. Somehow, that makes it worse. He must truly believe you’re nothing beyond a malevolent fuck-up; some villain willing to sacrifice herself for the greater demise.

(The latter might have its validity. It’s the former you hold issue with.) 

Likewise, you also ascertain an easy fix to all this – on account of your spectral properties. And, if you were a better woman, it would’ve been feasible. Phase out, crawl through until you breach the open, get help.

It’s long since been established that you’re not that person, though – and you’ve come to accept your own incompetence. You don’t mean to die here; you’re not sure if you want him too either, for all your ire. But your immateriality is a fickle thing, recurring at the most inopportune times, in the smallest increments – a potential problem for the doubtlessly long crawl it’d take to escape. You don’t want to imagine what would happen should you solidify within the walls. 

Resignation seems easier than tempting it. 

Miguel must recognise the option as well. As it stands for him, he can’t afford to let you go, nor is he desperate enough to trust you yet despite it. You don’t bring it up then, maintaining the upper-hand by his misunderstanding of your capacity. 

(Maybe you are evil.

Or, just tired.)

“That’s okay. I think it would be funny if we passed like this.” You pitch, nudging your cheek to urge the smile clearly lacking in your tone. There’s no humour behind your choice of phrase, and it’s a jarring step back from where he’d been, expounding himself. You suppose it might be a clumsy distraction from the exact gravity of your predicament, yet even that rolls over in your brain, not quite satisfactory to dissolve as truth. “It’ll make a nice story for the people who dig us up.” 

His chest puffs, filling with an irritated inhale. In the same movement, his fingers constrict onto your cranial base; it has the adverse effect of bracing your neck for the sudden shift, minimising the soreness triggered by any activity. You decide to take it as the warning it’s meant to be instead. 

“Eres patética.” He murmurs, sinking back down. You wince when his clutch weakens, pain flaring. “And whiplashed.” 

You purse your lips, critical. “I’ve had worse.” 

“Sure.” 

“My arm–” 

“Will be fine.” As if to punctuate, he reaches for the wound. A clink sounds when he taps it. “Used the nanotech off my suit as a bandage.” 

You should have caught that it doesn’t sting like it would’ve if exposed. Similarly, his hands are gloveless. Bare – while the rest of him isn’t. You’d felt the dry surface of his palm, the fixed warmth it emanated, but for some oversight, you hadn’t considered that he was touching you. Skin-to-skin, the simple size of his fists dwarfing you in every measure. 

A stone lodges in your throat. 

“Did– How’d you know?” You pry, referencing the perpetual tenebrosity you’re suspended in. 

What he replies with shouldn't shock you, not as much as it does. But the air’s shifted to a nuanced degree, a hesitation substituting loud anger. It's the awareness that he's just as tuned in to you as you are him, sympathetic to try and redirect you off the brink of death. Or, more likely, it’s the poignant impression of his fangs, wedged in your flesh, his tongue lapping up the very same path. 

(And the wanton moan it’d triggered.)

“I could smell the blood.” 

Oh. 

Truthfully, you’ve no clue whether you respond aloud or keep your contemplation close to your psyche. He admits it almost… awkwardly, like it’s a condition he’s not so fond of himself. Yet it’s one that reverberates in the strained silence, plucking at taut strings that stretch with every passing second. You play it on repeat, stewing over the way in which he spoke; the diction, the stressors, the slight roll of his accent. 

I could smell it. I could smell you. The blood. 

Your life on the run hardly ever allows for moments like these. Over the past year, stress has anchored itself by the dock of your being, streamlining a flow of cortisol to every major organ. Continuity hinges on an alertness to the forces propelling you, and while the occasional wisecrack can alleviate some effects it has on your health, you don’t have the luxury of sinking into whatever fear bolsters it all. 

It’s with him, though – hanging from a crane, or cornered in a pen of his own design. Only ever with him are you slapped with the resounding, festering distress of your own weakness. It consumes you, gnawing on your gut with its brutal teeth, tearing away the indifference you’d built around your systems. How dissimilar the two of you are; a girl unwilling to fight for even herself, and a man capable of wrapping a slash in the dark. 

(He could smell it. And he can probably see, too. 

By just how much does he outmatch you?)

“You’re welcome.” Miguel growls. You scold yourself for your elongated reticence, the pace of your heart overtaking the anxious torrent of thoughts that pump through you. It’s good practice to thank the man who’d saved your life four times over. Be that as it may, does it really count if he’s the reason it was necessary to begin with? He’d dropped you off that crane, he’d swung you a hundred feet high. Him, him, him. 

You curl your tongue, desperate to quell the barrage of resentment that escalates at his prodding. Despite it pulling you from your rapid dissociation, your fight-or-flight peaks, forcing you to face a confrontation you don’t need. There’s nowhere to run – presently, you’re moored into place, his physicality and unique provocation blocking the possibility all together. 

You scoff to placate the spiralling desire to argue. 

It doesn’t work. 

“For what?” You hiss.

All too quickly, his legs spread, creating a trough for you to slide down into. When your ass hits the unforgiving floor, you involuntarily cringe at the contrast it poses to his leg. A calculated effect, you’re sure – so too is the newfound freedom of his grip releasing your head, the crossing of his forearms pushing you away from the post his pecs provided. 

It’s what you wanted, to distance yourself from his overbearing stature. And he manipulates it to his own favour; you’re made to bear your burden, the agony of your injured state tripling as if to exclaim: ‘see?’

Touché.

Nevertheless, it palliates your memory. The chill of the earth under you spikes your nerves, clearing the brume overcasting your day previous. You’d driven a car into that symbiote based on a groundless hypothesis; bold, any scientist would tell you. Yet, as far as your perception extends, it worked. 

“Selfish.” He announces, far from discrete. It’s so unlike him that it smites the ego beginning to coagulate at your remembered success.

Your eyes snap to where you assume his face is, squinting like your glare makes any difference. “Excuse me?” 

Undeterred by the threat inherent in your tone – that which is all talk – he persists. “Who do you think you are exactly, Wraith?” 

The interrogation holds a dangerous quality; again, it feels out of place, a spirit tugging at the strings of his hollow self. 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Why? What would you prefer? Anomaly, banshee? You drag death behind you like it’s a curse, only you’ve opted into it. I told you it wasn’t our place to interfere, and you had to push it–” 

He can be jaded, or subtle. Oftentimes, he’s dismissive and passively rude. 

But Miguel O’Hara is never heedlessly hostile. Not like this. 

“That wasn’t my fault, asshole. I fucking glitched!” 

“¡Órale, estás bien pendeja! Nothing ever is, of course! Has it never occurred to you to take a good look in the mirror?” 

The irregularity scares you. Your voice breaks with it.

“O’Hara–” 

“Because I’ll tell you what I see; a girl who can’t face what she’s done.”

“You don’t know me.” You shake your head, tamping the stiffness in your shoulder. It does nothing to exercise the sharp unease that flays you alive. 

“A self-serving criminal who refuses to listen.” 

“I d– I tried.” Hiccupping, the edge worsens.

“You’d have gone back home–” 

“There’s nothing left for me there!” 

“Like there is anywhere else? You’ve devastated them!” 

“Stop it–” 

“Wrecked entire worlds! I’ve been the only one holding it all together,” He yells, pushing his knees closer to one another. You’re slowly crushed in the process, thighs drawing up to press against your torso. “You’re no victim. You’re no hero.” 

“Stop it!” 

“Tell me I’m wrong!” 

