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softlyspector · 8 months

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Moss & Mushrooms

Written for Haunted Hoedown !

Prompt(s): animal shapeshifter au + "he's a monster" + "he's perfect". With the additional prompts of "I accidentally called you into this world" + gothic au

Summary: You are alone, always. Then, one day, a beast emerges from the forest you've never dared to go into.

Pairing: shapeshifter!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~4.2k

Warnings: toxically co-dependent, unhealthy, literal nightmare relationship, body horror (also shapeshifter transformation type of things), graphic descriptions of violence, lots of blood, smut, marking, pain kink, light choking, intense biting, possessiveness, devotion and loyalty that threaten to go too far, mentions of death, suicidal ideation, intense loneliness, the reader wears a dress, the reader is described with having scars, bruises, only very lightly edited

A/N: I wanna say thank you to @psychedelic-ink and @inklore for hosting the Haunted Hoedown writing challenge because this really got the creative juices flowing and it was also just a lot of fun to write. Anyway! I'm throwing this into the void and running away. Thanks for reading!

Something monstrous looms.

It has claws and teeth, bristling fur.

It emerges from the shadows with a growl, from the depths of the ever whispering forest, the ever murmuring leaves.

Wind whips the trees back as darkness encroaches on the garden. You stand on the edge of the balcony, the widow’s walk, and watch it emerge from the forest, the writhing mass of dark trees, battered by the brewing storm, the thorny, irritated air.

The wind sears your skin, so cold it burns, so violent it tears.

The sky churns violet, navy, midnight. White moonlight cuts through the clouds, fingers of forked lightning spear through the roiling mass.

The creature writhes.

A wolf the size of a moose, you realize. Larger than any beast should be.

It’s nails dig into the earth, a howl like a thousand years of pain wrapped in velvet echo across the yard, across the churning ocean that crashes against the seawall on the other side of the house.

Your belly knots up, a thrill tingles at the base of your spine. You are alone on the coast. Your nearest neighbor is miles away. At least, they used to be, anyway.

A storm is rolling in, the power flickering already in the ruinous house you call home, gothic and stately and in utter disrepair.

It’s falling apart. Any moment it may fall to the ground, it may sink into the sea.

The wolf’s howl breaks off, cracks, snaps.

What if it prowled closer to the house? What if it came onto the porch below? What if it threw itself against the door, shattered its way inside? What if it attacked you? Consumed you?

All the blood in your face rushes down, gathers hotly in your chest. It thrills you, the thought of being trapped by the beast, the thing crawling closer to the house, lithe body sleek in the moonlight, in the gathering storm. It thrills you to think of it snapping you open, prying you apart, ending your misery.

You have the urge to go downstairs, open the door and invite it in. It could carve your heart out with its teeth, you could eat it together. Blood dripping from your chin, it’s maw.

You would no longer be alone on this stretch of coast beneath you, threatening to consume you and leave your bones behind, like all the others that had come before you. You could live inside the wolf.

The cracking, snapping continues. A howl begins again, then chokes off. The smooth coat of fur jostles. The creature stumbles, falls halfway across the garden. The noise continues, like twigs snapped and rocks thrown.

You watch the grotesque movement, fascinated, blood pumping, heart racing. The howl transforms into a moan, and then, the cracking, writhing stops. Your eyes are wide open but in the space of a blink the monster is replaced with a man.

Before you can really consider what you’re doing, you fetch up the lantern by your elbow and fly back through the double doors to the staircase that winds down through the many floors of the ancient house.

Something laughs, but you don’t pause to find out what. The fluttering wings of cobwebs and dust chase you down, down, down. Moss and mushrooms sprout from the damp of the walls, watching with hungry eyes.

You know as your bare feet hit the main floor and the white of your dress swirls around your ankles, that even if you had paused to think it over, you’d still be here, pulling open the back door as the electricity flickers out and the rain finally comes crashing down from the sky.

The lantern falls from your hand and you bolt out into the rain.

The beast, the man, is beautiful.

You can tell even through the sleeting, hammering rain blurring your vision.

The whole world is dark and wet. The whole of the earth is soaked in chilled blood. And you and the creature are the last of the warm bodies to stand atop it.

You curl one hand under his naked bicep and pull.

The man is nude. He’s hard to make out in the dark and the rain and the howling, snarling wind.

He follows you though, follows the touch of your hand, the press of your fingertips, like you are a glow of light in a dark tunnel and he the moth.

The earth squelches beneath your feet, mud squeezes between your toes and tugs at the hem of your dress.

He follows you up the decaying back stairs, straight through the still open doors, gauzy curtains fluttering in the storm winds, ripping at their fastenings.

As soon as you’re inside, the din of the rain is muted. The air is heavy with salt, like blood is in the air, like a sea of red has spilled across the dilapidated floorboards.

All you want is to look at him, but violence breaks loose from the monster turned man.

His hands are large, veiny and thick and crushing when he backs you into a wall.

He is naked in his entirety, and you can’t stop your eyes from spilling down his body. He cages you against the wall, thick forearms and biceps pressing you in tight. His chest is broad, littered with a smattering of wiry, dark hair. Scars criss cross his arms, his shoulders. Broad shoulders lead to a tapered waist and strong thighs.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of his cock, half hard and nestled in a thatch of dark hair. He’s big, thick.

You should not want this monster, this man without a name that has been gifted to you by a storm that seemed to be conjured right out of hell.

But he has been. He is yours.

He has been gifted to you.

Not the storm, you think. The forest. The dark green, solid black interior, has given him to you.

You can feel him, feel his soul, like fishing line connects you, is tied to the ventricles of your heart and his. If you pull away, it will tear, it will rip.

Your thighs ache. Tingling wanting sweeps from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. There’s a hollow space inside your belly, growling, hungry. Your pussy clenches and you almost reach for him.

The force of the wind blows a window open, slams it into a wall where it shatters with the impact. You glance into the stranger’s face, your eyes jerking up to his. He’s dripping with rainwater, hair slicked back from his forehead, black and gray in the moonlight, in the darkness of the storm and the house and your heart.

He looks, for all the world, like someone you once knew.

You can’t place who, water dripping into your eyes.

One hand curls around your throat, and your eyes flutter closed at the sensation. You shudder when your heels leave the floor. He lifts you until you’re left on your tiptoes, gasping.

You’ve never been lifted before, not in any kind of way, and certainly not like this. He’s strong, much too strong.

His eyes are dark, swallowed by black pupils. His teeth pull back from his lips in a snarl, white teeth flashing.

Maybe you don’t recognize him after all.

The darkness in his gaze makes you want to sink into the blank spots flashing in your vision. You force yourself to suck in a breath, force yourself not to get lost like a little lamb.

“Why did you call me here?”

His voice is deep and gritty. It’s a voice you would like to plunge your hands into, tweak into a melody, or something far more sinister.

“I didn’t,” you say. “How could I?”

He has crinkles by his eyes, the tops of his cheeks. His forehead is wrinkled with tension. His beard is mostly gray, his lips pink, like the only spot of color.

He’s beautiful.

And you want him so bad, you would let him pluck the veins from your body one by one if it meant he would keep looking at you, if it meant his attention was on you alone.

His gaze slides from your face to your body. Your dress is plastered to your frame with rainwater, wet and sticking. The white has been made transparent and there’s nothing left to his imagination. You may as well be nude. Goosebumps race across your skin.

The monster releases your throat and instead leans into you, his body so hot it burns. He inhales against you, his nose just below your ear. All you can do is hang on, dig blunt nails into the flesh of his shoulders. You feel the twist of muscle beneath your fingers, the sinewy pull of tendon along his spine.

The scent of rain and earth surrounds you, blood and pine. Like the forest just bore him into the world, like he is new.

Your taut nipples brush against his chest, lightning careening through your body. The ache between your thighs grows steadily, makes you twitch forward into him.

His stiff cock presses against your center, and you feel him inhale against your throat, bitten off in a growl that rocks the floorboards of the old house.

The earth shakes, like it’s thinking of cracking open to swallow you both down.

When he sinks his teeth into the juncture of your shoulder and throat, you groan. His bites so hard, your vision blurs with the pain. Your pussy clenches hard nothing and your hips rock forward into him, seeking pleasure to go along with the pain.

“This what you wanted?” He asks when he pulls his mouth away, hips rutting against yours. He licks over the wound, breathes you in again.

The wet fabric of your dress does little to dull the sensation, does nothing to protect you from the fire that looms inside.

You had it wrong, you are not a flame to his moth. You are a raindrop against a forest fire.

“I can fuckin’ smell what you want.” Blood sweeps down your neck in a heady rush, it soaks the front of your dress. His lips are red when he pulls back.

You tilt your chin back and nod, drunk on him, on the storm lashing at the house. “I missed you,” you say, and somehow it’s true. The twine that connects you to him pulls tighter and harder until you cry out, and you have to wonder if you did call him from some dark otherworld, if you made him from clay and darkness and saltwater and now he’s yours.

His eyes are familiar, the amber ring so small his eyes seem black.

Iron hot hands grip your hips, jerk you against him.

You’re nothing in his hands, incorporeal, like a ghost, like the world ended a long time ago and you’ve just been waiting to be found again.

Moss blooms on your soul, overtakes your lungs and your heart and your ribs, it consumes you and the house and the whole world.

There’s a tenderness in the way he lowers you to the floor, rotting planks of wood pressed into your spine. Your dress is rucked up around your waist.

The bulk of him settles heavily over you, his tongue sweeps against the mark he left on your shoulder. Something agonizingly loud chases the gods across the sky when he growls at the taste.

“We’re going to drown,” you breathe, air caught up in your chest. You clutch him closer, feel the bare press of his cock against your cunt for the first time, strong hands cradling your thighs, your hips. A shudder rakes up your spine, slices you open at the throat.

The monster answers, “Missed you, too.” He tugs down your bloodied collar, gaze sinking into your skin, sticking like a knife in your ribs. One huge hand passes over your breasts, pinches your nipples between rough fingertips until you cry out.

He’s inside you in one thrust. It hurts but that’s okay, because it means you aren’t alone. It means someone is finally at home with you.

He sets a brutal pace, grips you by your hips and then your ribs. Clawed fingers sink into your ribs, carve out pieces of your flesh, until more blood blooms. It's beautiful, like flowers opening in rain.

He covers your mouth with his when you scream and the whole world breaks apart.

He doesn’t know your name. He doesn’t want to know it. Doesn’t want to know what to call such a lonely little thing. Doesn’t want to know what to call something so powerfully alone, something so lost in loneliness it called him from one world into the next.

The rain hasn’t stopped. It pounds against the side of the house, against the weathered, creaking wood.

You carry a candle, body and hair and clothes dry now. The flame whispers gently, gutters between your fingers. Hot melted wax trails over your knuckles.

“Is there something I can call you?” You crouch and tilt your head, kneeling next to him where he lies on the floor.

He thinks he’s on the third floor, the hallway. He doesn’t remember how he got there.

He’d give you his name if he remembered it.

The side of your neck is bruised with his teeth, the outline of his mouth indented in your flesh. The sight makes his cock jump.

He feels like he knows you, but maybe you just feel familiar because he’s broken you from the inside out.

He doesn’t answer and you don’t seem to expect one. Your warm hand touches his shoulder.

He wants to have you again. He’s hungry for the nectar of your flesh. You taste like the sea, like the gales that blow against the creaking, ancient house. Like salt and rainwater and lightning. He wants to dig his hands into you, into the meat of your lungs so he can feel you breathing, into the chambers of your heart so he can feel which direction your blood flows.

He wants to be the one to stop your heart mid-beat, so it could always be his.

Breaking open your ribs, sucking the marrow from the interior, taking a bite from your soul—he thinks you’d thank him for something like that.

Your scent has mellowed out a little. You smell just like you taste, and now it's undercut with him, with the muskiness of him and the lingering want between your legs.

Thunder cracks overhead, splits the world in two. You don’t so much as flinch and he covers your warm hand. The storm seems to perpetually hover right above the house. It’s been days, and it’s still there.

He’s still coated in mud and you, his bones still hurt from the transition from beast to beast.

You’re tempting, lit in lamplight and the reflected glow of the moon.

He wonders if the sun ever rises here.

“You can stay,” you say. “I don’t know how you’ll get home.”

You voice is like a song that reminds him—

Joel. The name comes to him with a flash of lightning.

“Joel,” he tells you. He wants you to know.

“Joel,” you repeat.

His name sets off something dangerous in his mind, kicks something possessive and protective alive.

His.

His, his, his.

You belong to him.

He twists, and pushes you back. The candle in your hand tumbles to the floor and goes out. “Joel,” you coo again. “Joel.”

He pushes your skirt up, sees the shine of want on your pussy, your pretty cunt, still puffy from the last time he fucked you. Your thighs are rubbed raw from his beard.

He licks you there, sucks your clit between his lips. You moan, your hips buck, and he doesn’t stop. He wants all of it, that musky taste of you in his mouth forever.

You taste like crystal seas, like blackened skies and fire and darkness.

“Joel,” you say his name, you pant his name. Fingers tangle in his hair, yank so hard he snarls against you. “I want it to hurt.”

So, he makes it hurt.

The water in the bathtub is warm. He can see the steam rising around you in drafts.

He likes looking at you, softly bruised on your thighs and hips, perpetual bite mark on your shoulder.

Joel likes watching the way you move. He likes the soft curves of your body, the peaks of your tight nipples, the elegant curve of your waist and neck. Your body is like a music note, or a question mark.

The house feels swollen, waterlogged and dense. Laughter and voices twist behind doors that lead to nothing and nowhere. Fungi and moss and creeping vines claw at the walls of the house, rotting wood threatening to give out with agonized moans. There are moldering photos and paintings in the halls and bedrooms that he can’t quite look at. Rainwater seeps through the cracks in the ceiling.

“It used to be beautiful,” you say to him about the house, running a pristinely white washcloth reverently over the bite on your shoulder, then the scratches over your ribs. His scratches, his marks. “The sky was always blue. Everything inside was clean and light and everything outside was green and fresh.” You look at him, sitting in the dark beside the bathtub. “But that’s all over, now.”

The thread coiled around his head gives a twinge. “You were married,” he says. He knows things about you that he shouldn’t and he wonders if he really came from otherworld, or if you created him with grief and love and loneliness.

“He died,” you confirm. “The world ended. And then the rot crept in.”

Joel stands and your chest hitches as you stare up at him. He pushes down the trousers you gave him, that fit him just right, and climbs into the water with you.

You gasp and then tears are sliding down your cheeks. You must be wondering the same thing—if you called him here or created him.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that you open your legs and let him fuck you again, water spilling over the side of the bathtub, soaking the floor.

What matters is that you are his and he yours.

Your eyes flutter closed, your lips part, when his hand closes around your throat.

The house is like a prison, but you make it into something livable.

The moon and sun do rise, here in this foreign, familiar place. Candles weigh down every surface, and the lights stay off. Neither of you seem to want them on.

The sea crashes violently against the seawall, the sharp teeth of jagged rocks jut up from the bottom, like the mouth of Charybdis. You loom in the window some days, watching the swirling water with lust in your eyes, like you’d like to dive into it.

He can’t help but notice the widow’s walk is on the wrong side of the house. It faces the forest, not the sea, like the house has turned its back on the world, too. The forest whispers, trembles.

He always pulls you back from the edge, fucks you until you can’t take him anymore, until you’re crying and limp and the wire tied up inside him goes loose.

You ask him to leave once. You tell him he could figure it out, how to go home, but his devotion to you is total now, his loyalty is to you alone. Home is here, in the house swelling with moisture, with you picking herbs and sliding your fingers along the crowns of fungi like they’re beloved pets.

You are his altar, his god; the vision, the future.

Even thinking about leaving causes something in his chest to pang so hard he doubles over, that thing tied to you.

“Are you still lonely?” he asks, when his cock is inside you and his mouth leaves a new bite on your bicep. “I enough for you?”

“You’re everything,” your eyes roll back, slip closed. He cups your breast in his hand, sucks your nipple into his mouth and thinks of the straits of his heart. Your chest heaves against his lips. He still wants to break you, to tear open your chest, just to live inside it.

Devoted.

It’s a good word. He’d keep you safe, even from himself.

Your pussy twitches around him, clenching weakly. “Am I enough for you?” You make him lift his head, hands cupped under his chin. “Could I ever be?”