Feverish tears slice down your cheeks, spouting to escape the pressure that balloons within you. Your lungs tighten alongside it, heart aching. It’s progressed past the point of prevention – no longer do you retain control of how this turns out. All you can do is drift; a feather, seized in this tempest, stirred by a disembodied man.

When you don’t respond, preferring to preserve your energy for the sobs that rip from you, he inches closer. You sense it when he repeats himself, his hot breath lining the shell of your ear.

“Well,” His claws sharpen, grazing the small of your back. “Am I?” 

His lisp is more pronounced like this, fangs extended to affect the natural position of his mouth. It warps the undertone, like a pool does light, and sends it back more viscous than ever. He’s uninhibited – an addict missing his fix.

It’s almost impossible to choke the admission out against the hatred churning your stomach. When you unhinge your jaw, it’s a credible wager that you retch all over yourself instead.

“No.” You manage to warble, a mixture of snot and wet misery streaking down your chin. Your wrists stay plastered, allowing the mess to mask your countenance, tucking between your legs in a childlike attempt at comfort. Cruelty crackles – self-propagated now – assaulting your faux-confidence until it plummets to a fraction of what it was. 

Cursed. A wraith – haunting the multiverse with her unfinished business. 

There’s nothing left to declare as his impressions are confirmed. You both mark it, this changed, spoken into existence by your divulgence. By some miracle, if you were to slip his capture, it’d be no more of a victory than the gore crusting your fingernails. Proof for his belittlement; that you truly are so inconsiderate as to further endanger the lives of millions. 

(Would you be able to live with yourself?)

You relapse, agonising over the past week. Not a victim – you’d taken advantage of him with a kiss for an unsure opportunity. Not a hero – you’d punched a robber and gotten a civilian killed in the process. You’d run over a murderer and buried several under an early grave. 

(Can you live with yourself?)

And home–

Trapped, you boil in a pond of your transgressions. It’d been a long time coming – your fault, in fact. You should’ve noticed the water was gradually heating. 

There’d been a dam of careful construction at this bank, stacked tirelessly over the several nights you’d been given to think on what you’ve done. To prevent your clear culpability from catching up to you, to blind others to it too. He’s right, but not about all things. You’ve memorised your reflection at this point. Put it in a line up, and you’ll point your place in hell with facile certainty. 

So, there’s no need to admit anything else. Regardless, his sabotage compels you to. Here, loitering purgatory with the one person who’d never understand; what harm could confession do? His opinion of you skims rock bottom, and you’ve no hope at seeing a priest before you rot. 

Forgive me, for I have sinned.

“I’m not innocent.” You start. “Never have been.”

Alpha Centauri, that was the goal. 

Located only four light years away, it’s the closest star system to Earth; with suns Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman and Proxima Centauri forming a trinary network. All main sequence stars – like humanity’s very own Sol – orbited by suspected habitable exoplanets. With the average chemical rocket, it’d take upwards of six thousand years to get there. 

There lay alternatives, of course. Nuclear fission, with an energy yield of almost zero from its original mass. Fusion, ten times as efficient – still, not nearly enough. Ion accelerators, sunlight capture. Interstellar arks were of no interest; no, you’d wanted to achieve extrasolar travel within your lifetime. Warp drives and hyperspace – all theoretical. 

As an undergrad, you’d settled on matter-antimatter collision. 

The latter, antimatter, exists as an inverted twin to ordinary subatomic particles, with flipped states on every front. Antiprotons – negative protons with oppositely directed magnetism, and positrons – positively charged electrons. When the two meet their counterparts, their entire mass is converted into energy. And, when such annihilation is modelled within engines, a ship can accelerate to ninety percent the speed of light. 

Therein subsisted your only chance to touch the stars. 

Of course, like all hypotheticals, it came with its own array of issues. No natural reservoir of the substance is known, and producing at least one tonne would take more power than mankind has used in all its history. Moreover, it’s near nonviable to store. Any container that has ever touched regular matter would only cause preemptive decimation.

You wrote papers and studied computer-generated prototypes. You argued with professors, and attended pro-conferences. Months worth of minimum wage were blown on trips to Argentina,  where the neighbouring system can be spotted through a telescope, winking above the horizon. When it all started to appear fruitless, you caught wind of Alchemex’s exploits within the field.

It was a young company, hobbling on its feet after a rocky merger with Oscorp. But they were daring, and rich, endeavouring into categories that most deemed nonprofit. You’d applied for an internship, waited months to hear back. By some cosmic karma, it turned out to be good news when you eventually did.

They were already working on manufacturing the antimatter. It was your suggestion that encouraged them to use magnets to store it within a vacuum. 

It looked auspicious. It had been. 

Then, you were bit. 

The spider was from another division – radiation, you suppose. By some breach on account of a more negligent temp, the critter had found its way into your improvised cubicle. And so the story goes; it’d champed down on the webbing between your thumb and forefinger, before promptly suffocating under the cup you’d snared it in. The area stung for a while, venom having directly found your veins. Yet, by the time you’d returned to your dorm, your immunity seemed to have diluted its effects. 

Until, you’d gotten sick. The hysteria was slow to consolidate, starting as a sore throat. You’d used your one day off then, ignorant to just how bad it could get; because the fever only deepened, lesions on the lining of your oesophagus oozing ichor into bile. Your doctor waived the possibility of tuberculosis, mistrusting the notes your instructors sent with you, complaining of in-class fainting bouts. 

You couldn’t miss work, though. Never. Not when you were so close. 

So you stuffed sheets of pills in your pockets and braved each shift with trembling joints. You’d no friends to notice your suffering, and for such an ambitious company, overtime was expected. Sweating through multiple layers of clothing, you kept an eye on your poster of the galaxy and lagged on those long nights. At the rate you were going, you genuinely dreaded a life cut short before you could realise your objective. 

If nothing else, it urged you to work harder. 

Your first milestone came at the one kilogram mark. A party was hosted to celebrate, billionaires invited to gather around the vessel which held such a revolutionary feat. Despite your interloper status, you’d been summoned too, to play big girl scientist and present Alchemex’s future course of action. Your affliction was improving, and you were the inspiration behind the project’s advance. It felt like the biggest night of your career. 

(‘Magnets! What a genius solution.’ From a nobel prize runner up.

‘That ambition will get you far, mark my words.’ The CEO’s cousin.)

In truth, it was the last. 

Because the antimatter had taken centre stage, security slackening with its continued stability. So long as the magnetism wasn’t tampered with, so long as the vacuumed vessel remained airtight, things looked to be fine for your speech. You’d cycled through every known variable, staring down the container, a champagne flute tucked in your sweaty palms. 

Your skin prickled.

The glass smashed to the floor. In your embarrassment, you’d brushed it off as clumsiness prompted by the perspiration – notwithstanding your recount, having seen the drink fall through your mass. Did it matter, though? You couldn’t put it past your illness to cause such hallucinations. It was impossible, a trick of sight.

The festivities progressed, yet the tingle of your nerves didn’t subside. Anxiety – you chalked it up to common apprehension. So, when your boss announced your name for all to hear, and the agitation flared, it wasn’t alarming. You could think of nothing else anyway, honed in to the address you’d practised all morning. 

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

Your gut flipped. Your vision blackened. 

The steps lost depth; you stumbled up them with all the grace of a hunted fawn. 

Today–

Your skin prickled once more, and you collapsed. Through the antimatter’s vessel, through the floor. 

There’s nothing to recall after that. Not for a long while. 

“I don’t become intangible.” Your brow bone rests on the curve of your knee, body curled in a foetal position. “My particles merely… find the best way through something.” 

Miguel has remained eerily quiet throughout your chronicle. You try not to let it dissuade you. 