You don’t know. You don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know.

You don’t know how devoted he is. That he would kill for you, die, that he wants to live amongst your bones now.

The ancient house gives a groan, the rain comes down harder. He thrusts into you and you whine. “Will you leave?” Your voice is pathetically small.

The house trembles, like it’s afraid too and is threatening to crumble into the sea with both of you inside.

“Never.”

One day, the rain goes light and foamy, the sky turns slate gray. It's almost a sunny day.

Someone else emerges from the woods.

Joel turns to you. You’re still on the bed, snaked through with vines and green, naked, covered in him. His spend shimmers between your thighs, on your cunt. Sweat shines between your breasts and at the base of your throat and he wants you again.

“What did you do?” He snarls.

“Nothing.”

He watches the man, not beast, stumble closer.

Jealous heat rises in his chest. You’ve called forth another man. Consciously or unconsciously, he’s there.

“What d’ya want me to do?” Joel sounds desperate and he doesn’t care.

You don’t answer, you rise from the clean white of the sheets and go down the steps in all your naked glory. He follows, watches the jiggle of your ass, the movement of your back and waist, the weight of your breasts. The scars his nails left on your ribs reassure him.

You belong to him, he is yours. He would kill you both, to keep you safe from others.

No stranger would change that. Whatever your heart needed, that had conjured something else, another man, from the deep of the shimmering, knowing, rustling woods, he would become it, give it to you.

The man is kind and soft.

He needs help.

You talk to him, and Joel watches him lean in, eyes never straying from yours even though you are bare to the cold wind. “Is he hurting you?” The newcomer asks.

Joel doesn’t hear your answer. He feels the wire around his heart tug, the sharp echoing sting makes you gasp and clutch at the railing. The new man has no reaction and all the jealous possessive feelings immediately settle. If his heart wasn’t tied to yours, he wasn’t meant to stay.

He was a lesson for Joel.

The man’s eyes go to Joel then to you. “He’s a monster, miss.”

You shake your head. “He’s perfect.”

You turn and walk back to him. You touch Joel’s shoulder, curl your fist into his t-shirt. “Joel,” you say softly. You touch his cheek. “I know why he came.”

“I do too.” He stands there a moment longer, kisses your fingers when you press them against his mouth. “What d’ya want me to do?” He asks again.

You glance over your shoulder, then back into his eyes. “I want you to kill him, Joel.”

You watch the beast kill the man.

Then, you watch the beast break its bones, reform its skin, to come back to you.

And when he does, he tells you that was his lesson.

His hands are stained red, blood seeps into your skin. Joel pushes into you, soft and slow. He doesn’t hurt you, even when you tell him to. “You need a kind hand, girl,” he tells you. “You’ve lived by the sea for too long.”

Tears come first, pleasure without pain for the first time in years comes second.

He touches you with red printed fingers. The sheets are covered in the blood of a stranger that taught you a lesson. “Are you hurt?” You ask.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

He looks at you with those eyes, dark and knowing and loyal. He would never admit to that. Instead, he says, “I would do it a thousand times.”

You stroke his cheek. “Do you think it was real? Do you think he was real?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Because I’m real, too.”

The forest gave him to you, to each other, so it must be real.

Joel must be real. You settle against him, and decide that’s true.

But don’t you ever wonder, you want to ask as you kiss his bare chest, what is in the forest? What is in the sea?

Don’t you wonder, you want to ask him, why you look so much like my husband?

💕 Thank you for reading! Comments, replies, and reblogs are so appreciated. 💕

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us #haunted hoedown

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artemis-potnia-theron · 8 months

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How I perceive different deities' energies

(based on personal experiences)

Apollon ☀️: Light coming up from somewhere deep in the gut. An ache that almost burns. And it might if I stare too long. Swelling gold. A chorus of music too perfect to be written, words that could shatter my tongue if I tried to speak them.

Brigid 🔥: A lump at the back of my throat. Tears in my eyes while I smile. Joy and grief mixed together under my ribcage. Melodies sung through the ages, and through tears. Warmth at my back and a hand on my cheek. Baked bread. Garden herbs. Clear water from a well. An embrace that could last an age.

Nyx 🌌: The low, echoing hum of something eternal. Something too ancient to comprehend and too overwhelming to be perceived. Endless. Ethereal. Peace and chaos. Quiet and thunderous. Coffee. Red wine. Onyx.

The Morrigan 🐦‍⬛: A chant of words I can't understand, spoken in a language I never knew and never forgot. The cold steel of a blade's edge. Sharp, precise, and unwavering. Her language of secrets and ancient knowledge could swallow you whole if you let it.

Hekate 🗝: Whispers. Shadows against candlelight. A flickering flame that knows how to dance in the wind and never extinguish. The smell of old parchment and herbs. A ripple on the water. As intricate and mesmerizing as a spider's web. Silent and sharp like a viper. A bark and a growl heard from somewhere too far away for me to see.

Aine 🧚🏼‍♀️: Sunlight breaking over the surface of a river. Citrus. Wildflowers. Fresh grass. Wind sweeping over a meadow. Chimes. Fruit trees finally coming into bloom. The juice from an apple trickling down my neck. Laughter. So much laughter.

Aphrodite ❤️: Flower petals. Something sweet and soft like honey that trickles down the back of my throat and seeps into my belly. It spreads all through me like starlight trapped in my veins. Bells. Bliss. A want that could dissolve me. A yearning that would hurt if it didn't taste so lovely. The pain feels like a lifetime away.

Tiamat 🐉: Clusters of stars. Endless reflections of light on the water's surface. The deep song of a whale that echoes through the pulse of the sea. An eye that gazes down from the cosmos.

Caer Ibormeith 🦢: A lullaby that has been with me for longer than I know. A kiss pressed to my forehead. That place between sleeping and awake, between real and not. Cool air at twilight. Dew on the glass before sunrise. Clean fabric. A veil. Flying over the world as it sleeps.

Artemis 🦌: Freedom. Breath-taking, devastating freedom. A stag drinking fresh water from a spring. A doe and her fawn, sleeping as the songbirds chirp at dawn. A rush. An absolute rush like mountain air in my blood. Fireflies in an open field. Bones bleaching in the sun. The thrill of a wolf pack chasing its prey. The moon over the ocean at night. Teeth. Bird calls. Wildflowers. A great bear that walks in the stars. Hymns only beasts can sing. Jasmine and animal fur and the midnight air.

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nightingalestarchaser · 9 months

Text

● Verecundia II

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Relative Reader

Word Count: 2k

Content Warnings: This is very much 18+, make love not war vibes. Not suitable for minors.

A/N: I got the serious urge to write some good old fashioned smut, and realized the stories I've written so far have endings that pave the way for it so here we are. I was torn between Aemond and Daemon, but whoever I didn't write for this time will be next in line, so there will be a continuation of the 'Superbia' story that will be..porn, basically. Hopefully you enjoy this nonsense, I appreciate every reader beyond words ♡

tagging my lovely friend @sylas-the-grim

It is a difficult journey, made torturous with rolling waves and the hot sun bearing down upon the ship. She stays away from the deck as much as possible, hidden from view. The journey is to last no more than three days, she is told. Never did time feel so punishing.

She is grateful, still. Escape did not come easily, or unaided. A loyal maid and a knight braver than most had helped her when she needed it most and she would not forget their kindness. Her maid tries to make her more comfortable, the knight stands guard by the door. Comfort will cease to exist aboard the ship, particularly in her condition.

The babe in her belly has taken to exploring the limits of their space, giving particularly hard kicks when a rough wave crashes against the side of the ship. She gently glides her hand along her bump, whispering words of comfort. She thinks of Aemond in those moments, in most moments.

There was no way for her to know where exactly he was, what he was doing, if he had been dragged back home. He had nothing waiting for him there now. She did. A husband who would return to find his bed empty, no sign of his wife and their unborn child. Her unborn child.

Perhaps he would demand action. Roar with the ferocity of a beast. Refuse to sleep, eat or rest until his wife was returned to him. If he completed even one of those actions she would have been immensely surprised. Most likely he would return from his latest far flung, blood-soaked adventure, not even notice the absence of his wife, then march back out to the next battle.

That suited her perfectly. She would be away from prying eyes, be made to feel no shame when her child emerged with silver hair her husband could not claim heritage to. She would carve out a new life, a life she wanted. As much as she could be allowed, at least.

How can one live a life they have dreamt of without the one who inspires their dreams?

She has a great capacity for happiness, but Aemond enhances it so. To feel true joy is to be with him, bask in his company.

She misses being with him, even just to be in the same room with him. Some of her fondest memories are of the times she would sit by her bedroom window, watching Aemond slip free from the bonds of his thoughts. He would read a book, clean a knife, study a text with peace upon his face, content.

Those moments are deeply nestled in her heart, they bring her joy when she is most needing of it. Though joy is not her only need.

Even when she was back in King's Landing, waiting for Aemond's return, she had begun to feel a new level of yearning for him. Now she feels feral, like a trapped animal. She aches everywhere, nothing will relieve the pain. She sends her maid to fetch her more water, crawls upon her bed on her knees and grips the thin blankets.

Her eyes close, a breath escapes her body. She tries desperately to banish the thoughts of Aemond from her mind. All she wants is to have him kneel behind her, his strong hands caressing her and taking away the aches. His mouth trailing kisses along her hot skin, so slowly it is almost torture. His hard, flushed cock sinking into the dripping heat of her core, making her cry out with relief.

Alas, the fantasy only serves to make reality more difficult. She cannot have him, his touch. She does what she can to ease some of the ache herself, but it is never the same.

The journey is nearing it's end, and it is not a moment too soon. She wraps herself in the grey cloak she had stolen away in, walking out to the deck with the knight behind her. The sea is calm, the air feels clean. She looks at the harbor stretched out before them, taking a deep breath.

There is no time to take in the sights when they set foot on land, there are arrangements to follow up on, if they even still exist. She had written to a distant cousin, one she trusted with her life. Her request for assistance had been accepted, and she could only hope that the arrangement was still intact.

As it transpired, it was indeed intact. Her cousin had a beautiful home, which she was welcomed into along with her maid and her knight. She relished in the opportunity to bathe, sinking into the hot water and feeling a desire to float infinitely.

Once she feels clean and more human than she has in days, she makes plans for her next move. Her maid goes to get her something to eat, leaving her alone in her room. She looks out from the balcony to the city below, wondering if Aemond is somewhere amongst the crowds.

She would not be allowed to leave the house freely, protests and arguments of it being too dangerous would be thrown at her. But she would not hide away, be hidden.

When dusk falls over the city, she makes her escape. She had told her maid she was taking to her bed for the night, she did not wish to be disturbed. While she had not visited the house since she was a young girl, the memories of how to sneak away from it had not eluded her.

Cape draped around her, she makes her way into the city. It is bigger than she remembered, so much more vivid than King's Landing. Colour is everywhere, from the buildings to the clothes people wear. There are flowers everywhere, bright barrels of fruits and vegetables lining the streets. The smells of a hundred different foods, the busy humming of chatter, laughter, bustling about.

She turns from one glorious street to another, making her way through the crowds. She could get lost in a million different ways, everything seemed appealing.

Nothing more so than what she spots further along the street. Despite the dark cloak he wears, she would know him anywhere, in every lifetime.

She has to stop herself from breaking into a sprint, her breath caught in her throat as she makes her way to him. He turns as she nears him, her heart lurching in her chest as he sees her.

He does not move, his body rooted to the spot. She keeps walking, closing the gap that had been them until they are standing across from each other for the first time in what felt like an age.

"No hello?" She teases, a smile on her lips as she lets her cloak open slightly, placing her hand on her swollen bump. "For either of us?"

His eye grows wide. He glances to her belly before looking back to her face. He does not ask with words.

"I would not travel all this way were it not your doing," She smiles, taking a step closer. "your wish was granted."

A smirk tugs at his lips. She feels a surge of desire flare inside her. He steps closer, his hand touching her cheek.

"I have missed you more than words can possibly express." He murmurs, eye locked on hers. He leans in, she pulls back, a smirk on her lips.

"Do you really think a kiss will be enough to satisfy me?" She asks, gently clutching his cloak. "You've been gone a long while, without so much as a word sent."

He watches her for a moment, his hand coming to rest on hers.

"What would you have me do?"

She thinks about it for a moment, as though she has not already been aware of what she wants for many moons.

"It would depend upon your patience," She replies, the feeling of his hand on hers already making her heart pound."You can fuck me right here in the street, or take me to whatever hole you've stowed away in and fuck me there."

The look in his eye makes her think that maybe he will actually fuck her where they stand, her body feeling hot at the thought.

"As you wish." He smirks, moving her hand down his cloak, intertwining their fingers before turning away and guiding her through the streets.

She does not know if they walk for moments or moons, does not care. He leads her to a beautiful house, she would not care if it was a crumbling ruin.

They barely make it to the bedroom. Clothes are shed, a trail created leading to them. She could not possibly forget how it feels to kiss him, but she does not object to the reminder. She cannot get enough, she wants him to steal her every breath.

He relishes the changes to her body. Takes his time to appreciate every inch of her. She pleads with him for more when she fears she will tumble over the edge from his worship of her breasts, only to have him trail slow, wet kisses along her belly.

His hands are everywhere and yet always just out of reach from where she needs them. He knows it, enjoys to prolong his exquisite torture. Her eyes grow wide when she feels his breath ghost over her achingly wet core.

It has been too long, no fantasy of him between her legs can compare to the real thing. The warmth of his tongue against her most sensitive skin, the teasing flick he gives her. She closes her eyes tightly, hands gripping the sheets. He wraps his hands around her thighs, pulls her to him.

He takes her apart slowly, enjoying her frustrated moans. He lets anger mix with her pleasure before he gives her what she truly wants. The tip of his tongue licks a long stripe along her folds, his lips closing in on her where she needs it most.

She feels as though her orgasm has been ripped from her body in the most wonderful way, lifting her hand to her forehead and struggling to catch her breath.

But he is not finished. Before she can breathe he is buried inside her, his hands catching hers and holding them down on the bed. Every ache she has ever felt is melted away as he thrusts deeply into her, filling her and stretching her until she cries.

He kisses her, she uses the opportunity to push him onto his back. She rides him as though the world is ending and this is how they will die. He pulls up, wrapping his arms around her. She touches his face, feeling more powerful than she ever has.

She slowly peels away his patch, her fingers delicately tracing a line above the glinting sapphire.

He kisses her fiercely, pushes her back onto the bed and brings her over the edge with a cry.

They lay together for hours, slowly touching each other. Exchanging soft kisses. Embracing being reunited.

"I want us to be wed," He tells her, his hand gently resting on her belly. "I do not want to deny you what you deserve."

"I am wed," She teases, trailing her fingers along his arm. "you wish to make a sinner of me."

"There is no need to wish for that which already exists," He smirks. "You are wed in law, not execution."

She watches him for a moment, her fingers stilling their movement as she touches his arm.

"Then show me what it is to be wed, truly."

They steal out of a warm night, find a small Sept.

He places a dark cloak upon her shoulders. She takes off his mask.

They kiss for the first time as man and wife.

Vhagar flies them over the bay, the moonlight casting a glow over them as they look down at the light of the city below.

Mere weeks later, their son is brought into the world, the most perfect thing they have ever seen.

They are home.

#aemond targaryen #hotd #hotd fanfic #ewan mitchell #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #prince aemond targaryen

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green-fifteen · 2 months

Text

Day 7: Kiss it Better

Prompt: Recovery Fandom: Teen Wolf Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Summary: Even a magical dad needs backup sometimes. Word count: 1,793 read on ao3 instead

written for @fluffyfebruary

The McCall house was full of people. They packed in together on the living room rug, leaned against the walls in the hallways, slid around each other in the kitchen to grab this or that. They spilled out of the door to the backyard, where John Stilinski and Chris Argent were not-so -passive aggressively fighting for control of the grilling spatula. Stiles couldn't believe they knew this many people, but he did recognize almost everyone he saw, with a few Argent exceptions.