“So–” 

“Some came in contact with the antimatter.”

“Yeah.” You murmur, moved by an unnamed emotion. “It detonated, naturally, with a force roughly equivalent to a nuclear bomb. Wiped out everyone in the city upon discharge, then everyone in the state with its impact. Or– maybe, I don’t know. I was discarnate for weeks – the explosion had no effect on my immaterial self, and the radiation couldn’t hurt me when that spider damn well sought and failed at it already.” 

You hug yourself tighter. 

“I only witnessed the winter that followed. The blast was large-scale enough to trigger firestorms and a global climate cooling – similar to the one they scare you with when talking about nuclear warfare. Crop failure, famine. Millions died and my home devolved into cataclysm. It was mass extinction,” You school yourself, waving the snivel crawling up your nose. “Because of me.” 

An end by starvation or infection, confined to this tomb, seems a perfectly fitting penance. 

“Explain this to me, O’Hara – what just providence made me spider-woman to a barren land?”

chapter seven →

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[barbieaemond]

A snake in the bosom

Moodboard by the queen herself @zae5

PAIRING: Prince Regent Aemond x Lady!reader

WARNINGS: dark Aemond, angst, public humiliation, semi public sex, p in v, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), religious kink, knife kink if you squint, overstimulation, light choking.

WORD COUNT: 5.3k

Author’s note: House Peake were green loyalists during the Dance. Shout out to @zae5 who helped me brain storming this filth 🫶

taglist: @zae5 @multyfangirl @chompchompluke

The skies rumble as they always do when preluding a storm. But it’s different this time. The thunder echoes in your chest, sliding through your ribs and then rattling them to break free.

A warning, the Gods’ way to seal what cannot be undone. They greet this new day, this new order, with blinding lightning. The Wood seems bathed by the early morning light, and yet the owls will soon resume their sentry task on the branches of these ancient trees.

A new flash forces you to look up and you think you can see them, the Seven, leaning out from their perches, pointing a finger at a woman like any other, with her bowed head devoted to obedience and her tight corset to choke to death any desire inside her heart.

And you did.

You stopped going to the library, you kept your eyes faithfully down, weeding out the need to caress the silver through your gaze, to feel the cold alabaster carved into angles so precise and sharp as to be exhausting.

You stopped lingering on the delicacy of long white fingers turning pages, on white knuckles around the sword, rippling with veins, blue and green as snakes crawling underneath. 

Not looking didn't do much good.

It's all burned into your eyelids, and the more you don't look the more your mind betrays you like a stab in the back, evoking slender hands and an arched mouth that lazily pulls itself up into an omniscient smirk.

It happens so often that you've come to terms with it. Desire is a shadow that follows you step by step, crawls into your bed as you lie with your husband, makes you close your eyes as you peak and in the darkness that shadow is finally flesh, pulsing and weighing on you, but it is not.

It shouldn’t and it will never.

The lightning tells you can no longer hide, there is no way to stall now, no way to trick the King about the allegiance of your family. It is easy to fool a fool, more so when he’s willing to make himself one in front of a woman. But the King is burned. His cries of pain can be heard outside Maegor’s Holdfast, until the Maesters are merciful enough to give him milk of the poppy.

The throne is empty, the Kingdom has no ruler. But the Gods are snickering with thrill and dread.

Not for long.

“My lady, there’s a storm coming.”

You turn and see your maid clutching a cloak to her chest to shelter from the wind. "Please, you should go back inside.”

You nod tiredly, walking on the thick grass, dragging yourself back within these walls in which days seem to pass following two different times.

There’s the real, urgent one, a military up and down of whispers and promises, pawns moving and ravens coming and going, breaking or forging alliances as easy and quick as their wings flapping. And then there’s your time, dilated, obscenely slow, like molasses. It sticks to your fingers, prevents you from picking up ink and parchment and write, cheat, whisper what you have easily spilled from the worn out lungs of your husband.

“Men sing like parrots in their final throes, remember that. They’d tell you anything when they think with their cock.”

Samantha had been right. But your sister is playing her game in Oldtown and Old Town is not the Red Keep. There are no eyes on the walls there, or ears behind the portraits. There’s no shadow trailing on her path, clouding her mind enough to look away from the game. A game of life and death, your father reminded you in his last letter, the scolding clear in the way the feather had pierced the parchment in some points. The answer was nowhere but in your head, and you were too ashamed to even confess it to a Septa, let alone put it on paper. There’s a snake crawling in your garden of lies and instead of chasing it away, you’re nursing it in your bosom.

You slow your steps upon glimpsing your husband. He’s striding towards you along the corridor. There’s a slight furrow between his brows, one that you have been able to recognize on the faces of many within this fortress. But it's more severe now, or maybe it's just that shadow that makes you see a new man, a stranger.

Has his hair always been that dull and mousy? Has his posture always been so unassuming?

They have since that night in the library, the sin whispers.

“Husband.”

“I’ve been looking for you. We have been summoned to the throne room.”

“Is something the matter? Is the King—"

"The King lives. But the Maesters believe it is best to confine him to bed. Come, Prince Aemond is waiting for us." he grabs your arm and you walk with him, glad that he can’t see the shadow falling on your face at the mention of the King’s brother.

The throne room is so dark that servants are hurrying themselves to light more candles. Every now and then a new lightning flashes from the large windows, making the Iron Throne an eerie sight at the center of the Hall.

There are a few Lords of the court with their ladies, and they seem just as lost as you as they see you and your husband halting before the ancient seat.

Whereas not more than a moon ago, Lords and Ladies would have had to wait hours to be received by Aegon, the new ruler is not long in coming.

The huge doors open and Aemond Targaryen stalks the room carrying the same storm breaking outside. He makes a striking figure, ominous; the lighting pours on his long silver hair making them look like moon rays.

A dreamy picture, were it not for the conqueror's crown on his head and the sapphire in plain sight.

It is the first time you see him without the eyepatch, the first time anyone has seen him without it. They said he wore it so as not to frighten the ladies, but the one-eyed Prince is done hiding. And if fear is all he can muster, so be it. It serves him well for what will come.

He halts before the Iron Throne and takes a good look at the little gathering. You can’t help but trail your eyes on his lean and tall figure, wearing a dark green doublet made of velvet. But it’s the sapphire that catches your eye, and the long scar marring his marbled face.

You remember that one. You remember it shamefully clear while disappearing along with his head beneath your gown.

“My lords” he starts lacing his hands behind his back “As you may know, my brother is in no condition to rule. Thus, according to the law, in case of physical or mental incapacity of the sovereign, the younger brother must bear the weight of the crown.”

There is a shy, almost uneasy passing of glances between those present, but Aemond ignores them altogether. “I will not style myself as King. You will address me as Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm."

Silence falls upon the huge Hall until a loud thunder seem to awaken one of the lords who hurriedly bends his knee before the Prince. "My Prince, I renew my absolute loyalty to you and your—“

"Get up, my Lord, I did not summon you to hear you pledge your loyalty.” He says in a bored tone, darting his eye at the man “Rest assured, if I had any doubt about it, Vhagar would be feasting on your corpse as we speak.”

Silence falls once more and Aemond revels in it. He can smell fear, just like the creature he rides. “But you did raise an interesting subject.” he tilts his head and looks at Lord Peake, your husband, with a benevolent expression stretching on his face. “Lord Peake, if I asked you to pledge your loyalty to me and my family, would you do it?”

You dare not to raise your head, keeping your eyes glued to the ground, but you can sense your husband’s uneasiness, the sound close to one being insulted as he addresses the Prince. “Prince Aemond, my loyalty to your Grandsire and the Dowager Queen has never wavered and it never shall.”