His favorite (former) Argent was currently scrubbing a horrifically caked-on serving dish, muttering to herself about something he couldn't hear in the all of the party noise. Stiles, his hands and arms full of hot dog and hamburger buns, took pity on her. As Allison held the platter underwater, as if to drown it and be rid of it for good, he focused his gaze. It didn't take long for his magic to find the source of her problem and it scoured the baked-on food in an instant, as if it had never been there. She turned around to face him and almost grabbed him up in a hug before she noticed he was carrying bread. Thank you, you're amazing she mouthed instead.

These days, Stiles' magic was literally the ultimate household problem-solver. It seemed to have changed over the years as he settled and aged and now the things it did best basically amounted to chores. Cooking? Cleaning? Mysterious underwear stains? All he needed was a few seconds of focus and his magic could do it all.

Stiles waved away her thanks and continued outside to the patio, where the grill sat beside a pair of long white tables. There wasn't really any room for all the buns he held, so he just dropped them on top of some of the toppings, trusting the gathering of assorted mythical and/or magical beings to be able to open and use them for themselves. As he stood back, a shape darted out at his legs from beneath the tablecloth. Years of practice had honed his reflexes and he bent down to catch the beast just before it collided with his kneecaps.

"Grargh!" it cried, but its roaring dissolved into laughter as Stiles tucked it under one arm and began walking toward the woods that bordered the house on one side.

"I can't believe these creatures keep getting past my wards," he grumbled, letting out a frustrated huff. "Oh well." He set it down in the grass and nudged it with his foot. "Back to the woods with you, beast."

This time, the little thing jumped to tackle him, and Stiles let himself fall to the ground. "Oh no! Somebody, help!"

"Rarg! Graah!"

"I'm being mauled by a creature of the night!"

He continued wailing and being afraid for several moments, after which he seemed to find a second wind and pinned the little monster.

"I won't let you hurt any more innocent people," he cried, voice desperate and determined. "This is a birthday party!" And he reached down to tickle the creature's belly. It writhed in place, shrieking with laughter until suddenly it stopped. Stiles stopped too, watching its little face.

"Daddy," it said seriously. "I actually need to use the bathroom."

"Oh." Stiles climbed back to his feet and then lifted the little boy into his arms. Dry leaves and bits of grass clippings fell from their hair and clothes as they stood up.

"Do you need any help?" he asked.

"No. I can do it by myself," his son replied and then darted into the house.

"Patrick! No running on the patio," he called after him.

When he turned, his father was standing at his shoulder with a paper plate. "Grub time," he grunted. "Where's your husband? I bought cheddar dogs just for him and they're no good cold."

He shrugged and sighed. "He's supposed to be getting the cake but I think he got held up. He'll be here soon, just keep his food in the grill with the lid closed."

"Like I wasn't gonna do that anyway."

"Yes, yes, thank you, Dad."

At that moment, two things happened at once. Stiles heard glass break and turned his body toward the pool, where everyone seemed to have frozen in shock. Just as they started moving, everyone hurrying out of the water, he heard a second noise, one that kicked up his parental instincts the instant it hit his eardrums. Whirling around, he saw his kid sobbing on the concrete patio just in front of the sliding screen door, knee scraped up and beginning to bleed.

Without hesitation, he strode over to his son and hefted him into his arms. He was almost getting too heavy to be held like this and the screaming crying was happening way too close to his ear, but Stiles held on to him as he walked back over to the pool, trying to comfort him with soft words and rubbing his back.

Melissa McCall was pulling little kids out of the water, reassuring them gently that they'd be able to get back in soon. "You can't see shards of glass in the water," she said, voice gentle but firm. "You might really hurt yourself." As Stiles approached with his son, the kids looked up at him crying in pain and scrambled out as fast as they could.

Melissa met his eyes with a small smile, as if to say, Oh boy, what a mess.

Stiles could get the glass out of the pool. Without calling in a specialist or draining the pool, which would take too long, his magic was the only option if anyone wanted to use it again during the party. He looked at his son, gasping for breath where he was perched on his hip. Maybe he could calm him down and then come back to fix the pool? There was no way he'd be able to focus with him bleeding onto his jeans.

One thing at a time he told himself. He crouched down and pulled the little boy into his lap, rocking and shushing. "Really hurts, huh?" he murmured.

Patrick only wailed, tears and snot dripping down his face. Stiles heard another child start to cry somewhere nearby, likely startled by the glass breaking and only further upset by the sobbing Stiles had brought over the them. He was really starting to think, Those damn wolf powers would be pretty handy right about now and cursing his magic for being selectively useful, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

Derek was crouched on the balls of his feet just next to him, eyes fixed on Patrick's red face. To Stiles, he looked like an angel sent to rescue the both of them. He squeezed Stiles' shoulder lightly and then reached out for the boy.

"Hey, Pat," Derek said, gently. "Look, Pat, Papa's here."

Patrick's eyes flew open and he lunged forward into Derek's arms. Stiles fell back onto his hands and patted his husband's thigh in thanks. He could see black lines tracing their way up Derek's forearms, beginning with the little knee he held in one hand and traveling up under his sleeves. The pained wailing was already dropping off, replaced by Patrick's normal, more familiar fussing. Even that faded into the background as Derek walked them both over to the food table, kissing and soothing the little guy as he went.

Stiles turned back to the pool. It was the work of a few heartbeats to make it safe again-- he stared into the water and imagined he could hear the tinkling of the shards as molecules of water brushed over them. He imagined he saw their jagged edges glinting beneath the brighter gleam of the water's surface. Then-- blink-- suddenly he could see the fragmented pieces and he could hear the barely-there tinkling of water on glass. Focus came easily with something to fix it to and he let his magic free to find the problem. The pieces were gone in seconds.

"Alright!" he shouted. "Open swim!" The splashing started up again immediately and he had to scurry away to avoid being hit. Smiling, he made his way to the grill. His father was holding Patrick while Derek stood at the start of the condiment line with two paper plates, a burger on one and a cheddar-filled hot dog on the other.

Stiles stepped in close to him and kissed his bristly cheek. "You never stop saving my life," he chirped. Then, "Is that for me?"

"Yes." He handed Stiles the plate with the burger. "Sorry I was late, there was an issue at the bakery and then traffic was pretty bad on the way back."

Stiles tsked. "That's what we get for going to the bougie place for a five year old's birthday cake. Grocery store sheet cake next time."

"Agreed."

When they finished filling their plates and returned to their son, he was staring raptly at the sheriff, who was telling a story in big, exaggerated motions.

"And that's why you never peel off your band-aids, son," he was saying as they came within earshot.

When Patrick saw them, he squirmed out of John's hold to the ground and ran up to Stiles.

"Daddy," he said. "Papa made my leg feel better, but it still hurts. You have to kiss it so it heals and I don't get a bacterial infection." Stiles shot a bewildered look at his father, who only smiled serenely.

"Of course," he said, smiling when he looked back at his son, then planted a loud kiss to the skin just below the open wound. "Now it will heal all better in no time. No infections."

Patrick stood up and dashed away before Stiles could even process it, screeching and chasing one of his little playmates.

"Has he eaten yet?" Derek asked him. Stiles stood up cracked his back.

"He can eat later. Or maybe he'll just have cake for dinner. It's his birthday, who cares?"

Derek sighed but smiled and tugged Stiles into a hug. "I cares. You cares. We all cares when the birthday boy doesn't fall asleep tonight. And Daddy and Papa and Patrick all stay up doing jigsaw puzzles until midnight again."

"You love family puzzle time," Stiles counters, poking him in the ribs.

"Is there really nothing else you would rather do tonight?" He pushed his nose into the space behind Stiles' ear. "I haven't seen you all day." He breathed in a huge inhale.

"Quit sniffing me, my dad is standing right there." Stiles smacked him and pulled out of the embrace. "Fine, I'll go track down the beast. Make a plate for him?"

Derek hummed an agreement and Stiles took off after their kid.

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myangelhaven · 9 months

Text

This is my recommendations of JISUNG fics! It will be updated once in a while for new stories I have read. Hopefully the links work (lemme know if it doesnt)

Credits to the authors!! All informations written are taken from the authors' post and has not been modified. Reminder that some fics are NOT for minors, so please read the key and avoid 18+ contents.

HAPPY READING!!

KEY:

[❀]: fluff [𖤓]: angst [☄]: sad [☾]:smut [⟡]:smau [✮]: my favs

˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖✮-------------JISUNG--------------✮˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖

ONESHOT

ten things han jisung says when he thinks you’re asleep by @soobnny [❀] NEW

Rule breakers by @ppiri-bahng [❀][𖤓][suggestive][pining] NEW

reader isn’t the angel everyone thinks they are

A perfect disaster by @jae-bummer [❀] NEW

Your bias confesses through text message while sitting next to you.

Red-handed by @straykeedz [❀][☾][fwb] 1.2k NEW

Han Jisung pounding into reader over the kitchen counter and getting caught by Lee Know and/or Bang Chan.

Not that innocent by @straykidshoe [❀][☾] 1.3k NEW

Seven minutes in heaven with the music major, the [by all that mattered] rumoured virgin. You assumed that you would need to teach him how to do everything- and if not that, then leave the stuffy closet needy and wet. But what happened is much different

You're still a traitor by @skzonthebrain [𖤓][☄][nonreciprocal pining][fwb] 1.4k NEW

"He broke the rule of not sleeping with anyone else, but you broke the rule of not falling for each other."

the accuracy of philosophical aphorisms by @skazoo [❀][crack][vampireau] 2.6k NEW

ok, you're tired, but you're sure those two floating, glowing, red orbs(?) are staring right at you.

Talking body by @hyungszn [❀][𖤓][ratedM][mutualpining] 2.8k NEW

The downfall of womankind (read: you) is a trim waist, tan skin, and a delectable belly button.

You Lose If You Get It First by @jinxhallows [❀][☾][idolau] 3.2k NEW

The heat by @hwanghyunjinenthusiast [❀][☾][✮][aphrodisiac] 3.6k NEW

When your roommate brings home a bag of strange cookies, you two don't think much of it. Assuming whoever sold them to him was lying about them containing an aphrodisiac. You both quickly come to realise that you were very, very incorrect.

The night we met by @jisungsjheekies [❀][𖤓][soulmateau] 3.6k NEW

Soulmate connection: born with a tattoo of the date you first meet your soulmate - Y/N’s is 22/09/19

It's a scream, BABY! by @tyunphoria [𖤓][☾][✮][ghostface] 3.7k

when you thought you finally escaped that psycho who calls himself ghostface . . . think again. he always finds you.

Lucid dream by @changbeanie [❀][𖤓][vampireau] 4.7k NEW

You keep on having the same dreams about the same person every night. What happens when the boy in your dreams is the new kid in town?

Resurrected by @changbeanie [❀][𖤓][☄][zombieapocalypseau] 4.2k

In the year 2193, humans are in threat of extinction. In order to preserve what is left of humanity, the government set up a sanctuary. However one day, you found yourself in one of the restricted areas. What will happen to you now? Are zombies really what people claim them to be?

Bad guy by @jl-micasea-fics [𖤓][☾][fwb] 4.4k

He’s the classic bad boy, the one you shouldn’t want but can’t get enough of. It’s only too late you realise, you should have listened to the words of warning from your brother.

Rebound by @yoongihan [❀][☾][✮] 5k NEW

Recently broken up with and cheated on, you decide to go to your first frat party and see what is so appealing about sex with a stranger.

Hopelessly devote by @straylightdream [❀][𖤓][☾][wolfau][f2l][mutual pining] 5.7k NEW

his life changed unexpectedly and he’s attempting to cope with the inner turmoil he faces as he accepts the beast living inside him.

Glow by @j-0ne25 [❀][☾][bff's brother][frenemies][substances] 7.3k NEW

It’s finally time to celebrate your birthday and the atmosphere is beyond belief – until your best friend’s annoying little brother shows up, having one specific plan on his to-do list: you.

Acquainted by @ch4nb4ng [❀][𖤓][☾][e2l][fwb] 7.7k

Jisung was the repulsive, totally arrogant drag racer from your area. You were the mechanic aways willing to fix his bike, but that wasn't the only interactions the two of you had shared.

The bet by @chvnnie [☾][3some] 8.2k

hyunjin and jisung make a bet. the prize? you.

On my mind by @staytheword [❀][𖤓][☾][✮][roommatesau][mutual pining] 8.6k NEW

You and Jisung are stressed over your upcoming exams. You need to clear your heads, but you can't find anything that works. That is, until Jisung suggests watching porn together.

Public display of affection by @bugeater101 [❀][𖤓][☾][✮][e2l] 8.7k

You hated Han Jisung. Despite being one of numerous students in a prestigious academy, it felt like he was the only student who challenged your intellect. And it annoyed the hell out of you. He was just as smart, just as talented, and just as competitive—but he didn’t put in a single ounce of work to get where he was. The worst thing about him? The fact that you were wildly attracted to him.

Catfish...? By @seungminheart [☾][rockstarau] 9.2k

What is more embarrassing than matching on Tinder with a catfish pretending to be rockstar Han Jisung, number one heartthrob of the decade? Probably discovering that the catfish isn't a catfish and actually is, in fact, rockstar Han Jisung. Whoops.

Alien by @j-0ne25 [❀][𖤓][☾][chf2l][fakedatingau][alien/demonau] 10.9k NEW

Spawned at the age of thirteen—on his mission as a spy on planet earth—Jisung is made to build a bond with a human, quickly developing a tie of friendship and trust. On his 25th birthday, he is supposed to bring said creature to his home. But there’s a problem—by now, he has fallen hopelessly in love with you and there’s only one way to escape the awful mission: you need to return those hopeless feelings.

Lover, lover, set me free by @hanniiesuckle17 [❀][𖤓][✮][badboyau][bet][povswitch] 13k NEW

Jisung is one of the biggest players on campus. When Hyunjin bets him that he can’t get into the coldest girl on campus’s pants, Y/n gets unknowingly thrown into the ordeal. While doing his best, Jisung unconsciously starts to fall for this girl who means more to him that he is willing to admit to anyone- even himself.

Volcano by @astraystayyh [❀][𖤓][✮][e2l][slowburn] 13.2k NEW

you've never gotten along with han, your mutual prejudices ruining any prospect of friendship between you both. but you slowly realize that you are more similar than what you originally thought- your darkness recognizing his, and his light yearning for yours.

"I'll take care of you. It's rotten work. Not to me, not if it's you."

SERIES

Your Lover Who Will Never Change by @thepixelelf [❀][𖤓][soulmateau] 16 parts (written)

A soulmate story told in moments.

Sunshine by @svngbins [❀][𖤓][⟡] 19 parts

y/n’s only secret is that she’s in love with her childhood best friend, jisung. the only problem? y/n’s other best friend, aerin, has a not-so-secret crush on jisung.

Don't shoot me by @staysuki [❀][𖤓][⟡][✮] 25 parts

two detectives go head to head in a battle of wits and stupidity. who wins? who loses? perhaps you both do.

Number neighbour by @softyn [❀][𖤓][⟡][fanboyau] 30 parts

Jisung has been a fan of y/n since he can remember, what will happen when y/n posts her new youtube video texting her number neighbor who turned out to be Jisung?

Friends without desire by @skzhua [❀][𖤓][⟡][exes2l] 40 parts NEW

where minho being a dumbass led to meeting him again.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄more to come!⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

☆-------------------skz masterlist-------------------☆

#skz masterlist #han jisung x reader #skz recs #jisung recs

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thestalwartheart · 7 months

Text

sinew and spots

Q appreciates a different view of Bond. Written for the 'body worship' Kinktober prompt.

[Read below on AO3]

James Bond in bed is something to behold.

There are the obvious reasons, of course. His body, with its musculature naturally bronzed and perfect, and his bedroom eyes glinting with a tease that is as unrelenting, as unceasing as the man himself. Then, there are the less obvious reasons; less obvious because they are so rarely seen by anyone.

Q, however, has a higher security clearance than most.

Bond is belly-down in bed. He’s sleepy-eyed and relaxed, the way he is wont to be on a Sunday morning, as if nothing the world over could move him to get up and dressed. Q’s bedsheets are pooled around his hips, ruched and creased under Q’s thighs. He is a veritable feast, not to mention—for now—a tamed beast. Q intends to take his time.

He runs a thumb over a freckle on Bond’s shoulder, then chases the touch with a slow kiss. Again and again, he maps the surprising trail of freckles and moles on Bond’s back. They speak of a lifetime in the sun, lounging on beaches and boardwalks and swimming through turquoise waters. Q could never carry the sun this well on his own body. For a ridiculous moment, he is envious that he will never be quite so golden.