The Prince nods slowly, seemingly pleased by the answer, and keeps his gaze down for a few moments before casting a sharp glance at you. You can’t see it but you can feel it.

“That is very noble of you, Lord Peake. But I can’t help but wonder, is your lady wife of the same mind as you?”

Lord Peake looks puzzled, shifting the weight on his feet “My Prince, my wife is—”

“No.” Aemond cuts him off, darting a single look at the Lord before returning on you “Let her speak.”

With a deep breath, you look up, shrinking under his violet eye and the sapphire ominously glinting of his own light. “My prince, I am saddened that your Grace would think I’m nothing but loyal to your brother, the one and only heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Every day, I pray the Gods to heal him from his burns and give him strength to—”

“Hush.” He says, raising a hand to stop you. “That’s enough.”

You shut your mouth nervously, tensing all the more as he looks at you, unblinking, for a long moment before his lips stretch into a slow, cunning smirk.

“You know, I spoke to your distant cousin once, Lord…something Tyrell. He said something very interesting to me.”

You keep a blank face even when dread starts to run down your spine. Despite the distant kinship, there’s always been bad blood between Tarlys and Tyrells. 

“He said to be very careful with Tarly women. Pretty vapid things, he said, hiding a viper’s bite.”

“I am neither my prince.” you state calmly “I’m just a woman like any other, serving my husband, my house, my King.”

“Hmm.” He ponders, the smile lingering still. Then, he picks something form his pocket and asks “What is this then?”

Despite the darkness, you could recognize that seal with eyes closed. And that seal, now, in this room, clutched by Prince Aemond’s fingers, is a death sentence.

“This is not the seal of House Peake.” he rightly says.

You look down, mustering your courage, and say “No, your Grace. That is just a silly token of love between two sisters. I use it to send ravens to my sister in Oldtown.”

“I see. And why do you hide it?”

“I do not, your Grace.”

“Lying to the King may cost your head, my Lady. You’d do well to remember that.”

“Wife…” your husband takes your arm, searches your face with an anxious stare “What is going on?”

“The White cloaks found it.” The Prince informs him “when I made them search your rooms.” He looks back at you and raises an eyebrow “For a token you’re supposed to be so fond of, I may suggest placing it somewhere else than the bottom of an old trunk.”

“Am I on trial for sending letters to my sister?”

“Yes. Considering the circumstances under which these ravens were sent. Ladies give letters to their maids, they do not go personally to the rookery, more so in the hour of the bat.”

Courage leaves you like a gust of wind. You thought you had been clever, careful. Why would anyone take notice of a court lady simply taking a walk in the early hours? And even if they had, they would have dismissed the thought at the first distraction. But not him.

“You think I would not notice? I may be half blind but I can assure you, my lady, I see everything.”  He throws the seal on the ground and resumes his soldier-like posture, standing tall and domineering with his arms laced back. “What did you tell your sister? Knowledge about our war plans? Are you secretly siding with the Blacks? I’d advise you to choose your words carefully. From them depends whether you’ll see the next dawn or not.”

Your shoulders slump a little, like a doomed creature sticking its head in the noose.

“My father asked me to spy on my husband to gather knowledge about the green army at Rook’s Rest. But I did not send any raven. I stopped since—"

“Since what? Do continue, my lady, I think your Lord husband is keen to know why his wife stopped playing him like a fool.” He leans his head forward, like someone desperately willing to hear a big secret, but your tongue is a dead thing in your mouth.

“No?” he inquires as silence stretches “Fine, I’ll tell you. You see, Lord Peake, recently your Lady wife seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the library.” the prince says with a little grin “I’m aware of this because I am myself an avid reader. In fact, your lady wife and I have been keeping each other company lately. A rather…intimate company.”

Some of the ladies start to whisper at your back, and you know what kind of words they’re labeling you.

“Wife.” Your husband calls, and this time his voice is steel “What is the meaning of this?”

You open and close your mouth, unsure whether it is worse to tell your husband how you’ve played him or to confess your sin.

“Come, don't deny it now.” the Prince goads you “All the hours you've spent, all those late nights did bear fruit, did they not? You've betrayed your house and the Crown, yet what sweetness it was to have gotten a taste, I'm sure your husband would agree.”

Lord Peaks looks utterly bewildered, shifting his gaze between you and the Prince like a dead fish.

“Oh, so he hasn't after all.” Aemond laughs “A pity, for your treacherous essence reeks of the most bittersweet nectar. Tart, but delicious.”

Your husband’s face is whiter than a sheet for a moment, followed by a red veil of anger and shame. The latter is in plain sight in the way you keep your head down; the Gods have stopped pointing their finger at you and left you in the claws of a much crueler creature. Namely, your own desire.

 “Search her.” Aemond orders returning to a stern face “And search her thoroughly.”

“My prince?” asks one of the guards.

“Women can be sneaky with all those veils and layers. Lose the corset.”

The cloaks look at him puzzled, just as you and your husband and anyone else in the room, but the guards know better than to disobey the King. 

One of them goes to stand behind you and starts pulling the laces of your dress, another is busying himself with lowering your sleeves.

Your eyes bore to the ground with the purest humiliation as your chest gradually grows exposed. You could raise your hands to hide your breast, but you have nothing to hide, not anymore.

You know it and Aemond knows too. He’s not doing this because he thinks you’re hiding something. He’s doing so for his own pleasure—to see you bare, to finally make you come out of your den and stop hiding from him. 

You dare not look at him but you can feel his eye lingering on you, on your body; you can sense the ghost of a delighted smirk on that wicked mouth. 

He takes an unreasonably long time before he gives a short nod to the guards, at last satisfied with your public humiliation. What drives your husband to move is not regard for you, but for his own dignity. What are women if not property of men? And however ruined you are now, Lord Peake will not have talk of his wife standing with her breasts out in the Throne Room.

But just as he leans down to you, the Prince speaks “You may go, Lord Peake. All of you.”

The Lord stalls, looking lost at his Prince.

“You can wait outside. She stays.” Aemond commands.

His eye is boring into you as he walks down the few steps with leisure, lingering on the sole of his boot before resting it on the ground. “She needs to learn the price of her disobedience.”

Your husband hesitates, looks at you with lingering disdain and a veil of fear that keeps his eyes wide open, but he can only bow his head.

When you’re left alone the Prince, save for the guards on the four sides of the hall, you dare to look up and see his eye blazing, a cunning edge to it.

He starts circling around you, and what’s left of your dignity makes your hands fly up to cover your chest.

“You said you stopped writing to your sister. And you stopped coming to the library.” he starts with a collected and calm voice. “Why?”

“You know why.” you mutter.

“You better drop this condescending tone if you want to leave this room with your head on your shoulders.”

“Apologies, my Prince. I did not mean to offend you. But I dim you wise enough to understand why I thought it was best to keep my distance from you.”

He stops his circling for a moment “Enlighten me.” and then he’s pacing again.

You swallow, smelling ashes and smoke on his trail. “It was a sin.”

“Hmm. Which one?” He asks somewhere behind you. Out the corner of your eye, you see him slightly leaning towards you, silver rolling past his shoulder as he cocks his head to one side “Your betrayal or the fact that you let me feast on your cunt like a common whore?”

You swallow again. Shame is still coiling in your belly, but there’s also something else on hearing those words coming from his mouth, recalling that night. This man has just humiliated you in front of the court and yet you crave for him to get closer.

“Both.”

“Both?”

“I did not want to.” You say and it’s true. And this, this is the last chance you might have to avoid the pike, or worse, Vhagar’s fangs. “My father forced me.” You say turning your head left and right as he resumes his pacing behind you “I don’t know which kind of deal he has struck with Prince Daemon but I swear it, my Prince, I said nothing about Rook’s Rest, I—“

The word dies on your tongue along with your breath as you feel the coldness of a sharp blade against your throat.

“I should slit your throat here and now.” He whispers dangerously, you can hear his teeth gritting. His arm is pressing on your chest, keeping you locked against him. “What else Lord Tarly ordered you in all his great wisdom? Mh? To seduce me? To play me like a fool, like you played my brother and your husband to gather knowledge about our armies and report it to my uncle and his whore?”

“No, I—" you try to say, but he presses the blade firmer and you choke a gasp, unconsciously grabbing his arm.

“You will speak when I say so.” He seethes, pulling your arm back with his other hand, painfully twisting your bone until a moan of pain escapes your mouth.

It awakens something inside him, something savage that makes him collide his body against yours “Hmm.” He coos darkly in your ear “This brings me back to that night.”

He swiftly twirls the dagger, sheathing the Valyrian steel, but his hand is quick to resume his caging, sliding on your half-covered breast, looking down your shoulders at your bare chest.

His fingers are cold as they slowly travel up, but they lick flames on your skin, making your nipples harden. “Do you remember, little snake? I do.” he runs the tip of his finger on the hard sensitive skin and you whimper softly “It was hard to forget the sounds you made.” He speaks to your neck, his breath scorching “I could hear them when I fucked my hand at night. You made me sin so many times. Was that part of the plan too? Did your father force you to moan my name while you peaked on my tongue?”

“Please…” you sob quietly, feeling fire nestling in your belly at the sound of his voice and the feeling of his bulge against your lower back.

“Do you moan like that when your husband fucks you? Mh?”

He wants an answer, and he pinches one of your nipples when you don’t please him.

“No…”

“No? I thought so.”

Your body reacts on his own, clenching for how his voice in your ear pools like liquid fire below your stomach. You can see his delighted smirk out of the corner of your eye. “You better speak now, little one. Not even the Gods can save you from the spike. Why would they? They turn their backs on traitors and sinners. And you dared to sin with a Kinslayer. You have only me to beg for mercy.”

“You don’t want to kill me.” You choke when his hand laces around your throat.

He would’ve done it already. He might still do it, but his pressing hardness on your back tells you otherwise.

“No. I have a better use for you.” he says squeezing your neck “I will make an example out of your treacherous mouth. They will look at you and be reminded of the mercy of my crown.”

He steps back and you have little time to catch your breath as he sits on the Iron Throne with the confidence of a God on his perch. The candles mix with lightnings, making the blue of the sapphire and the obsidian of the crown shimmer in a disturbing way.

He rests his arms along the forged swords, his long legs almost sprawled out on the ground. “Come and pledge your loyalty, my lady.”

Your heart hammers in your throat as you swallow. This is a game of life or death, but not now. Your two times have merged into a perpetual dizziness and you’re sinking into the claws of your desire like quicksand.

“No.” he admonishes with a voice like honey when you dare a step closer “On your knees. Like the sinner you are.”

You sink to the ground and his eye goes down with you, smirking with something savage flashing on his face. “Go ahead.” He says spreading his legs around you. “Take your blessing.”

You raise your hands slowly, close to his belt but when you start unbuckling it you find there’s no tremor in your fingers. And he’s too quick to notice. “You wanted this, do you?” he asks “Did you close your eyes and pretend to suck my cock instead of your husband’s?”

The buckles clink together as you finish the unbuckling but he suddenly leans over you, gripping your cheeks with a hold of iron.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.” You quickly, shamefully say.

The left edge of his mouth pulls up tiredly, omnisciently. “How? Like this?” In a blink his long fingers breach your mouth, hitting the back of your throat until you choke on them. He pulls them back just slightly, grazing your tongue, and he looks at you with a lustful blaze in his eye.

“Suck.” he orders, and you oblige, keeping your eyes on him as your mouth close around his two fingers, sucking gently and twirling your tongue around the skin.

“Hmm.” He croons with pleasure, leaving your mouth abruptly to lean back against the throne, sliding a little on the ancient seat to push his crotch before you. He makes haste of pulling his cock out, giving it a few tugs while he keeps looking at you, at the longing darkening your eyes and wetting your gowns.

You take hold of his hard hot length, all veiny and leaking from the tip and it’s only natural for you to close your lips around it. You have obscenely dreamed of this.

He lets out a loud gasp, gripping the throne with his hands as your head goes down, taking him all in. It hits the back of your throat with a lewd choking sound; you breathe through your nose, resuming your holy punishment once you have adjusted to length and girth, sucking hard and fast.

"Greedy little thing.” He praises with his eye growing heavy with pleasure “Easy. Easy, now.” he goads you to slow down, and you do, looking up to see him watching you closely, his lips parted, his breath slow and puffed.

“Fuck—” he curses, titling his head back but keeping his eye fixed on you. “See? This is the only good use for your cheating mouth. And you look so pretty.”

The ache between your legs is unbearable, you’re swollen and wet, you can feel your undergown dampening.

“Are you soaked for me, hmm? I bet you’re dripping all over the Conqueror’s swords.”

You have no way to answer as you keep bobbing your head up and down, a sinner worshipping her own sin.

“Open your mouth—wide” he orders and you do, drooling all over him as he starts to thrust harshly in your mouth.

“Yes. Like this, yes—fuck” He pumps in and out, bucking his hips, hitting your throat on and on while he moans helplessly and loudly, as only a King on his throne can.

“Hollow your cheeks.” And when you do it, something snaps inside him. He grabs your hair, pulling at the roots painfully while he keeps fucking your mouth frantically, choking your breath. But you don’t mind. This could be your last day, your last hour breathing. The snake is sucking at your bones and you welcome the poison.

“Enough.” he croaks when he was starting to breathe too fast, too close to the end. “Get up.”

Your knees ache as you pull yourself up but he’s so quick in lifting up your skirts and grabbing your waist to make you turn and sit on his lap, facing the Throne Room. The Guards are exactly where they’re supposed to be, blind and deaf to what they can perfectly see and hear.

“Let me give you my blessing, now.” Aemond says spreading your legs on the throne, making you wince as you feel his hot fingertips on your wet aching folds. “You’re soaked.” he states proudly, smiling with victory next to your ear.

He draws lazy circles on your bundle, sliding down your dripping lips, slowly, too slowly. You buck your hips against his hand and his chuckle travels up and down inside you, rattling your bones like thunder.

“Please…” you cry when his fingers brush your swollen lips once more.

“I should summon back your husband. So he’d see how his pretty wife begs to be fucked by her Prince like a whore. Shall I?”

You grab his hand, pressing it to your core and he dips a finger inside, spilling a loud moan from you that makes him bite your ear as he feels your hot walls clenching around him.

“Fine. We shall let him hear it.”

He brings his soaked fingers to your mouth, sticking them inside to make you taste yourself, and then he takes your wrist, trapping it on your stomach with his hand. He easily slides his cock inside you, moaning along with you into the haunting silence of the hall. His thrusts are deep and quick, desire has consumed him too, for too long. The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh are only barely muffled by your frantic gasps. Your eyes are closed in a painful bliss, his hot labored breath dampens your neck as he fills you to the hilt.

Your throat is sore with lack of air as you turn your head and he slams his mouth against yours, filling your mouth with his scorching tongue, biting your lip and sucking until it’s swollen. All of this while relentlessly rutting into you, giving you violent bursts of pleasure that make your moans high-pitched and loud, so loud that everyone outside these walls can hear them. Your husband will hear them, the guards are definitely doing so.