Bond turns his head from where it’s pillowed on his hands.

“Do I need to remind you to put your back into it?”

“Hush,” says Q. “It’s a Sunday. I’m taking my time.”

“What’s so fascinating back there, anyway?”

“You have the loveliest freckles,” says Q, tracing between them. His blunt nail leaves a brief, pale scrape on the nape of Bond’s neck that soon turns pink.

“Most people hardly notice with the scars.”

Most people are terrible, Q thinks. There have been too many idiots in Bond’s bed.

“Well, I’ve noticed, and I never get you on your front long enough to appreciate them.”

That draws a shocked laugh from Bond. When he tries to turn over, Q stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

They both know, of course, that Bond only remains where he is because he wants to give in. If he really wanted to dominate, Bond could have Q on his back with a hand around his pale throat in less than a second.

The thought makes Q’s blood run hot.

“I think I’ll have you like this,” decides Q. It’s suddenly exactly what he wants: to see Bond grunting swear words into his pillow, biting and grabbing at it, muscles bunching and tightening before turning soft and pliant, the way they do right after a good orgasm. Bugger church and all the rest. In Q's good opinion, there’s no better way to spend a Sunday morning.

Q grinds his cock into the swell of Bond’s arse. “We’ve got all morning, don’t we? I can fuck you nice and slowly while I count them—your freckles.”

He pulls the sheet down until Bond is entirely exposed. He has one leg hitched up and bent, and Q has a lovely view of the parts usually hidden. His cock is half-hard and pink, trapped between Bond’s body and the bedsheets, and Q spots another freckle where his arse cheek meets his thigh and balls.

“Oh,” sighs Q, moving down to kiss it. “There’s another.”

“Christ. You’re going to be the death of me.”

Q kisses his way up Bond’s spine and reaches for the half-empty bottle of lube on the bedside table. “I’d think it was a nice way to go,” he whispers into Bond’s ear. “In fact, I’d keel over happily just looking at you like this.”

Bond makes a low sound in his throat and flexes up until he can kiss Q properly. It’s a lovely, slow-burning kiss, warm and wet and perfect for a long weekend. Bond’s tongue is lush and thick in Q’s mouth, and Q loses an endless stretch of time devouring it.

“I’d rather you showed me your appreciation in other ways,” whispers Bond when he breaks away.

“Gladly.”

Q sits up and runs his hand over Bond’s broad back as Bond settles back onto his arms again. His biceps move beautifully under him, and there are freckles there, too, ones that Q hasn’t got to yet, but which he will lavish attention on very soon.

He’ll worship every inch of Bond, given the chance. It’s what they both deserve.

#00q #00q fic #my fic #kinktober '23 #kink/whump/fluff-tober

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serenaisavillain · 19 days

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Sword and Silk

Summary: Within the ancient walls of the Red Keep, the Princess is ensnared by the looming presence of Ser Harwin "Breakbones" Strong, his silent vigilance concealing darker depths. Amidst his whispers of protection, a hidden yearning simmers beneath the surface, entwined with the secrets that swarm within the castle's corridors.

Warnings: Themes of violence, including depictions of physical altercations, character death, grief, complex power dynamics, manipulation and coercion.

Author's Note: Your feedback is valuable to me as an author. Whether it's your thoughts on the characters, the plot twists, or even just your emotional response to the story, I genuinely want to hear from you. Stay tuned for the second part!

Word Count: 2.4k

HE WAS HER SHADOW. Strolling heavy-footed behind her at every moment. The princess's every move was scrutinised under his unwavering gaze. King Viserys had long lectured his only daughter in the belly of his sleeping chamber. The presence of her Kingsguard was for her own protection. Ser Harwin "Breakbones" Strong was true to his namesake. The thought that harm might come to her under his shield was amusing.

Still, she felt so diminutive; every footstep, his looming presence followed. He towered over her like the godswood tree under which her lessons commenced. His wide back and mighty arms did not settle the swarm of wasps that buzzed within her belly. It rattled their nest.

She was left to her own devices during the day within the heart of the sept. The seven walls of the dusty stone room seldom held the inhabitants of the castle. Their focus remained fixed on indulging their whims, she always thought. After her delicate finger lit a candle at the altar, she bent both knees before the marble statue of The Father. A precipitation of teardrops rolled down the apples of her cheeks. There she begged, hands clasped for the soul of her dear mother.

She would emerge when the sun hung low in the sky and the shadows grew long. Her dampened features never failed to draw Ser Harwin's attention. His thick eyebrows drew themselves together over his deep sable eyes.

"Are you alright, Princess?" He would always whisper.

These were the only times her lilac eyes would dare flicker to his, resembling the red of her house banner.

"Yes, Ser Harwin." She would croak before averting her eyes to the grey stone path beneath her feet.

ON A DAY OF GENTLE BREEZE, tranquil waters and clear skies, her cousin, Lady Laena Velaryon's ship, docked at the harbour of Blackwater Bay.

Ser Harwin's eyes softened as a genuine smile graced the Princess's lips for once. A fleeting moment of brightness amidst the shadows that surrounded her.

"Cousin!" She cried.

She nearly tripped over the train of her black gown, running towards her kin, arms outstretched.

When the gap between them was sealed, an entanglement of limbs ensued, their silver hair dancing wildly in the wind.

"How is my dearest Y/N?" The older girl asked, panting.

The Princess nodded as they began to walk down the pier.

Stark-white seagulls flew above them alongside the dark scales of Vhagar.

The large dragon casting a quick shadow.

The crew unloading the cargo of the ship gasped in awe of the great beast.

"The days no longer seem long… as I have written in my letters. They now somehow manage to bleed together. I often confuse many moons ago for yesterday…" She sighed.

Lady Laena clutched the Princess's cold hands within her own.

"You shall grieve no longer, sweet Y/N. We shall fête every day until I depart!" She laughed, tugging her into a hug that nearly suffocated the younger girl.

Ser Harwin smiled unbeknownst to the two, his heavy boots following behind as always.

Y/N hurriedly walked through the corridor of the Red Keep, the sound of her low-heeled shoes barely audible against the polished marble floor.

She came to a halt at a heavy Valyrian steel door, gesturing to it with delicate fingers.

"The finest room in the castle, for my truest confidant." She giggled.

The knight had not heard the Princess laugh in that manner since her last name day when the Queen was still alive.

KING VISERYS HAD declared that there be three days of celebration for his daughter.

On the first night, a lavish feast commenced. Every elegantly clad guest gorged themselves on the most sumptuous of delicacies. From roasted boar to buttered rolls to indulgent cakes adorned with fruit and thick frosting.

Amidst his peers, the man with dark curls hungered for something else - or rather, someone.

Princess Y/N sat tall upon a skillfully carved chair among the rest of her family, her dainty wrist adorned with a pewter bracelet encrusted with rubies. It grazed against the velvet tablecloth as she spoke. She and her cousin Lady Laena brushed shoulders, occasionally whispering and giggling as they indulged heavily in Dornish wine.

The crimson colour gown she donned made her bronze skin more radiant, competing with the shimmer of its silk fabric. The garment's onyx corset adorned with an embroidered dragon and delicate lace details sinched her waist. The dress hugged every curve of her body with a luxurious embrace. The neckline embellished with matching black lace plunged daringly low, accentuating the swell of her bust.

No fault of the Princess, he imagined; she certainly could not be aware of how appetisingly she had blossomed over the past year - he certainly had not until now.

"Brother, you are drooling," his brother Larys jested.

Ser Harwin averted his gaze instantaneously.

The knight, in his finest attire, futilely attempted to focus on the roasted duck drowned in gravy that sat on his plate. He could not resist the décolletage of the heiress, his eyes carefully peering at the curly-haired beauty.

On the second day, when the sun hung directly overhead, the King commanded a tournament be held. Lords and Ladies of Westeros and the lesser kingdoms filled the seats of the great coliseum, heavy bags of coin in their grasp with the intention of placing bets on the bravest knights.

Despite the tremor of his hands, Lord Strong encouraged his son to be among those in the festivities.

As the knights prepared for the final joust, Ser Harwin Strong approached the royal pavilion where the princess sat. His skin was slick with sweat that he hoped she assumed was a byproduct of the Westerosi summer. His armour was clangorous with the steady trot of his steed. His eyes were fixed on her visage as he steadied his mount.

"Princess," he began, bowing his head before her, "I ask that you bestow me the honor of wearing your favor."

The Princess slowly rose from her cushioned seat and approached the railing, the wreath of blood-red roses in her delicate grasp.

A shy smile graced her painted lips.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "May it bring you luck, Ser Harwin."

The man contained the swell of pride that erupted in his broad chest as the wreath now adorned his wooden lance.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said, "I shall carry it with pride."

Ser Harwin's armour gleamed in the sunlight as he returned to his position.

Silence settled over the coliseum.

With a thunderous roar, the signal was given, and the two knights spurred their steeds into action. Dust danced in the air as the hooves of horses thundered down the lists, lances steadied and gazes marked on thine own target.

The lances crashed against each other. Only black-haired knight's held true, colliding with the armour of his opponent with brutal force. He, however, remained steady on the leather of his saddle.

with brutal force. He however, remained steady upon the leather of his saddle.

The nobles erupted into cheers as Ser Harwin's opponent was unseated, descending to the dust with a deafening clangour. The victorious knight waved briefly to the crowd before his horse gave out below him.

The gasps and screams of the court reverberated through the arena.

The shrieks of steel on steel rang across the jousting field as the two knights clashed. Ser Harwin was a man possessed, his blows raining down upon his opponent with relentless force. At one point, he tossed aside his sword, pummeling his opponent with simply his hands, both fists pounding against his chest.

As the dust settled and the screams of the crowd fell dead, Ser Harwin stood with his head hung, his gauntlets bloody, and his breath in ragged gasps. There was no longer pride in his eyes; only a grim visage remained, finding no solace in knowing he had defended his honour and upheld the code to which he had sworn his life.

He gazed upon the Princess's face; her violet eyes widened, and her mouth agape.

On the last night, fireworks exploded in the midnight sky above the ships of Blackwater Bay, the most noble of houses making drunken toasts to the Princess Y/N.

A table of gifts, wrapped in the most ornate of papers and fabrics and tied in the most elaborate and fantastical of bows, piled as high as the mountains in the North. It only grew as the evening went on, each courtier attempting to outdo the next.

A bard strummed his mandolin and cried out a song naming her the Princess, the realm's delight.

But the princess sat at her table, feigning looks of surprise and joy as one pompous figure after another greeted her.

THE LADY LAENA smiled.

"Oh, how you honour me, Y/N," she began, "Won't you join me for some wine and gossip?" She jested.

The Princess nodded, escaping with her kin under the threshold arm in arm.

The young knight stood back turned towards the door, not meaning to but overhearing their girlish chatter.

Y/N sat at the foot of Laena's bed, watching as she undressed.

The soft winds rustled the silken curtains, filling the room with a slight chill.

"How long has it been since we have laid eyes upon each other dear cousin?" Y/N said, sipping from her silver chalice.

Laena sighed as she plopped on the tall mattress. Her hair spread across the cool satin sheets.

"Way too long, I fear." She pouted.

Y/N gulped the last bit of her wine, wiping the side of her mouth with the tips of her pointer and index fingers.

Her cousin chuckled.

"What?! What provokes you to such laughter?" Y/N flopped back so she could lay beside her.

"You, drunkard." She giggled.

"I'll have you know I have not indulged in quite sometime," the Princess shrugged, reaching for the pitcher.

"By all means indulge… Your Grace," she jested.

Y/N shoved the older girl's shoulder.

"Do you remember all the mischief we got up to?" She sat up reaching for her own chalice.

"How could one forget."

"Little dragons should be seen and not heard!" they both exclaimed at the same time.

Another fit of laughter ensued.

"Good riddance to Otto! That old geezer!" Y/N began before her soft palms covered her mouth.

Laena rolled around the bed, clutching her nightgown-covered stomach.

"You have never told a lie! I do not regret ever eavesdropping on his conversations." She stated plainly.

"Gods! Remeber when we heard him trying to seduce that young kitchen hand?! What was her name-" The princess began once more.

"Maeve! The poor girl!" Her cousin answered.

The two fell weak, with stomachs aching from laughter.

The hour grew late, and the pair grew bacchanalian.

Their chalices once filled with the finest of Dornish wine had run dry.

"…Any interesting converstions… or encounters at court...?" Laena asked. Her head now hung off the bed.

Y/N pouted her lips.

"No lords interest me…" Y/N retorted, reflecting on the disappointing suitors she had encountered. From brutish Baratheons to loquacious Lannisters.

Laena hummed.

"He does not have to be a lord…" she sang.

The princess sat up.

"It is almost as if you are referring to someone in particular dear cousin…" She arched her brow.

The Velaryon girl shrugged.

"Have you perhaps noticed the fleeting glances of your Kingsgaurd…?" The girl flipped over onto her belly.

She laughed nearly falling from the bed.

"Ser Harwin? I assure you I have no interest in a man like him. He probably frequents the brothel in Mole's Town, has fathered a thousand bastards and…"

"Uh huh… So you are smitten with him…" She deduced.

Y/N heaved a boudoir pillow at her cousin's head.

"I have no time to be consumed by matters of the heart… besides how can one forget the brutality of my name day…"

Laena's eyes softened.

Y/N cleared her throat.

"The hour has grown late dear cousin. I fear I must retire…" Y/N explained before swaying to her feet.

The older girl nodded.

She rose off the bed, bidding her kin goodnight with a kiss on the cheek.

The girl tugged feebly at the door before managing to pry it ajar.

She had forgotten her sworn protector resided outside until his dark ringlets appeared in the candlelit corridor.

"Princess." He greeted hoarsely.

"Ser Harwin. My apologies…" She slurred before clumsily shuffling past him.

The knight stifled the laugh that bubbled in his belly at the sight before him. In fact, he quite enjoyed it when the Princess murmured more than two words to him.

"No need to apologise Your Grace. Shall I escort you back to your chambers?" he said looking down at her state.

The top buttons of her chemise were unbuttoned; he had not the slightest clue where her shoes had gone and her curls were more unruly than usual.

Frankly she looked as though she'd been bedded.

"Yes… to my chambers," she sighed.

THE WALK WAS SLOW, but Ser Harwin did not mind. He found the sight quite adorable.

Princess Y/N hummed along as she used the passing walls to stabilize her.

When they reached the door, the knight pushed it open, standing straight outside the threshold.

The princess mumbled a quiet thanks before entering her large chamber.

A few moments after she had shut the door behind her, he heard what he thought was his name being uttered from her lips.

"Princess?" her turned to the door, his hand frozen at the handle.

"Are you decent?" He called.

"Yes!" she answered rather quietly.

The man swallowed hard.

The room was exceptionally warm from the fireplace that burned brightly in the corner, casting the shadows of flickering flames over the princess's face.

He shut the door behind him.

"I cannot manage the strings of my corset…" She pouted.

The man's skin warmed.

He supposed that since it was now the hour of the wolf, it would be most unkind to awaken Her Grace's handmaiden to do such a simple task.

The knight removed his gauntlets laying them gently on the table beside him.

He cautiously approached the heiress. Her back turned towards him.

She tossed her pearlescent hair over her shoulder so it rested on her collar bone.

His nimble fingers unravelling the strings of the corset one by one.

The man tried to ignore the way his rough fingers grazed the softness of her skin every now and again.

The princess sighed deeply.

"Thank you, Ser Harwin."

The man grunted in response, afraid that his tongue might betray him.

The silver-haired beauty stalked towards him, eyes fixed; he had not realized that he was marching backwards until his head hit the wall with a thud.

"Ser Harwin…" She said. Her glossy lilac eyes peering up at him through her long eyelashes.

"Princess…" He whispered. Swallowing thickly.

She tilted her head to the side.

His eyes immediately fell to her exposed neck.

"Do you desire me?"

#a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #house of the dragon #ser harwin strong #harwin strong #ser harwin strong x black!reader #ser harwin strong x poc!reader #angst #fluff #laena velaryon #laena velaryon x reader #poc fanfiction #fanfiction

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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 1 year

Note

Loki and reader are having a baby, but she's really sick with the flu or something and Loki isn't sure what to do so he gets help maybe?