“Fucking Gods, you feel so good” He pants in your mouth “You really wanted this. Your cunt is squeezing my cock like a vice. That husband of yours never fucked you this good, did he?”

“Gods—” you whine, squeezing your eyes shut but he grabs your chin with his free hand, forcing you to turn your head. “The Gods cannot hear you now. They’re deaf to the pleas of sinners.” with his free hand he clutches your bundle and he starts to torture you, drawing fast circles, while his length keeps rutting harshly. “Lucky for you I’m more merciful than the Gods.”

The tension in your belly is unbearable, it makes you cry obscenely and the sound only pushes him to go harder, faster.

“Please—I—I can’t—Gods—”

“You can’t what? Mh?” he nothing but growls, thrusting once more and then again. “This is your retribution.” He says baring his teeth “You failed your family for this. You lied and cheated. Now fucking—take—it” his last words punctuated with three deeper thrusts that make you whimper and roll your eyes back.

It doesn’t take much longer for you to reach your peak, letting out a long moan matched with sloppy shakes of your body against his. But he doesn’t stop, chasing his own pleasure as you whimper and sob with overstimulation. His hand keeps moving on your apex, all sticky with your pleasure and you grip his arm, trying to stop him. “Please—I can’t take it anymore—please my Prince—"

“You can and you will.” He promises “Give me one more. Come on, little traitor, just one more.”  

You’re not late in granting his wish, trembling all over him and curling your toes with spasms in your muscles.

He groans loudly beneath you, teeth clamping down your shoulder and he stills completely, coming inside you with a choked sound of relief vibrating from his throat.

You whimper softly, feeling him pulsing inside you, but he grabs your waist and forces you to stand up. You waver on your weak feet, his hand is around your arm but only to firmly push you away from him. Falling on the ground, you look up to see him fixing his breeches, hair all disheveled and a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Guards.” He says hoarsely, catching his breath, and two white cloaks stand at attention, their faces blank, pretending to be oblivious to what they have just witnessed. “Take her to my chambers and have the maid give her moon tea.”

Then he looks down at you, his face is wild and yet viciously focused. “We’re going to find a way to send your husband back to Starpike.” He says grazing your lips with his long fingers. “You’re not leaving my chambers anytime soon. In the time being,” his hand grips your mouth harshly, his voice eerily calm “You will write to Oldtown in your own hand, and ask my uncle to send me the head of Samantha Tarly.”

You widen your eyes with terror and he smiles, sweet and poisonous. “And remember, little snake. If I find you near the rookery at odd hours again, I will cut your throat in your sleep. Such a waste it would be. I’d rather have you choking on my cock than your own blood.”

He leaves without another word and you’re left on the ground. You can’t beg mercy to the Gods now, you will have to beg for his and his alone.

thank you so much for reading!! 💕

#a snake in the bosom #liv(in la vida loca) #aemond targaryen x reader #dark aemond #dark aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon #hotd fic #aemond fic #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond smut #dark aemond smut #dark aemond targaryen #aemond x wife reader

[agustdiv1ne]

⋆｡˚ ✈︎ 9:05 p.m. (m) — choi yeonjun

genre: nsfw so mdni, boyfriend!yeonjun, switch!yeonjun, plane sex 😵‍💫

wc: 1.6k

part 2

your left leg is shaking.

at the moment, you should be fast asleep, basking in the comfort (and astonishing amount of leg room) that a first class airline seat could provide. however, you remain wide awake, not an inkling of fatigue in sight. you have exhausted nearly all options of distraction, leaving you to pick at your nails and stare off into space, thoughts racing through your head at the speed of light.

and it's all your boyfriend’s fault — him, and his fucking tank top.

you would usually be fine — you have always adored yeonjun's fashion sense — but it isn't just a normal tank top; no, it clings to his lithe body, the dark fabric defining his pecs and accentuating his pretty little waist. the lack of sleeves only serve to make things worse for you, the well-developed muscles of his biceps flexing as he shifts his position in his seat next to you. you didn't even know he was wearing it until he took off his denim jacket to go through tsa. that was more than four hours ago, yet you still feel a little hot under the collar.

a deep, quiet groan meets your ears, a small sigh following moments after as yeonjun stretches, arching his back before slumping back against his seat. now awakened from his small nap, you notice from your peripherals how he focuses on your quaking leg, but you flinch anyway when his hand moves to squeeze the meat of your thigh. your leg stills. swiveling your head, you meet his lethargic gaze, a glint of concern shining through the fatigue.

“you okay, baby?” the words rumble from deep within his chest, voice drenched in molasses, slow and smooth and oh so sweet to your ears. the sound ignites a carnal fire in your stomach. your mind sings a siren song to give into your desires, to just do something about them, already. instead, you nod with a hushed hum, sending him a small, tight-lipped smile that you hope he can’t see through. he grins, surging forward to press a quick peck to your lips before settling down to busy himself with his phone. you sigh in relief as his hand removes itself from your thigh.

you feel as if you are about to implode as you scan the dim cabin, lights off so as to allow passengers to sleep through the long flight. the two people sitting across the aisle are doing just that, sound asleep, their heads leaned back against their seats. with another cursory glance around, you find that most people are sleeping; the only person who is awake around you is a businessman one row behind you, though he wears chunky headphones that you assume are noise canceling.

conflict brews within you. sure, you and yeonjun have talked about exploring exhibitionism, and both of you have voiced your inclination for it — but you're unsure if this is the right place to test out this shared desire. something about the close proximity of the other passengers is a little nerve-wracking, but in a way, the idea of ruining your boyfriend while surrounded by others causes adrenaline to race through your veins. even then, if yeonjun decides that he does not want to, then he could simply use your mutual safeword and all would be over.

making your decision, you slip your hand underneath the jacket on his lap and place it on top of his knee, squeezing lightly. he pauses for a moment, tilting his head, but ultimately goes back to his phone, likely playing some game. you remain in that same position for a few minutes, rubbing your thumb against the smooth skin. slowly, you trail your hand up further and further, stopping only once it rests against his sensitive inner thigh. pinky swiping back and forth, you feel him squirm away your touch, and you grip a little harder. yeonjun's soft lips part slightly, eyes round and wide as he peeks over at you.

“baby,” he whispers, trying not to whine as you glide your hand up a little more, dangerously close to his his hardening cock. he gasps when one of your fingers tickles the seam of his shorts, hands gripping the tanned leather of the armrests with whitened knuckles. “baby, what—”

“shhh, jjunie. be a good boy for me, yeah?” you coo, voice hushed as you lean closer, warm breath curling around his ear. 

he shivers, biting his lips as you palm his now fully erect dick over his clothes. you check in with him quietly, asking if this is alright, and he nods, sliding down his seat to allow you better access. you grin.

still hidden by the jacket on his lap, you shove your hand underneath the waistband of his shorts and boxers, curling your hand around him. he jumps in his seat at the sensation of you finally touching him where he needs you most, and you pause, shooting him a raised eyebrow before you look around. everyone is still asleep, or, at least, too preoccupied to notice what is transpiring just below their noses.

turning back to him, you whisper praises as you begin to pump his aching cock, thumb dipping into the slit of his head to spread the precum that's gathered there. your hand takes up a leisurely pace, slowly slicking up as he leaks even more precum. trailing your eyes up to his face, you find a beautiful sight: brows furrowed, eyes squeezed shut, and his bottom lip bitten to absolute hell to muffle his desperate pants. a little squeak eacapes him when you squeeze a bit harder, increasing your pace.

“quiet, baby, or do you wanna get caught?” you question with a challenging smirk. while he responds with a rapid shake of his head, you feel his cock twitch against your palm. you shake your head, movements growing more rapid, as mock dissapointment laces your tone. “don’t lie to me. i bet you’d love to have this whole plane watch as i touch you, hm? ‘m sure you’d love the attention.”

“n-no, only want your, your attention,” he stutters, breathing heavily through his nose. the muscles in his abdomen contract as you continue, squriming more in his seat. his face is now buried in his hands, his face splattered with fiery crimson that you can easily pick out despite the low light. his hips thrust up into your hand, the jacket that once protected his dignity now discarded on the floor. 

“aw, that’s sweet,” you say with a sharp grin. he arches his back further as you focus on his swollen, angry tip for a few seconds. “but i don’t believe you.”

faster, faster, faster, you can't find it in yourself to care as the wet sounds of you stroking him grow louder, mixing with the white noise of the plane. sweat lines his brow, head burrowed against the back of the seat as one hand claws at your arm. his arms are flexed, muscles straining against his skin. you think he's close to tears with how hard he's trying not to moan, biting into the flesh of his other palm. you drink him in with a hungry gaze; you want him — no, need him to cum for you, need to see him lose it with all these people around you.

“gonna cum, pretty boy?” you sigh into his ear, biting his lobe for a moment. he nods, whispering ‘yes’ and ‘please’ in rapid succession. “that’s it. cum for me, baby.”

you giggle softly as he registers your permission, his eyes widening, and without even checking for wandering eyes, you lean down to wrap your lips around the head of his cock.

that does the trick. his cum spurts in hot ribbons into your mouth, the salty taste coating your tastebuds as you continue to pump him. suddenly, a hand is tangled into your hair, pushing your head down and thrusting up so that you take him further into your mouth, more and more until he's hitting the back of your throat. you inhale sharply in surprise, listening to him choke on the whimper he manages to keep in, swallowing his cum as he pulls you back up to his tip.

you stay there for a few seconds before you push yourself off of his lap, but the sight you are met with is a shocking one.

what you find are stern eyes and downturned lips. gone is the submissive, pliant jjunie from a few seconds ago. now, he's serious, fox-like eyes narrowed as he nearly leers over you. he's angry, you realize. the sudden change makes your head spin.

his fingers grip your chin like a vice as he brings his face closer to yours. you gulp. you're unsure where this switch in behavior stemmed from, but if the way your thighs clench together is anything to go by, you definitely welcome it.

“you like embarrassing me? ‘s it fun for you?” 

“n-no,” you stutter. you’ve lost, any semblance of control you had over this situation dissipating into the air as the seconds tick by.

the tables are turning, and you are unsure if you are ready for whatever he has planned.

“get the fuck up, and go to the bathroom. now.” 

you nod as you unbuckle your seatbelt, watching him tuck himself back into his shorts. standing on shaking legs, you obediently make your way down the aisle to the bathroom, the heavy footsteps of your boyfriend following behind you a hair-raising reminder of your impending fate.

masterlist

© to agustdiv1ne. do not copy, repost, steal, and/or translate.

#txt smut #yeonjun smut #txt x reader #yeonjun x reader #txt imagines #txt drabbles #txt timestamps #yeonjun drabbles #yeonjun imagines #yeonjun hard hours #yeonjun hard thoughts #txt hard thoughts #txt hard hours #agust.nsfw #💌 — jjun

[tojisun]

SUNNY SUNNY!! can you imagine the reaction simon would give u if u start singing big boy by sza?? GRAAAAHHHH HE WILL GO FERAL!! NEED TO CLIMB HIM UP LIKE A XXXMAS TREE

ANA BABE!! IM ACTUALLY BARKING IN MY CAGE WHAT??? THIS IS SO!!! no bcuz it aint just singin– it’s a whole performance that you’re giving him!!

simon’s sat on the sofa, huffing a laugh when he sees you frantically fiddling with the remote control before flicking on a youtube video of just the cut of sza’s lines – one that simon doesn’t know.

the bass trickles into the living room like dripping molasses and simon quirks up a brow in question when you turned to him all of a sudden, the mic now held up before your lips. you sway your hips along with the music, trailing your hand up from your belly to your chest, playfully squeezing your tits with a wink, before falling to your knees slowly. almost salaciously.

then, you begin to crawl towards him, head still tipped up as you sing the lyrics. simon’s breathless all of a sudden, eyes wide as he follows your slow crawls. he has to grip the armrests, blunt nails biting into the upholstered material, when the lyrics finally click in his brain.

“it’s cuffin’ season, an’ all the girls are leavin – i need a big boy.”

“fuck,” he rasps out the moment you reach him, your hand – empty of your impromptu mic – creeping from his shin to his knee before squeezing his thigh, acrylics digging into the robust muscle.

you continue to crawl close, squeezing yourself between his legs – those that simon spread open even more – before pressing your cheek to the inside of his thigh. you look up at him from your long lashes, batting them in faux demureness.

simon almost goes catatonic when you nuzzle your cheek to his thigh, sighing wistfully, before ending your teasing with a last, “i need a big boy.”

you get to ghost a kiss on his leg before simon’s lunging to pluck you from the floor, growling in restrained hunger. you squeal, the remote clattering onto the carpeted floors as you find purchase on simon’s shoulders, gripping tight when the centre of your gravity shifts.

simon drops you on his lap, big hands squeezing your hips. “yeah?” he asks, chest heaving with need.

“mhmm,” you say, one that is another teasing purr. “need ‘im bad, si.”

“well, he’s here,” simon teases back, shuffling you close until you’re pressed flushed on his chest. he noses along your neck, breathing you in with a tremble.

you giggle at the puff of warm air, shifting at the ticklish feeling. simon lightly nips at the column of your neck in warning. “any more an’ i’m fuckin’ you here, sweetheart.”

simon shivers at feeling your acrylics dancing across the expanse of his back, the thin material of his shirt not doing much in dampening the sensation. then, he hears you mumble, “an’ if i wanna be fucked here?”

simon rips his head from the crook of your neck to meet your gaze and, with reverence in his voice, he says, “well, big boy’s gotta do what his girl wants, yeah?”

you lick your bottom lip in excitement, nodding eagerly, and simon thinks enough’s enough before diving down to kiss you. to devour you. to claim you.

OH I NEED HIM SOOOOOIR BAD

dividers by @/plutism!!

#suns.f #ana <3 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ask #suns #LOVIE THIS ONES TOOOOO GOOD

[catfern]

Cowboy!ellie

Save a horse, ride a cowboy 😉

so um yeah um this was.. yeah

“fu-fuck.”

the bottle of cider clicked and rolled along the floorboards, the drink fizzing and dying in the cracks. ellie’s fingers had nested in your hair, pulling and prying as she lost herself in the taste of you.

the horses needed rest, and the ground was too cold and arid to break camp. ellie cursed under her breath - cheapskate - at the luxury of a hotel. but you had begged, so sweetly, and promised to make it worth her while. 

but she was mean. honey whiskey on her breath, you could hear her smile through the ragged feeling of her hands on your waist, callouses digging bruises into your hip bones. her leg slides up to drag your velvet slick along her thigh and you whine, syrupy and lost.

“what’re you doing?” a teasing whisper against the crook of her neck, the vibrations of your voice run along the ridges of ellie’s body like electricity. she laughs, breathy and wild and rough, and you let yourself fall into its comforts, mistakingly.

“jus’ having my fun, flower.”

“that all i am to you? fun?”