“A Frost Giant’s Lullaby”

Summary: Your second pregnancy isn’t going as well as your first, and complications have arisen that are frightening both you and Loki. Fortunately, your firstborn seems to have a sweet, simple idea.

Seems I can't stay away from my Nights!Loki and Firebird! MASTERLIST FOR NIGHTS HERE Also, I hope this satisfies you, Nons. I've never written Dad!Loki before.

Pairing: Loki x Firebird!Reader Content Warning: pregnancy and pregnancy complications, illness, angst Word Count: 1.8k

You barely had time to get the tissue into your hand before you sneezed violently again, thrusting your head forward as you doubled over as much as you could in reflex.

“Shit,” you muttered, wiping your nose. “I know children spread germs, but not while they’re still inside you.”

Loki sighed with worry from his perch beside you on the bed, his hand softly running a finger up and down your arm. “I worry more for you each day. You won’t get better as long as it’s growing.”

You shook your head. “It’s only got another month and a hal--ahh--”

Sneezing again, this time you didn’t have warning at all, and instead of a tissue, you knocked Loki’s hand away from your arm when you brought it to your nose to cover the worst of it.

“I knew this would happen,” Loki said resentfully, getting up and beginning to pace around the bed. “I knew if we didn’t use precautions during my heat cycle, this would happen! How could I be so irresponsible?”

You smiled and sniffled. “Hey, I enjoyed it too.”

Loki stopped in his path and looked at you, smiling from the bed, cradling your protruding belly with your hands. You were a beautiful sight, regardless of your incapacitation, carrying his second child. If he could keep you in this way all the time, he knew he would.

Your first time around had been a little chaotic, admittedly. You could tell it was a girl who would inherit your fire powers pretty quickly, when you found your powers getting a little out of control. You went through three wooden tables in the kitchen during those nine months. Loki had to learn how to cook just to keep you away from anything that could spark even more fire. Other than this, though, the pregnancy had been a fog of bliss for you both, constantly keeping you in a peaceful frame of mind. You hadn’t even been certain if you could conceive with Loki, so when you did so (and quickly), it brought joy to your small home in Vanaheim, where you kept your willing exile with your husband. Even after a grueling three-day labor, you both welcomed baby Svana with ecstasy and excitement for this new adventure.

However, this second pregnancy was almost the opposite. While you admittedly hoped for a boy with perhaps his father’s seidr, you knew the day your powers began to damper and disappear that the child within you was a partial Ice Giant like their father. You couldn’t light the oven. You’d actually needed a candle.

“Well, that’s it. Ice beats fire,” you’d said, your voice shaking with fear. “We have a little partial-Jotun or Jotunette on our hands.”

You were constantly freezing, even as the heat of the summer season rolled into the valley. During your second trimester, you began feeling frostbite whenever the baby was kicking, followed by the constant slew of colds that kept you in bed, where you couldn’t sleep anyway.

Loki, for his part, did well at keeping his fears under wraps for your sake, but that was because his fears were infinitely more intense than yours. What if it grew too big for your body? What if the little beast tore you from the inside out and killed you in birth? How could he love such a creature?

Neither of you told little Svana much, however. She had only just turned six, after all. She was only told that “your new baby sister or brother will be able to turn blue like Daddy can.”

“The more active it becomes, the more you suffer, darling,” he said seriously.

You shook your head. “They’re Jotun, Loki. They aren’t doing it on purpose! They’re just…feisty!”

Your husband sighed. “But perhaps if it calmed down and rested more, you could recover fully. You won’t be strong for the birth if you keep needing to fight illness after illness because of it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stop calling them ‘it.’ They may not be mortal or Aesir, but they are still our baby,” you said stubbornly. “I’m beginning to feel a bit concerned, Loki, that you still haven’t fully come to terms with your own heritage, and that it might affect how you feel about our second born.”

He quickly shook his head and leaned over to quickly kiss your cheek. “No, no! Please don’t think like that. I will love them just as much as I love our little swan. I just don’t like seeing what it--they--are doing to you. I don’t know how to help, and I feel as if I’m the only one who should understand!”

“Daddy?” Svana suddenly asked from the doorway, surprising you, not having seen her appear at all.

“Little swan, dearest, Mommy’s sick again and Daddy needs to take care of her,” he said. “Can this wait an hour?”

Your daughter shook her head. “I need help.”

You smiled and cradled your belly again. “Stop coddling me, Loki. It’s just a cold. I’m not even feeling that bad.”

Svana took this as permission to snatch Loki’s hand and dragging him off the bed as best as her little arms could. You laughed.

“Darling--” Loki began, but you held up and hand quickly, shaking your head.

“--you’ll be two rooms over, babe. I won’t explode,” you said, the usual snark in your comments still ever present, giving your husband a little more comfort. He allowed Svana to lead him down the small, narrow hall to her room.

Svana was thrilled at the news that she was to become a big sister, but neither you nor your husband realized that as soon as you’d given her the announcement, she’d gone to work “building a house” for the new baby. Loki could see from the doorway to the bedroom that Svana had taken a large crate, stuffed it with feathers and boughs she’d gathered from the edge of the woods, and used a blanket as a makeshift roof, having tied it to the two windowsills on each of the corners the crate was placed between.

“Darling, is this for the baby?” asked Loki, touched at the silly-but-sincere project.

“Yes. Mommy said she would need to be warm because she’s going to be cold-skinned like you, so I made a house.”

He smiled. “You think it’s a girl, do you?”

Svana smiled and nodded. “I don’t want a boy. Boys are silly and smelly.”

“I’m a boy, you know,” he replied lightheartedly, leaning down to get a better look at the crude shrine.

The girl giggled. “No, you’re a daddy!”

Loki chuckled. “Oh, that’s right. How could I forget?”

She’d also taken three of her dolls and lined them up along the edge of the makeshift cradle. One, Loki picked up, had been slathered in blue finger paint. “That one’s going to be her favorite,” said Svana. “It’s gonna look just like her.”

Loki never liked the idea of looking vulnerable around his child. It was his instinct to be a soft-but-strong father, always reliable, always steady. Yet, seeing his daughter so proud of her creations, all for the sake of a little sister she didn’t even know, made him come to the verge of tears.

“It’s perfect, little swan,” he said quietly, handing it back to her. “Now, what did you need my help for?”

Svana twisted her lip. “I don’t know any lullabies.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Lullabies, Daddy! For when she goes to sleep!” repeated Svana. “If I have to share a room with a baby,” she went on, sounding comically exasperated, “she’ll need to be quiet or I won’t get any sleep too!”

Knitting his eyebrows in thought, Loki shrugged. “Why don’t you ask your mother? She will know some Midgardian songs. She loves music.”

Svana shook her head. “Because she’s sick and needs to sleep too!”

Loki laughed and nodded, admitting, “It seems we could all use a good lullaby and rest, don’t we?”

Suddenly, the idea dawned on him. The baby needed to rest if you wanted any chance of fully recovering before the birth. Maybe a Jotun child would respond to a Jotun lullaby…

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, standing up. “I’ll talk to Mommy, and perhaps later, if I can remember a song, I can teach it to you.”

“Oh, thank you, Daddy!” Svana held out her arms, and Loki had no choice but to affectionately scoop her into his arms and lay a swarm of kisses all over her face, making her giggle excitedly.

“Now, this is lovely,” he carried on, “but your mother might not like the tree branches inside the house if the leaves get all over the floor. If you pick those up, I will find a pillow for you to use instead.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Svana said obediently as he let her back onto the floor.

“Good girl,” he said, still amused at how much of a stick-in-the-mud he could sound as a father sometimes. “Now I’d like for you to keep the volume low or go play outside,” he added, “while I try to get Mommy and the baby to go to bed.”

Svana nodded, only half-listening, already beginning to drag the tree branches out onto the floor, sending crumbs of leaves spilling everywhere.

Well, thank goodness I listened to Firebird about those hardwood floors, he thought as he decided to leave it be for now, instead going back to the master bedroom he shared with you.

Upon looking in, he was surprised to see that in the ten minutes he’d been gone, you’d fallen clear asleep, already beyond any hope of waking before supper. Loki immediately planned to make some stew, something easy, so that you wouldn’t need to worry about feeding anyone while groggy and coming out of a dream.

Loki softly came back over to the bed, taking the comforter bunched up around your ankles and pulling it up to your chin, tucking you in without you so much as twitching. Then, sitting beside you, he put a gentle hand on your protruding abdomen, and he felt the slight kicks of the babe within you increase in force against his hand.

“Oh, please don’t wake your mother,” Loki whispered, leaning down so that his lips were almost at your belly. “You will be keeping her up all hours after you’re born!”

A melody came to mind for the first time in centuries. An unfamiliar tune. It wasn’t Jotun, but Loki could almost hear his mother’s fragile, soft soprano singing it to him from the crib. The words came instantly back as soon as he moved his lips…

“Trees dance and waterfalls stop When she sings, she sings ‘come home!’ In storm-black mountains I wander alone Over the ice, I make my way In the apple garden stands the maiden fair And sings ‘when will you come home?’”

The stirring under his palm began to still as Loki whispered and sang gently to your belly. In your sleep, you smiled.

Svana stood in the doorway again, this time only smiling quietly and swaying back and forth to her father’s song.

@huntress-artemis @el-zef @lokisgoodgirl @mochie85 @mischief2sarawr @michelleleewise @lokisninerealms @toozmanykids @xorpsbane @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @goblingirlsarah @thedistractedagglomeration @unlucky-number-13

#loki #fanfiction #mcu #mcu loki #loki fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #loki laufeyson #loki x reader #loki/reader #angst #pregnancy fic #dad!Loki #firebird #nights at the circus

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embossross · 1 year

Text

The Devotion of the Girl in the Mirror

Chapter 4 >> Chapter 5 >> Masterlist

✣ Pairing: Rindou x AFAB fem!Reader w/ a chapter cameo of reader/yuzuha

✣ Warning: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI

✣ Series: part of the In the Belly of the Beast fic universe

✣ Chapter CW: bdsm play feat. reader/yuzuha (gasp!), bondage, overstim, vibrators, exhibitionism, group BDSM feat. 2 other subs getting masturbated (one fem!AFAB and one fem!AMAB, idk crowd jeers, a little bit of degradation, bad communication & angst, drinking)

✣ Story CWs: BDSM dob/sub relationship; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.); genre typical drug use, alcohol, smoking

✣ Synopsis: A story of two lonely people find love for better or worse. Or, dom!Rindou is sweet on his girl. Or, on paper, you and Rindou have nothing in common. But sometimes chemistry defies logic, and with every conversation, you find yourself more bewitched until all you see, smell, or hear is Rindou.

✣ Word Count: ~8.5k

The black dot may have been nothing but a circle, a representation of the sun or an eye, except it is written, which makes it punctuation. As a symbol of punctuation, it may have been a period at the end of a sentence, except there are three, which makes it part of an ellipsis. As an ellipsis, it may have indicated a trailing off of a thought except it accompanies a blank space on his screen, an auto-generated signal from his phone, which means you are still typing, as you have been for the last five minutes with no message yet in response to his text.

It should not take this long to respond to an invitation to dinner.

With every minute that passes, his ire rises higher.

Rindou strains through another set of lat pulls, refusing to let you and your silent treatment slow him down. Opposite him, Benkei deadlifts a stunning 300 kg. When the bar hits the floor, the clang echoes off the mirror-lined walls.

There is a gym in the basement of his apartment complex, guaranteed to be empty in the early pre-dawn hours, which he prefers for the privacy it offers. Wakasa’s gym is never empty. Fighters practice boxing, MMA, and jujutsu with retired pros morning and night. Most of the customers sport tattoos from one syndicate or another, and Rindou often recognizes the guys on his own payroll by the free weights or sweating in the saunas. Rindou only started returning to Wakasa’s gym for the occasional practice bout or strength training session in the last few months. Wakasa’s been filling his ear with the idea of taking you and his girl on a double date, a vacation to the mountains when your semester wraps, and Rindou has been coming by to talk the details.

A text finally lights up his screen, and Rindou forces himself to ignore it for a solid minute while he finishes his set even as his eyes dart back against his will.

I can’t do dinner. Plans with Naoya. But I could do drinks.

Wakasa lopes forward, hands in his pockets, before Rindou can answer. It’s his turn to leave you with the ellipsis of anxiety and doom. He locks his phone and tosses face-down on a bench.

“Wanted to tell you we got the goods through Nagoya yesterday,” Wakasa says tonelessly. “Ushioda’s really come through. My guy says customs not only didn’t check, they agreed to decrease security personnel during offboarding. Ran is going to be a menace about being the one to make this happen, but he’s worked his magic on this.”

Rindou matches Wakasa’s subdued attitude beat for beat, but in his mind, he runs through a month’s worth of memos and emails to recall if he knew about this plan. “You sent a shipment of girls through the port? That’s fucking brazen.”

“Mochi wanted to test the limits early with something cheap before we put our expensive shit through there,” Wakasa said.

According to Takeomi, Ushioda begged on bended knee for clemency for his son. It was hard to say whether love or shame drove the father, but the outcome was the same. Acme Corp would smuggle Bonten contraband through the Port of Nagoya, so long as they streamlined into their regular shipping schedule to avoid setting off any alarm bells.

This was the second shipment received through the port after moving a little marijuana through a few weeks earlier. Rindou tries to keep his expectations in check as operations continue smoothly, but his hopes rise against his better judgment.

“Mochi says he wants to do a few more runs, but that you should start thinking through where you could source the heroine,” Wakasa relays.

They could source through the triads as the Chinese and Russian gangs already have inroads with the producers, but they would each take their cut and ruin Bonten’s margins. The drug would be new on the market. Rindou doesn’t want to price high outright. Start cheap and once the clientele can’t live without their fix, then drive the prices up. They could run a deficit to start, but that would mean Koko up his ass. Cutting the triads out completely isn’t an option either as they would need to ship out of China, but if they could build their own supplier network, they could negotiate a better rate.

“It’s gonna be too obvious if we have guys coming in and out of Afghanistan all the time. They don’t even run direct flights out of Seoul. We’d get picked instantly. I’m thinking we could get away with sending someone through to Turkey though. With a little palm greasing, they can cross into Iran without getting their passport stamped. The IRGC run the heroine trade through Afghanistan, so we could develop our own connections from there,” Rindou says.

Wakasa nods along at what he already figured. “Who you gonna send?”

“Not me if that’s what you’re thinking. I hate plane rides,” Rindou says.

“Of course, not you. We need you. I was thinking Hanma.”

Rindou groans. “I fucking hate that guy.”

“We all fucking hate that guy. But that’s why he’s good at this shit. He’s done great work in Hong Kong. Send him over there. He knows how to make the coldest man sweat,” Wakasa suggests.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll think about it.”

He finishes another set of lat pulls, while Wakasa and Benkei chat away about the insipid rise of Peloton. Endorphins rush to his brain, and he feels magnanimous enough to finally shoot you a reply.

See you at 5.

If he has anything to say about it, Naoya will be eating dinner alone tonight.

Two people could not be dressed more oppositely. Fresh from his post-workout shower, Rindou wears nothing but a pair of sweats. Droplets of water scatter across his bare shoulder blade as his long, wet hair drips freely. Strong chest and arms still pumped from muscle training great you at the door. You, meanwhile, dressed for an Arctic exploration in a floor-length parka, bulging in all the wrong places, a fluffy scarf wound three-times round your neck, and an equally fluffy, fur-lined hood. A mask completes the look, so the only skin he can see is a sliver of your forehead and your narrowed eyes.

“Just looking at you makes me feel cold,” you scowl.

“Just looking at you is making me cold.”

You barge right past him into his apartment. The heater works overtime to keep the entire complex a toasty 23 degrees. Past the entryway, where you slip out of your boots, the dining room table is lined with boxes of Chinese takeout; Unsure what you’d want to eat, Rindou opted to order a smorgasbord of options.

Beneath the unflattering coat, you wear a black dress. The long sleeves and tasteful length contrast a daring vee that dips down to show off the swell of your lovely, little breasts. You’re packaged like a delicious gift for the unwrapping, and Rindou can’t resist planting a soft kiss to the back of your neck as you hang your coat. He expects the battle tonight will be a long and painful one, but still you dressed up for him.

“Good to see it’s you under there. For a second, I thought it might be an assassin,” Rindou jokes.

“Easy for you to laugh all warm in here! It’s freezing outside. They’re calling for snow tonight into tomorrow, which sucks. I can’t miss class at this point in the semester,” you complain.

“Well, I’ve got everything you need to warm up,” Rindou says. He gestures at the table laden with food, and then, more critically, brandishes the bottle of wine bought just for tonight. “And if the weather’s too bad tomorrow, I’m sure they’ll cancel. You can just hang out here all day.”

“My professors are all sadists. I wouldn’t put it past them to host class as they get double-bypass surgery. They’d have the surgeon right there in the lecture hall,” you grumble.

Rindou half listens as you launch into a prolonged rant about your upcoming finals. His attention is understandably split as he searches your lively expressions for the ugly shadow of jealousy. Behind every word, he hunts for double meanings.

The look of pure betrayal on your face when he ran into you yesterday in Chiba will not soon leave his mind. It colored his scenes yesterday with Mayuri, turning him mean and unmerciful as he bound and belted her ass red. She deserved his full attention after putting her trust in him, but Rindou twice almost walked away to call you. Had you answered, he might have berated you for daring to look at him like that, like you’d caught him fucking your mother or murdering the family pet. Like he’d done something unforgivable to you.

Now, as you gripe about exams, every bit the picture of the beleaguered uni student, your words ring false. Like you are filling time and space to put distance between the you of yesterday, so judgey and offended, and the you of today. You tell him how exams are two months out, and like a good student, you are already studying in earnest in the pits of what you dub “flashcard hell” as Kii has taken to posting flashcards over every expanse of wall in her apartment, springing prep questions on unconsenting listeners, and crying periodically about how she should have spent fewer hours sleeping and more time reading the supplementary materials. Rindou hums in sympathy in all the right places, and he almost, almost begins to relax into the conversation. Like an idiot.

“Are you feeling the dumplings or the pork?” Rindou asks, plating up a hearty helping of food for himself.

“Neither. I can’t eat, remember?” you say.

“Oh, come on. Stay the night. It’s too cold to be going out.”

“True, but I promised Naoto. We’re going to this really fancy curry restaurant, and he said he’d pay, so I’m planning to go all out and get dessert,” you say.

Noticing his wine glass is running low, Rindou drains the last dregs and pours himself a healthy portion. This will be easier drunk. He debates pouring you more as well, wondering if a little tipsiness would make you spunkier or mellow the worst of your impulses. Because he senses the fit approaching, the moment you break your pretense that everything is fine and well and force a confrontation.

“You know, I don’t like playing games,” he says.

“I don’t like playing games either.”

“Then, don’t.”

Rindou says it shortly, definitively. The barest hint of command reinforces his voice, and he watches the way you receive the order, squirming in that delightfully submissive way of yours before you reject your inclination to obedience. You set your jaw.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say.

Rindou sighs. He expected you would be difficult but not passive aggressive. Not like this.

“You have dinner plans with Naoto? Seriously?”

“Yes?”

“Bullshit,” Rindou snaps. “I expected you to be immature about what happened yesterday, but this? You’re better than this. Forget your conveniently timed dinner plans, and let’s act like adults. Then, we can have a nice night.”

“It’s a work event. Naoto was nervous about going alone, so he asked me to come with him. This was planned weeks ago. I just forgot until he reminded me,” you insist, standing up from your chair, like the added height will strengthen your lie.

“Convenient,” Rindou sneers.

In the six months you’ve been together, you have never had a genuine fight or even argument. Seeing your smiling face typically puts Rindou in too good a mood, curbs the worst of his temper, so he is slow to pick fights. You, meanwhile, listen so well, adapting your behavior without him having to utter a word. Bickering typically becomes flirtatious banter in a matter of minutes, the kind that ends with your panties in his pocket.

So, Rindou doesn’t know what to expect from you in a real fight. He half expected you to fold at the slightest correction. You are still young, so he doesn’t write off the possibility of some kind of petty manipulation either, the silent treatment maybe, or more probably breaking into a mess of tears, the kind that bring so many men to a panic; Unfortunately for you, Rindou doesn’t capitulate to a woman’s cries or begging, going cold at any miserable attempt to manipulate his emotions.

Faced with you now, the tendons in your neck pulse as you square of against him without any sign of crumbling. You worry your lower lip between your teeth until it is red and swollen. It is the only sign of anxiety. Otherwise, you stand strong.

“If you feel like I’m somehow attacking you, it must be a guilty conscience. Because I haven’t said or done anything to you.”

“What do I have to feel guilty about?” Rindou demands coldly.

“You’d have to tell me. Because I thought about it all day and night –”

“See, I knew you were wound up about yesterday –”

“I thought about it all day and night,” you raise your voice to drown him out. “And, yes, it was weird to see you with someone else. Yes, it hurt. It was so unexpected. But, if you think I’m trying to punish you over it, you’re out of line because my eyes are wide open. You’re not my boyfriend –”

“No, I’m not. Which is why you shouldn’t –”

“I know, I know. How can I be hurt or angry when you’re not my boyfriend? You didn’t cheat on me or break any promises. I have nothing to be upset about.”

“Right.”

Confused and more than a little wary, Rindou sits back down at the table. He has held conversations like this a few times in his life. Most subs understand the importance of negotiation implicitly and take him for what he is. There have been a handful of in the past, however, usually inexperienced women like you, who struggled to work through the limitations of their relationship with him, crashing futilely against the boundaries of what he offered.

Because he doesn’t do relationships. Blame it on the dangers of his work, the secrecy inherent in the lifestyle, or some intrinsic flaw in his makeup. Regardless, he never plans to tie himself down to one woman. All that road offers is the erosion of his freedom.

“Since you wanted to talk about it so much though, bringing it up and all, I would like to ask about what I should expect,” you continue. “Because I didn’t realize you were seeing other people, and that raises questions. Like, are you practicing safe sex with these women? Have you been getting tested for STDs? Should we be using condoms? And, are you looking for more long-term subs? How would you even fit in another sub? Would we have to see each other less, so you could make time for a new one? What should I expect going forward?”

Each question is too reasonable to deny, so Rindou answers plainly, “You’re the only person I see regularly, so I use condoms with everyone else and get tested on the first of every month. If you want to use condoms together, that is entirely your decision. I’ll accept whatever you decide. I’m not looking to train anyone else right now. If I found someone that suited my tastes, I might consider it though, and yeah, that would mean adjusting my schedule around because I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you would not be open to training together.”

“No!”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Rindou says.

“How many women have you been with since we got together?” you demand.

There is no good answer, and Rindou groans, “Seriously? Don’t start overreacting now.”

“I’m cool! I’m being so cool. Just answer the question,” you smile, but it is a mockery of your normal, gleaming smiles. Teeth clenched tight together, it is more like an animal baring its fangs.

“No! I don’t owe you a fucking itemized list of every woman I’ve fucked. Just like I don’t run around town telling them about you. I haven’t cheated on you. I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“I just wanna know how and when you’re finding time to meet other people.”

Rindou rolls his eyes. “Because that’s rational. You don’t actually want to know the answer to that.”

“I just don’t know where you’re possibly finding the time to meet all these women –”

“Again, you’re exaggerating. Not all these women. Some, like Mayuri, I knew before you. Some I meet through work. Straightforward stuff.”

“Mayuri is the woman from yesterday?”

“I think we’re done with this conversation now,” Rindou says tightly.

A shininess blurs the color of your eyes then, and Rindou sighs. He wants to wrap you up in his arms and praise you for being such a strong, beautiful girl because despite all your tough words, this isn’t easy for you. If he could be a better man for you, he would consider it, but there is only so much he can offer, and the burden of accepting that is on you.

“Thank you for being honest with me. I really do need to head out and meet Naoto, but I’ll think about the condom thing,” you murmur.

“Baby, don’t leave like this,” Rindou tries. There is no more fight in your stance and now that the threat of conflict is ended, he finds the energy draining from his whole body.

“I’m fine! We’re fine. Seriously, Rindou. I’m not going to overreact or stamp my foot at you like that might change something. My eyes are wide open like I told you. I understand where you’re coming from completely. We can hang out soon,” you say.

Rindou doesn’t like the idea of you leaving when your foundations are so shaken, wants to stuff you full of gone-cold Chinese food and cuddle on the couch until you fall asleep on his shoulder. Even if neither of you yelled or descended into insults, he feels like he fought a war, and the only way to recover is in your arms.

He follows you to the entryway.

You redon your winter gear in a hurry. The puffy coat is plush and cozy as he pulls you close and kisses you long and slow. You return the kiss with wind-chapped lips not fighting him at all. The heat that always explodes between you blazes, and he cups and caresses you through the barrier of the coat.

He wants you to stay.

You break the kiss after only a minute and smile.

“I’ll call you, ok?”

And then, you are gone.

When Rindou sleeps, he dreams of shopping malls built like mazes, window shopping displays of the finest goods, and he understands without knowing that to obtain even one miraculous product from these stores would spell his salvation; But whenever he tries to enter one of the stores, the maze shifts, redirects him until he is walking forwards again, searching. Still searching. During the slippery seconds between sleep and waking, that liminal space where dreams and life converge, he stews in resentment for what he can’t possess. That resentment often follows him into the day, though he tries not to dwell on it. The recurring dream started sometime in his early twenties. He remembers that dream joining him in sleep on at least a monthly basis, but for all he knows, he dreams it every night only to forget with the rising of the sun.

The weeks that follow the lingerie incident remind him of that dream only there is no supernatural force reworking the architecture of time and space to prevent him from entering the store. It feels like he’s piloting a plane headed straight for a cliff. There is still time to push the emergency button and eject to safety if he is only willing to abandon the plane to its solitary, fiery fate. But, he is a pilot, and the plane is all he’s ever known, and the longer he goes without pushing the button, the slighter his chances of escaping unscathed.

Because you are not fine.

The three weeks that follow pass at a crawl. Time reshapes itself into molasses around the giant you-sized absence in his days. It is easy, at first, to deny the obvious as you offer such convincing excuses to blow him off. After all, your friends do often lean on you for emotional support, and finals are drawing close, and your mother does deserve a break. So what if you leave his texts on read for hours at a time?

On the fourth day, he calls you in the free period he knows falls between your Wednesday lectures. When you answer, Rindou mistakes your sing-song hello for the voicemail you have relegated him to recently. You apologize for not having time to talk, squeezing more words into a breath than humanly plausible as you explain your packed study schedule. You promise to see him soon before you hang up.

You sounded fine on the phone. The same voice, light and airy like spring personified, that Rindou knows so well.

But you are not fine.

The ice wall between you thaws a little in the second week when Rindou reminds you that he bought tickets to the Inaba/Salas tour. Again, you surprise him by joining as planned at the stadium. Throughout the concert, you smile and cheer along, and the open delight on your face as you groove to the music invites him to join in the fun. At the end of the night, he drives you home to where you swear your mom is waiting. He kisses you breathless in the front seat of his car. You sigh hot and sticky into his mouth, notched into the crook of his shoulder like you have carved a space for yourself there, and whisper “Sir” with more fervor than a prayer. Everything seems fine.

But you are not fine.

Only a few days later, you agree to a date. The familiarity as he texts you details and soaks up your liberal usage of emojis relaxes him into thinking all is well. He takes you ice skating at Tokyo Midtown Gardens. With your little gloved hand in his, you half carry each other around the rink, equally graceless without the surety of solid ground. Rindou laughs more than he has for two weeks. You both fall again and again, Rindou toppling each time so as to shield your body from the worst of it. As you sprawl on top of him, padded from head to toe in winter wear, you promise to kiss his purple bruises better and call him your hero. Back at his apartment, you do just that, licking and kissing every part of his body, losing track of time. The trains stop running, so you sleep where you belong in the cradle of his arms. He wakes up at 6AM to the sound of you shuffling, halfway out the door citing an early start to the day. You would have left without a goodbye, but at his groggy inquiry, you tell him you are fine.

But you are not fine.

Rindou wants to confront you about the change. He hates playing stupid games more than accusations or tears and would rather have it out at this point. But, whenever you visit, he never broaches the subject. Because you are so singularly you! And fuck it. He misses you. The contrast between seeing you fives time a week and this drought is stark. Now, when you leave, you don’t send him dumb memes or answer his calls to talk about your day. You don’t rush to make plans to see him again either, and Rindou knows he can’t accept your lame excuses anymore. Something is fundamentally broken.

For the first time in maybe ever, Rindou throws himself into his work. The timing is convenient with recent developments, so he offers to take the meetings outside the perimeter of Tokyo when before he might have dragged his feet. He personally briefs Takeomi every day. When Kakucho mentions a security threat in passing, Rindou volunteers to help even though it falls well outside his purview. Anything to keep the body active.

You had come to fill up the hours of his day, to be the dessert he could look forward to after a meal of veggies. Rindou can’t comprehend how he used to fill the interminable hours between six PM and sleep without your assistance.

So, he works, and he tries not to think about anything much at all.

The plane soars onward without any assistance on his part. The details of the exposed cliff face, jagged and unforgiving, grow clearer by the hour. There will be no escape. When he crashes, Rindou knows he is going to explode.

Ran once said all of Bonten has PTSD in one form or another. Overexposure to high stress, life-or-death situations puts too much stress on the adrenal system, so now half the executives drop to their stomachs when a car misfires, stand with their backs flat to the nearest wall in every new room, avoid crowds like some people avoid traffic tickets. Rindou considers himself free of this affliction, but on the road, hands flexing on the steering wheel and eyes split between mirrors like a car might strike out into his lane at any moment, he is every bit as activated.

The hour is late, creeping towards midnight when Rindou pulls onto the expressway. There are predictably few passenger cars sharing the road. Semitrucks kick up a mist of rain that obscures his windshield.

To fill the sleepless hours, Rindou is developing all kinds of new habits. Driving, brain preciously blank to all but the threat of traffic, is one of them. So is going to the office. Just today, he went to the Ueno office of all places rather than watch the hours of the day tick by in his apartment. There is no email unanswered, directive unissued, or memo unread to keep his brain occupied. He wishes there was because his apartment holds as little allure now as it did this this morning.

A notification lights up the display. It’s a reminder that the BDSM club in Roppongi – the one where you first met – is open for play tonight. Rindou palms his cock, and it feels like an animal, a dead one, in his pants. Not even a stir. His mood is too black and distracted to responsibly dom anyone, so he dismisses the notification.

Screeching the tires, Rindou almost misses his exit. He brakes hard down the ramp until he shoots out on a quiet street. At the drab buildings, he does a double take, recognizing the north entrance to Nakano Station.

He has driven straight past his real exit and an extra twenty minutes without noticing to arrive in your neighborhood.

Rindou feels drunk despite not taking a sip of alcohol all day. He pulls into a gas station and refills the tank. While it pumps, he pops his contacts out of sore eyes. Everything blurs like a photograph in soft focus. He closes his eyes against a headache and breathes deep for 120 torturous breaths. Back in the car, he unearths his glasses from the glove compartment. They’re the same style, though a stronger prescription, that he wore as a teen. Catching his reflection in the rearview, Rindou sees the boy he once was. Just as lost, letting things happen around him without a thought, only leaping to action when stronger powers (namely Ran) prompted). Someone who watches as life happens.

Nothing is in his control.

The BDSM club is five minutes closer to Nakano than his apartment, a negligible difference, but after the driving mix-up he changes course. Nostalgia takes the wheel to lead to where you first met, where he has not visited since.

The ticket takers at the theater don’t recognize him, hesitating until he points at the tattoo on his throat. He looks unkempt: hair ratty and unbrushed, jacket slung over his shoulder and button-up crumpled at the ends, and his glasses highlight the eyes of a man who has barely slept in days. It is no surprise that subs don’t flock to him when he enters. He doesn’t look like the all-powerful dom tonight. Best he sits back and watches.

Rindou pays for a full bottle of bourbon, served neat and hard on the taste buds. The club is busy as it’s Saturday, and couples and groups clog the four stages. There are no tables left close enough for a view of the action, so Rindou stands in the corner, taking heavy swigs straight from the bottle until his stomach cramps.

There is little variety on stage. Three doms whip, cane, and flog their subs. All older man with younger women. They are impersonal, showing perfunctory delight at the infliction of pain. These are the kinds of scenes that bore him when done without finesse.