“oh, honey,” ghosts of her hands run along the back of your neck, swimming in your hair. you sigh, before a sharp yank sets your nerves on fire, pulling your face from hiding. her gaze is wildfire, running along the contours of your face, your shape of your cheeks and lips with a molasses, lopsided smile, “you’re everything to me.”

you can feel her heartbeat drumming against your chest, a nervous arrhythmia that traces up and down your body, settled in the base of her palms. it feels like a song, wicked and savage, echoes on your skin. your eyes fall to the arc of her breathing, the swell of her chest and the silhouette of her shoulders against the pillow.

you feel her looking at you. something threatening. her breath is low, “now, what’s goin’ on in your pretty little head?”

her hand is a cage against your cheek, control. desperation pools against your thighs, spreading it along her clothed cunt, a soft gasp falling from her lips as she slowly - painfully slowly - lifts you, watching your slick web from the tone of her leg. her touch runs through you like ichor, and her name rocks from you in distraction.

her charm is lost to the heavy air, and nothing but the rasp of her voice remains, “move.”

her leg shifts against your clit and you nearly scream, collapsing in on yourself and digging your nails into the flesh of her shoulders. ellie holds you steady, letting you gently twist yourself around her existence as you straddle her thigh, your need dripping on her skin, riding the soft burn in your stomach with unaired caution.

ellie wants to play nice, almost desperately wants to, but she’s ever impatient, and she can feel how much you need it. so why aren’t you taking what she’s giving you?

you’re going too slow.

it’s like she possesses you, her hands no longer a guide but a demand as she rocks your body against hers, her fingers pressing into your waist like a brand. your head throws back and a guttural sound rips through you as the tone of her muscle brushes your clit, again, again. ellie has lost herself at the sound of you, to her own abandon. she watches how your pussy slides against her oh so well, a saccharine warmth melting against her skin like gold, chasing more like it was essential to her survival.

“jesus,” her voice is breathy,manic and pussydrunk, “that wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

her question, however mocking, falls on deaf ears. your body is drowning, soft and slow, letting yourself revel in the effervescent role ellie has taken in your life, her feeling everywhere. you surrender yourself to her, let her body rush you as you feel her start to move beneath you, her voice descent to pure desperation as she ruts, and you’re withering. you’re almost bouncing on top of her, her hands moving you relentlessly against her leg as she becomes wretched for her own release.

“ellie, sweet-fuck, it’s too much-too much,” you choke, your voice a pathetic wobble, your clit is stinging as the knot ever-so-tightens in your stomach. pressure, pressure, you’re pushing back against her, trying to give yourself a reprieve from the woman you so foolishly entangled yourself with. her grip is strong,

“jus-shut up! fuck! you feel so good, flower. so fu-ucking good.”

you’re exhausted, but ellie’s hand continues, pushing and pulling you against her like the tide,

“don’t you dare fucking stop.”

#ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie williams #ellie williams smut #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams drabble #ellie the last of us

[ceilidho]

So the bear shifter Price has awakened something in me. Thank you, hopefully I dream of it tonight!

I haven’t yet but here’s hoping :((

it would be even better if you were aware of Price before the whole “dragging you into the den mid hibernation” thing, like maybe you both live in the same small town and you worked at the grocers as a cashier.

You know Price as the gruff, taciturn park ranger that comes in once a week to load up on steak, cold cuts and fresh produce, but he’s always fresh off work, a little rough around the edges and not quite fit for human interaction just yet. So he just grunts and nods when you tell him his total, towers over you and never really makes much eye contact. He’s always made you feel nervous, like a schoolgirl with her first crush, but it’s a safe kind of crush. The kind that feels fun to indulge in because there’s no possibility of reciprocation, like you can just ogle him and pine over him without having to worry about what you’d do if he felt the same way.

And then it’s mid January and you’re trudging home alone after your shift and you cut through the forest because you missed the last bus and you don’t want to spend an hour walking home and that’s when a sleepy, gruff Price wrests you into his humid, cozy den fitted with fur throws and blankets. In between the bitten off, incomprehensible growls that sound more animal than human, you hear him say something about smelling you, about needing to feed you - says you’re too small for the winter months, won’t be good for the cubs.

Something about the humidity of the den makes you suddenly so tired, boneless, pliable when he goes to move you, when Price curves himself around you in the furs and reaches down to slide a hand between your thighs. Grunts when he finds you wet and wanting, sinking a couple fingers in and palming your clit. He doesn’t talk much still, but he says good girl when he cants your hips and slowly stretches you out on his cock. Feeds it into you achingly slow, like molasses. Like nothings due for another few months, so why rush it? He’ll take his time so you’re nice and happy and sweet come spring for cubs.

#cod mw2 #ceil writing #cod x reader #price x reader #price/reader #cod price #captain price #captain john price #john price

[juneknight]

Pretend

Kink: Virginity

Jake/f!reader

*

“Would you pretend?” he asks against your mouth, both your lips swollen from the heated kisses you’ve been sharing. The back of Jake’s car is downright luxurious, plenty of room for someone to kneel, seats soft and clean and wide enough for a body to lay on. Most nights when he wants to go cruising, the two of you end up like this in a parking garage or on a back road.

“Pretend what?” you ask, brain moving slow, like it has been dipped in molasses.

“Pretend it’s your first time,” he says. The two of you had been swapping stories about how you lost your virginities—it had made Jake delightfully jealous, you had thought, his hands tightening on the wheel when you discussed the naive, shy way you had touched another man. But then he had pulled off the nearest exit and driven you here to a secluded spot where the pavement had turned to gravel. “Pretend you’re a virgin. Would you?”

“You’d like that?” you wonder, a little baffled. But before he can answer, you slip into the role. You let your eyes soften, a hint of anxiety in them. Your voice quivers a little, fingers playing with the loops of his belt as you say: “I thought most guys didn’t like inexperienced girls.”

Jake groans. He fucking moans at the way your voice shakes, the way your hands flutter away from where you truly want to touch him, the way you look up through your lashes at him, like there’s a need inside you that you don’t understand but desperately need him to quash. He leans down and mouths at your neck softly. “Most guys don’t. But something about it makes me crazy.”

“You’d be my first?” you ask him, breathless with hope. “You’d be okay with that? Being the first inside me?”

His hips jerk against yours, cock brushing your pussy through your denim and his own slacks. “Yes, fuck, yes!”

“But…but Jake—your cock feels so big—what if it doesn’t fit?” you ask.

“Sweet little pussies like yours will stretch, baby,” he says, hips beginning a slow series of grinding thrusts against you. You try to meet him clumsily, even though you know him and his body so well, even though the rhythm you both have established is so solid that it’s hard not to be in sync with him. “You were made to take a cock like mine.”

God help you, because you feel your own blood rising at this little charade. Something about how aroused Jake is arouses you to a degree you hadn’t expected. Your legs shake around him.

“Jake, fuck, it feels good,” you whine, tilting your hips to welcome his own more easily. “Is it going to feel like this when you—when you put it inside me?”

“Better,” he groans. “So, so much better.”

“Feels like, like it does when I touch myself at night,” you gasp, letting your mouth quirk into a grin that borders on evil where he cannot see. “Feels like I’m gonna cum, Jake.”

Jake’s the one who cums, body stiffening, sucking in a breath through his teeth as his cock twitches in his pants. You loop your legs around his waist, helping him to thrust more firmly against you, groaning softly and tangling your fingers in his curls to scratch at his scalp with your blunt nails.

“Fuck,” he gasps, shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“Which of us was the virgin that time?” you tease.

He rolls you both onto your sides and swats your ass.

#jake lockley x reader