On the fourth stage, he recognizes Lady X, a domme he knows from many shared nights spent just like this, bringing women to their knees. Lost in his memories is Lady X’s real name. Yuzu something…Yuzuriha? Yuzuyu? In the clubs, she always goes by her alias or is called simply Lady, but Rindou remembers her vaguely as the sister of the tenth gen leader of the Black Dragons.

Lady is the antithesis of Rindou as a dom.

If Rindou finds control in manipulating a pliant body and acceptance in a sub’s embrace of his touch, whether it offers pain or pleasure, Lady finds release in giving her subs what they want. Where Rindou hoards women’s orgasms like precious jewels, flaunting his ownership of them only to hide them away again, Lady distributes them like cheap birdseed, doling out orgasm after orgasm to her thankful subs. Eventually said thanks turns to pleading, as one orgasm becomes four and the pleasure twists to something monumental. Lady then ups the vibrator or nips the woman’s clit with blunt teeth because, as she told Rindou once over a drink at this very bar, her goal in every scene is to create a world where her subs’ worst problem is the existence of too much pleasure, not its absence, nor its inverse, pain.

Tonight, Lady commands the largest audience of patrons. No surprise there as she strikes quite the picture herself, tall and lovely in a pencil skirt as she brings three subs on stage to piteous tears. Rindou slides closer to her stage for a better look.

Suspended in a harness of ropes, the first sub weeps wretchedly. There is a hitachi wand held to her clit. The setting must be high because the buzz travels from the stage to his ears. The woman cries but does not beg for mercy. There is the sheen of the acolyte behind her eyes, like she might commit unspeakable acts if they only bring her back here to Lady’s ropes and generous toys.

A second sub at her side stands restrained but not suspended. Her arms are tied above her, so that she can do nothing while Lady strokes her cock. Lady’s little hand smears messily over the tip, which is an inflamed red. There is a puddle of cum on the floor from the woman’s past orgasms. Little drips of semen harden on her legs. Every touch must hurt, but Lady keeps playing with the tip, forcing her back to hardness whether she likes it or not.

The third sub is just an ass in the air. A perfect ass at that.

Bent over a wooden block and shackled at the ankle, so that her legs are to the audience, the sub’s pussy is spread wide around a vibrator taped to her clit. Her feet kick ineffectually against her restraints, little trembles jiggling her thighs.

Rindou enjoys watching Lady work, so self-assured, so competent at bringing her subs to the brink and past. His eyes stray again and again to the pretty ass in the air. A stir in his pants makes him question his decision to abstain tonight. It has been over a week of his own hand.

After fifteen minutes of more of the same, Lady releases the first two subs from their ropes and cuffs. They are felled heaps on the stage, panting in puddles of their own slick and cum. Lady rounds to the third sub, leaning toward that hidden face in private conversation. Then she stands, and sighs for the audience’s benefit.

“Here I am being so generous, telling this slut to cum as many times as she wants, and she hasn’t cum once! What to do?”

Lady answers her own question by crouching down in front of the sub’s spread pussy and burying her whole face in it. There is a lull in the music, and Rindou can hear just how lewdly Lady laves that pussy with her tongue. Her fingers stretch the sub’s hole at a brutal pace. The woman keens loudly and kicks her feet again. Everything from her little naked toes to canting hips look beautiful in the throws of overstimulation.

Of course, Rindou knows without knowing. A presentiment colors the scene. He leans forward with interest, compelled toward that wet cunt, not wanting to miss a moment of the action, but his stomach sickens too. He ignores the sensation, blames the bourbon warming its way down his belly.

Lady tuts as the sub continues to hang on the precipice without teetering over.

She turns to the audience and says, “Little slut is having a hard time coming without permission from her old dom. Isn’t that the most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard? Why don’t you let her know she has permission to cum? Tell her to squirt all over my hand.”

Eager to join in more actively, the crowd of about thirty hoot and holler in encouragement, mixing in obscenities about the sub’s wet cunt and place beneath Lady’s toys. Rindou claps along.

Four fingers slam in and out of that sloppy hole, and the time between shakes and cries from the sub evaporates until she is blubbering at the stimulation. Lady yanks her up by the hair to gift her the added sting at her scalp, and it pushes the sub over the edge.

Correction: it pushes you over the edge.

Because Rindou knows that ass, and he knows those toes, and even at a distance with the lights too bright and a row of people in front of him, he knows that pretty pussy, too. That pretty pussy now clenches around Lady’s fingers in an orgasm far too long and powerful for your overstimulated body.

Rindou watches your face screw up in pain and tears, an expression just as familiar to him. It is an expression that should belong solely to him.

All three subs follow Lady dutifully off stage after your orgasm finally settles. She bundles you all in blankets, heaping compliments and affection down on you as is your due after such a trying scene. Rindou hovers within earshot as Lady pets your head and rubs a tear from your check. Twenty minutes elapse as you come out of subspace, during which time Rindou drains half the bottle of bourbon.

“I look like a racoon. I’m gonna head to the bathroom and fix my makeup,” you laugh, pointing at the streaks of mascara that paint your cheeks.

You replace the blanket with an overcoat to shield your nakedness then weave your way through the crowd. Compliments on your performance rain down from all sides. Rindou shadows your step. Not far from the bathroom, you drop your phone. When you turn to pick it up off the floor, Rindou is there, already scooping it off the ground.

“Rin – Rindou!” you yelp.

“Not trying to scare you,” Rindou says immediately, defensively, and he passes the phone back to you without even scanning the lock screen for a peek at your messages. “Just saw you and wanted to say hey.”

“Well, hey…um…”

“You might wanna fix your makeup. You’ve got…” Rindou gestures at the cakey residue you already know is there, and you curse.

“Yeah, sorry. I need to go to the bathroom and deal with this.”

“I’ll come with you,” Rindou says, opening the door for you.

“Rindou, you can’t come in here with me,” you whisper.

He almost tells you it’s his club and he can do whatever he wants, but Rindou wears his secrecy like a second skin and only smirks at your worries before following you into the women’s bathroom. It is a six-stall affair with a wall mirror above the sinks. He can hear a woman pee behind the door of one stall, but he ignores the stranger’s presence as you ignore his, turning to the mirrors.

“You did good up there. Looked like you had a lot of tension to work out, which isn’t surprising considering all the studying you’ve been doing. Didn’t you have a paper due this week?” Rindou prompts.

You rub dry fingertips against your cheeks. When that doesn’t work, you wad up three paper towels, wet from the sink, and scrub.

“Yeah, I had a paper on Bashō’s references to music and instrumentation in his poems, which was due on Thursday. It could have been a lot worse honestly. I like the subject, and I thought my first draft was good for once. Of course, I had a complete breakdown on Wednesday after dreaming that the paper was really supposed to be about Nishiyama Sōin and that I’d miscited every source in there, but um, I managed to calm myself down.”

“Good. I don’t know why you always have nightmares about your papers. You always get an A.”

“Not always,” you say darkly.

The woman in the occupied stall hurries out, casting a few curious glances Rindou’s way as she washes her hands. She doesn’t dry them, leaving little splatters of water on the counter. Then, they are truly alone.

“Are you planning to stick around now that you finished your scene? Can’t imagine you wanna do another after that? It looked intense.”

“You really watched that?” you ask.

“Most of it,” he confirms. “You did good.”

“Thanks,” you say without looking at him. You dry your hands while staring at your now streak-free reflection in the mirror.

“If you don’t wanna stay, I could take you home. Or, if you’re hungry, I know a 24/7 breakfast place not far from here. You never eat enough after a scene,” Rindou says.

“Um, I’m good…Have you been coming here often?”

“No, it’s my first time in forever. You?” he asks in a tone that just misses casual.

“It’s my second time in the last two weeks. I’m kind of trying out stuff right now,” you say.

“Trying out stuff…” he tests the words.

“Are you okay? You look a little tense.”

Normally, Rindou chooses his words with precision, but he finds himself unable to process his surroundings. He exists somewhere outside his body, outside his brain, outside this room entirely. He peers down on the scene almost like a security camera, removed and distant. No, rather more like footage from a security camera, viewed days after the fact in a little room by someone who neither knows nor understands the context of the scene. Trying to think through the likely consequences of his words or choosing an alternative phrase, he finds his thoughts vaporous and ungraspable. So, he simply speaks.

“I didn’t like it.”

“Like what? Watching me with someone else?” you say quickly.

He grunts because that’s easier than searching for any kind of answer.

“You said we could fuck other people.”

“I know. You didn’t do anything wrong,” Rindou agrees. It is the correct and automatic response, but he can’t resist tacking on the truth at the end. “I didn’t like watching.”

“Well, that’s flattering at least,” you mutter.

In a different reality, one where he sent you up there with a pat on the ass, he might have liked watching Lady work your cunt up to a waterfall before returning you to him, still hovering on the precipice, edged and needy. He might have liked teasing you all night with the possibility of an orgasm. But he did not like watching you cum for someone else. Not without his permission. Even with a filmy gauze slowing down his brain from the half bottle of bourbon, he knows that much.

“We’re not okay, are we?” Rindou asks.

“No, Rindou. We are not okay.”

“Well, can we talk about it?”

“I don’t know. Can we talk about it without you making me feel like a complete idiot?” you snap.

A woman pushes open the door to the bathroom, but upon hearing the direction of your conversation, she turns right around, leaving you to a privacy tinged by history. The door creaks back into place with a choked slam.

“Like a…? You’re not an idiot?” Rindou insists.

“I know I’m not an idiot! I have spent the last few weeks going back and forth between feeling so sad and then so goddamn angry with you! Because I know that I could not have been more chill about things if I had a lobotomy to remove my frontal cortex first! I was so cool about everything, so understanding, so kind, and you treated me like, like some fucking bother you had to get out of the way!”

The first feeling to reemerge from the confused pit you dumped him in is embarrassment at himself as he is admittedly slow on the uptake, stuttering out, “Wait…this isn’t about…? This is about our conversation at my apartment?”

“Yes!” you hiss, hands flapping emphatically and voice echoing off the tile. The overcoat swallows you whole, a sea of black fabric trailing the floor, but somehow you stand tall within it. “Yes! I came that night so prepared to listen to your side of things and be reasonable and empathetic and all the rest, and you treated me like I was a hysterical child that you had to manage. Far be it from me to criticize the great Rindou! Not that I even did criticize you before you were jumping down my throat. I am not unreasonable. I am not hysterical. And I am not a child. I did not appreciate being treated like I was.”

Rindou remembers back to the hours before you arrived at his apartment that day. How he’d been so sure you would accuse him of cheating or play mind games to negate your own jealousy. The whole time you were there, he maintained that sureness even when you acted contrary to those expectations.

It, he admits, hadn’t been fair.

Worse, it may have been patronizing.

He groans, not at you but at the memory, and rubs a hand over his face. “Fuck, yeah, yeah, you’re probably right. I see that. I didn’t want you to blow things out of proportion, so I tried to shut you down before you could. But I guess I acted like a prick.”

“A prick might be understating it. I came to you to have a conversation in good faith, and you made me feel so…small. Insignificant. Like, I’m just this easy thing to you. Like you could use and discard me, so I better shut my mouth before you throw me away.”

Rindou opens his mouth to give a rebuttal-like reassurance that you are wrong about your supposed disposability to him, but you plow forward, pointed finger punctuating every word, which is a welcome distraction from the look of raw pain on your face. It is like the sun. Too painful to look at directly.

“I know what that feels like, Rindou, because I’ve been treated that way before. I’m young and people call me sweet, and that means people think I’m stupid or superficial, but I’m not. I’m capable of dealing with the hard things and having the hard conversations, and I do not deserve to be treated like I’m too naïve to know how things work.”

There is a layer of grime on his tongue. He focuses on how foreign it feels in his mouth rather than the thumping organ in his ribcage. The way his heart races and the room feels too small is not dissimilar to the sensations he feels when someone fires a gun, when his life is momentarily suspended. A kind of physical panic that quickly settles into alertness.

He breathes deep, calming. Rindou smells the antibacterial soap and weak air freshener blowing from the vents. The colors of the room appear saturated, more contrast and more details accessible to the eye. Most importantly, he sees you clearly. The veins of your throat strain as if bursting with tension your body can’t contain. There are new smudges at the edges as tiny tears wet your eyeline. There is every emotion in those eyes from disgust to anger to sadness, but most of all, there is a question lingering there as you silently beg him to answer: where can we go from here?

“I have never thought of you as some easy thing. I fucked up. I don’t know what was going on in my head that day, but you’re right. I wasn’t seeing you. I should have shut my fucking mouth and listened. I’m sorry.”

Relief warms your eyes.

“I accept your apology,” you say.

“Really?” Rindou asks. After weeks of brewing resentment and your impassioned speech, he didn’t expect a speedy turnaround no matter how many pretty speeches he made himself.

“Yeah, I don’t like being angry. It takes a lot of energy,” you half laugh.

The abrupt about face from anger to laughter throws into stark relief that the is very drunk and very tired. Beneath that, Rindou recognizes a more abstract emotion, too: happiness.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner. I didn’t realize what you were upset about,” Rindou says, and then he adds helpfully. “Because I’m stupid. Thanks for forgiving me.”

“Yeah, you are stupid, but I figure you deserve a little grace because this was the first time in six months that you disrespected me. So long as you never treat me that way again. Seriously. My mother taught me to never put up with that from anyone,” you say.

“On my honor,” Rindou vows. “So, can I buy you something to eat now?”

The happiness explodes out like a shaken soda bottle. One second, he’s filled to the brim with it, and the next it’s gone, bubbling to nothing on the tile because you don’t say yes. Instead, you stare grimly at the wall, all traces of reconciliation gone as you clutch the sleeves of your overcoat tight.

He wonders if his apology is not enough, if he might prove his sincerity to you in some other way. If you were Mikey, he would cut off his pinky. He would gladly gift you the ring, index, and middle fingers of his left hand, too, if you demanded them. But fingers out of the question, he has nothing to give you to prove himself, and you don’t say yes.

“Rindou…I do accept your apology for insulting me, but that’s not all…The truth is, I tried to be cool about it, but I’ve had weeks to think, and…I’m not okay with things going back to how they were if you are dating or hell, sleeping with other people. I’m jealous and hurt. And I can’t accept it,” you say.

“It’s normal to be jealous,” Rindou tries, tone bracing and supportive. “I got jealous today, but I worked through it. I’ve been a dom since I was nineteen, and I’ve never been tied down to one person before. It’s not the way I know how to do things. That’s why I didn’t make any promises when we got together. I didn’t cheat on –”

“Please don’t start that again! I know! I know you technically didn’t do anything wrong. And I know that I can’t make you stop seeing other people. It’s your relationship, too, and you can have your boundaries, but…”

“But?”

“But if I can’t ask you to stop seeing other people, then you can’t ask me to keep loving you.”

You clap a hand to your mouth as if shocked by the confession, or like you might herd the words back into your mouth where they will remain unspoken. But it is too late. He can count on one hand the number of times anyone has told him they loved him, and he will not forget this.

“Baby…” Rindou tries to reach for you, but you scramble away, and now tears fall down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry, but that’s the problem, ya know? It hasn’t just been sex or hanging out for me. What we were doing, for me at least, was love, and it hurts too much to love someone who…I tried to take a step back, just have fun with you every once in a while, but there’s no medicine for falling in love, and every time I saw your stupid face, my heart started doing backflips. It doesn’t listen to me when I tell it we shouldn’t love you anymore. And that’s why…”

Your face blurs. It takes Rindou several confused seconds to realize his eyes are wet and blink the moisture away. When you reappear, you have steeled your nerves for the finishing blow.

“That’s why I don’t want to see you anymore. I need space and time to get over you, so um, please just stop calling and texting and all the rest. Just stop.”

Your face blurs again, and this time Rindou knows it’s because his eyes are watering. He blames his stupid glasses. He needs a stronger prescription.

There is no such excuse for your tears that drip past your chin to land on your collar. You wipe fruitlessly at the leakage, too slow to stimmy their fall.

If you say anything after that, Rindou doesn’t hear you over the ringing in his ears. Three women enter the bathroom arm-in-arm and immediately jabber at him about how he isn’t welcome, like three harpies sent to drive him away. Rindou doesn’t fight them as they push him out the door with their words.

Outside in the club, in the dark and music, far from the bright quiet of the bathroom, Rindou feels like he’s stepped onto the surface of Mars. Like he’s planets away from where you are, and he might as well be.

He doesn’t know how to find his way back to you because he stands now amid the wreckage, engine on fire, wings cracked. The plane has finally crashed.

A/N: entering my villain era

"'I was always watching you.' This could have been a breathless declaration of love or a final farewell." - Yōko Ogawa, The Diving Pool: Three Novellas

#tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #tokyorev smut #tokyo revengers x reader #rindou smut #rindou x reader smut #rindou haitani

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27dragons · 5 months

Text

New Year Countdown: Dec 1

I haven't written a single word since August, and I wanted to do something to try to force myself out of the rut. So I'm doing a countdown to New Year's Day.

I pulled randomly from my list of favorite ships (some of which I haven't ever written before!), along with a randomly-chosen AU or trope, and a randomly-chosen winter- or holiday-related word. (Mostly random. I may have done a little shuffling, and I may have weighted the ships in favor of Winteriron and Dreamling.)

I'm not writing full fics, here, just snippets or scenes, probably mostly in the under-300-word category. I haven't decided whether I'll even be putting them on AO3 yet (because coming up with titles and summaries and tags is a huge pain). I don't know if I'll be able to keep it up for the whole month, but I've got a small handful already written to give me a little bit of leeway, so let's give it a try!

And with all that introduction, find today's ficlet under the cut!

Dec 1 - Winteriron - Cowboys AU - Frost

Bucky reined in Starr and let his eyes run across the backs of the herd, counting under his breath and checking the brands. As the last of the beasts ambled past him through the gate into the main paddock, Stark pulled up beside him.

“They all check out?” Stark asked, giving Bucky a look from under his lashes that had nothing to do with the damn cows. Stark had been at the ranch for six months, now, and he’d been brazenly flirting with Bucky for at least four of them.

Stark’s mount sidled nervously at the skirl of a leaf, and Bucky couldn’t look away from the gently firm way Stark brought her back under control. The heat of desire warmed his belly, and other parts, besides. “It’ll frost tonight,” he said. “Be warmer if we share a tent.”

“Well,” Stark said, a lazy smile tipping the curl of his mustache, “Reckon you’d better call me Tony, then.”

#my writing #countdown to 2024 #winteriron #bucky barnes #tony stark #tune in tomorrow for more!#i have at least 3 days written!

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walkswithmyfather · 1 year

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“The next day the great crowd that had come for the festival heard that Jesus was on his way to Jerusalem. They took palm branches and went out to meet him, shouting, “Hosanna!” “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!” “Blessed is the king of Israel!” Jesus found a young donkey and sat on it, as it is written: “Do not be afraid, Daughter Zion; see, your king is coming, seated on a donkey’s colt.” At first his disciples did not understand all this. Only after Jesus was glorified did they realize that these things had been written about him and that these things had been done to him. Now the crowd that was with him when he called Lazarus from the tomb and raised him from the dead continued to spread the word. Many people, because they had heard that he had performed this sign, went out to meet him. So the Pharisees said to one another, “See, this is getting us nowhere. Look how the whole world has gone after him!” —John 12:12‭-‬19 (NIV)

“Rejoice greatly, Daughter Zion! Shout, Daughter Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and victorious, lowly and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey. I will take away the chariots from Ephraim and the warhorses from Jerusalem, and the battle bow will be broken. He will proclaim peace to the nations. His rule will extend from sea to sea and from the River to the ends of the earth. As for you, because of the blood of my covenant with you, I will free your prisoners from the waterless pit. Return to your fortress, you prisoners of hope; even now I announce that I will restore twice as much to you.” —Zechariah 9:9‭-‬12 (NIV)

“Easter Explained: An 8-Day Guide to Celebrating Holy Week Devotional. Day 1 - Palm Sunday” By Spoken Gospel:

“For the last 1,600 years, Christians around the world remember the last days of Jesus' life during Holy Week. Today is Palm Sunday. Palm Sunday remembers the day Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey like a rival king to challenge Caesar and his Roman empire.

Like every other empire, Rome controlled its people with the threat of death. But Jesus came to disarm all kings of their favorite weapon by dying and then rising from his grave. Jesus has just performed his seventh and final miracle in John's Gospel. He raised his friend Lazarus from the dead (John 11:43-44). It's final proof that Jesus' Kingship will disarm death and grant life. All of Jesus' miracles hint toward this in some way. Turning water into wine, healing a sick boy, raising a paralytic from his bed, and feeding over 5,000 people with a boy's lunch are all small-scale resurrections. And the people of Israel had an inkling of what all this meant. To them, Jesus was their long-awaited Messiah, the promised King of Israel who would come to heal their bodies, feed their bellies, and take down Rome's deadly rule. And in a very important sense, they were right (John 6:15).

When Jesus saddles a donkey (the traditional beast of kings) and rides into Jerusalem, the people understand it as the coronation ceremony of their death-defeating Messiah. Waving palm branches, a crowd gathers around Jesus and sings from Psalm 118: 'Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the king of Israel!'

John tells us this is all done to fulfill a prophecy given by Zechariah (Zechariah 9:9-10). Jesus intentionally rides in on a donkey to inflame their hopes that he is the King they have been waiting for. He is the King that can defeat death. He will be victorious over all rival claims to his throne and he will save his people (John 12:15-16). That's what 'hosanna' means''save us.' It's the cry of those who long for the King prophesied by Zechariah.

But unlike other kings, Jesus hasn't come to kill, but to die. Like a seed must be buried before it can become a tree, Jesus must be buried before his Kingdom comes. He must master death by first dying. Anyone who wants to join his Kingdom must be willing to accept his death (John 12:24-26). The whole reason Jesus came to earth wasn't to conquer empires by killing them, but to die under their influence (John 12:27). Jesus rides into Jerusalem like a King, but like a King who knows the only way to defeat death is to die.

That's why these events and teachings don't please everyone, especially the Jewish religious establishment. Many within this religious elite did not believe that Israel's true King could suffer and die. In their minds, a Messiah should fight and win. They can't imagine a king that doesn't wield death. And they don't understand that their greatest threat isn't Rome, but death itself. Unwilling to accept a King who embraces death and suffering, they're forced to oppose and reject him.

Palm Sunday is good news because Jesus announces that he has come to dethrone and disarm the empires of this world through his death. We can either embrace the rival Kingship of Jesus or we can align ourselves with the powers that be. We can accept Jesus' coming death as the way to new life or fight to keep our lives as we know them. We can either pledge allegiance to Jesus' Kingdom or join the religious establishment and reject him.

So I pray that on this Palm Sunday you will accept Jesus as the King who died and was raised to show that death and the empires that wield it are defeated.”

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever. Shouts of joy and victory resound in the tents of the righteous: “The Lord’s right hand has done mighty things! The Lord’s right hand is lifted high; the Lord’s right hand has done mighty things!” The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; the Lord has done this, and it is marvelous in our eyes. The Lord is God, and he has made his light shine on us. With boughs in hand, join in the festal procession up to the horns of the altar. You are my God, and I will praise you; you are my God, and I will exalt you. Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.” —Psalm 118:1‭, ‬15‭-‬16‭, ‬22‭-‬23‭, ‬27‭-‬29 (NIV)

Watch the video of “Easter Explained” here. ]

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beefrobeefcal · 7 months

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Hear me out……..just like, Dave York putting on weight cause he’s a dad and he starts just like, trying so so hard to eat better and work out but you can not help but pull him into the bedroom and call him out on his shit and just worship that belly. Only to realize…..his body actually turns him on. The changes and the belly and he’s kinda in love with it just wicked EMBARASSED and you have to convince him otherwise.

To Nonnie, Love Beefro

You bad for this, Nonnie... That tiny ass waist carrying a belly in a dress shirt????

fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck 🫠🥵😭🥩👌

What-a-man-what-a-man-what-a-mighty-good-man regards,

Beefro 👌🥩💜

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Beefro Proudly Presents:

a Chubby!Dave York one shot

Dave York & Kitten: Caught Red-Handed

Pairing: Dave York x Fem!Reader (Kitten)

Summary: Dave gets caught.

Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI)

Word Count: 1,592

Content Warning: Smutty smutty smut smut, swearing, snack cake eating, belly stuffing, blow jobs, denied orgasm, naughty Kitten business

Author's Notes: If you want answers, ask @neverwheremoonchild ... they're chubby subby Joel woke a beast in your Beefro and I have no ragrats! NONE!

TA DA! NOT PROOFED.

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You’d watched Dave try to curb his sweet tooth, but every evening, without fail, you’d catch him in the pantry getting into the snacks and cookies. Each night, he’d flop into bed, belly full and gurgling, and each morning he’d struggle again with his dress shirts and slacks, trying to make them fit.

While you enjoyed the site, you didn’t like how it seemed to upset him. Neither of you spoke about the extra bit of him poking out over his waistbands, pulling his buttons tighter it seemed each day, highlighting his small waist and complimenting his broad shoulders. But you could see the frustration written on his stoic face, and you hid your disappointment when he announced he was going back to the gym and stopped his late-night pantry visits.

One evening a few weeks later, he returned home from what you thought was a gym class. He didn’t have the standard flush he normally carried post-work out and you noted that his belly looked fuller. When he saw you sitting on the couch, he smiled at you sheepishly.

“Hey, baby. Uh… girls in bed?”, he asked, his voice giving way to the truth.

You stood up and walked over to him, planting a kiss on his lips and smiling. “Yeah… they are.”

“You didn’t make it to your work out, did you, Dave? Where’d you go instead?”, you asked, head cocked to the side. This was new territory for both of you. Dave was the dominant one on your relationship, but he had the overwhelming urge to submit your whims with the position you had him in, but he wouldn’t let that happen.

He didn’t answer. He narrowed his eyes at you and huffed, trying to move around you, but your hands reached out and caressing his belly, pushing into it and he grunted. He felt full and his belly felt heavy.

“What you got in here, Dave?”, you asked looking into his eyes, tone firm and your eyebrow raised. Your hands still holding his stomach.

His face went red and clenched his jaw. “Watch it, kitten.”

His response gave you the encouragement to push this – whatever this was – further.

“I asked you a question, David.”, you commanded, using the tone he’d used on you so many times, it became his calling card in your bedroom. “You not going to answer me?”

“Don’t you fucking dare…”, he groaned. Despite his words, his eyes, tone, and body were begging you, pleading with you for more.

“Or what? Huh, David? What are you gonna do?”, you responded, walking him backwards towards the couch.

The back of his calves hit the couch and he stumbled back, sitting with his knees open and you stood between them.

Leaning forward, you put one hand on the back of the couch, the other on his belly, getting your face close to his, keeping eye contact.

“David. What do you have in here?”, you asked, voice demanding and firm, lifting his t-shirt and feeling his skin.

He gripped the wrist of the hand on his stomach and tried to push himself up, but you held him firm with your other hand, pushing him into the couch.

“Bet you fucking like being full… have you even gone to any of your work outs, David?”, you sneered at him, shaking your head.

“Knock it off, kitten?”, he said in a low growl.

“You know it’s my job to keep you so well fed… trying to tell me something?”

His eyes snapped to yours and it suddenly clicked for him. “You… you like this?”, he asked, his hand moving on top of yours.

“Fuck, David… you look so good when you’re well fed.”, you crooned, pressing your hand down on the top part of his belly. “But you could be fuller.”

He glared at you, snarling, “You better be joking, kitten.”

You paused. You raised an eyebrow, goading him into using your safe word if he really didn’t want this. He raised an eyebrow back you, challenging you. You smiled sweetly to him, walking to the pantry and retrieving an assortment of things.

“Gonna be a good boy?”, you asked in a saccharine sweet voice with a hint of venom.

“You’re really asking for it, kitten.”, he growled, but he didn’t move from the couch.

You unwrapped a snack cake and held it out to him, but he sat there, glaring at you with a menacing grin, not moving. You moved to stand between his legs and dropped your knee right at the crux of his thighs, nudging his crotch.

“Open.”, you commanded.

He went to protest, but you were quick and shoved the whole thing into his mouth.

“Spit it out and you don’t get to fuck me for a week. Eat it, David.”, you snapped at him.

He huffed and obediently chewed the confection and swallowed it.

“How many more do you think you could fit in here?”, you asked, tone again sweet, hand patting his belly.

“What? You gonna feed me to find out?”, he spat back.

“Watch your tone with me, David.”, you said, looking at the next snack cake as you unwrapped it.

“No, I think you need to be put back in your – “

You shoved another cake in his mouth and watched with a smile as he chewed it down, your hand snaking down the front of his shorts, feeling his heavy cock firming rapidly in your hand.

*****

“You gonna finish that cake, David?”, you cooed, your hands rubbing his thighs, his hard cock an inch away from your lips.

“Kitten… no more playing… get that pretty mouth of yours back on my dick and I’ll think about ignoring your fucking attitude tonight.”, he grunted in heavy breaths.

“Eat your cake, David. Not going to tell you again.”

He clenched his jaw again, knowing he was losing his resolve; watching you take control over him and force his belly to the limit had him losing his mind, and he wanted more.

You eyed him, eyebrows raised and nodded at the box of snack cakes next to him. He huffed, shaking his head. “Kitten, you need to remember who you’re ta – don’t you dare!”

You smiled deviously as you unwrapped another two cakes, squishing them together, and held them out to him. When he didn’t move, you gripped his cock with your other hand and began to pump him. When he opened his mouth to groan, you shoved the cakes into it.

*****

All of the snack cakes and several glasses of milk later, Dave was full. His swollen middle was popping out from under his shirt, his shorts pulled down around his ankles.

“Come on please, kitten…”, he begged as he panted, his legs were shaking, and his hands were reaching out to you. You were on your knees, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his hard, twitching cock, after edging him several times over.

“I’ll be good… please let me come… please… kitten…”

“This is a good look for you, David. Fat and begging…”, you cooed then licked a stripe up his bloated tummy. He let out a strangled noise and his cock twitched again, precum leaking from the tip.

“Fucking Please!”, he yelled in a whine, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Please what, David?”, you cooed again, tonguing his belly button.

“Please, let me come… I’ll fucking take whatever you give me… hands, mouth… I don’t care… need you, baby… please, kitten…”

Smiling at your victory, you now didn’t care what kind of retribution he had in store for you. You pulled his tip into your mouth and sucked hard, swirling your tongue around it. He let out a pained yelp, his hands going to your hair, holding your head where it was. He wasn’t going to let you off him this time.

You took his length down your throat and swallowed. Despite his full stomach, his hips still involuntarily bucked, casing you to gag. Your eyes began to water, and his whines grew louder as he moved your head up and down, making you fuck him with your mouth.

You could tell from his strangled noises and his stuttering movements that he was close. You braced your hands on couch, either side of his hips, and let him use your mouth as he needed. The grip he had on your hair tightened as he came down your throat, but you needed to breathe, and you pulled yourself back. His cock shot ribbons of come over his belly as he panted and whined.

He tried slowing his breathing. He watched you from under heavy lids and smiled as you wiped your mouth and your eyes.

You looked back at him and gave him a warm smile. He returned one in kind and held his hand out to you, beckoning to join him on the couch. Grabbing a facial tissue, you snuggled up next to him and began to wipe his spend off his stomach.

“Really, though, Dave… what did you do instead of going to the gym?”, you asked, cleaning off his belly.

He laughed as he pulled your head towards him, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Well… I really was on my way there, but I got side tracked at the Ponderosa Steakhouse.”

“Uh-huh.”, you smiled. “Side tracked, huh? Ponderosa is in the opposite direction of your gym… so unless you took the long way around…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you caught me red-handed, kitten.”, he smiled, pulling you against him in his strong arms.

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TAGLIST:

@theywhowriteandknowthings @harryleatherfit @harriedandharassed @neverwheremoonchild @rebel-held @beee-haw @nevergoingbacknowshine @idolatrybarbie @v4vayha @lalocitos @xdaddysprincessxx @deathsholywaterr @heareball @lyssramscal @wintrwinchestr

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal tummy #pedro pascal fanfiction #chubby!dave york #chubby dave rights !!!#you asked beefro answered #you ask beefro answers #thot tank #beefro's bistro #🥩

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