#Between the hair and his face shape it's so easy for him to feel “wrong” somehow

[kodasea]

Jack of all trades

[majestyeverlasting]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

pairing joel miller x female reader (18+) summary it wasn’t uncommon for you to seek each other’s presence after the sun was tucked away—for company, for comfort. but there’s something more consuming about tonight [post-outbreak, fluff, soft smut, 3.3k] a/n they're in love.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

There always had been something about the night. Something singular about its ability to take the most tightly wound days and coax them undone. Like the silken ribbon of a worn bow that had grown weary of holding its shape.

For quite some time now, your nights have belonged to each other. After years of going to bed alone, even Joel realized how good it felt to end the day next to someone who reminded him just how sweet life could be. 

Everyone's deserving of good company—you’d spoken those words to him in the face of his independence. Thankfully, with time, they’d worked their way into his spirit. Like vines, like air itself. He no longer feels wrong for craving care as tender as yours, even though his hands have made ghosts out of many men. 

Earlier tonight, it was you who came to him. 

Three muffled knocks had roused him from the beginning of a light sleep. Given he didn’t have to entertain Ellie tonight, he figured he’d turn in a little earlier than usual. He’d answered the door with fluffy hair and squinted eyes. There was an undeniable softness about his rumpled pajamas and the sight of his bare feet against the hardwood. Few words were needed between you as he helped you out of your coat and led you upstairs to his bedroom. 

It’s quiet where you lay now, tucked beneath sheets that smell faintly of earthen pine. You’ve draped one arm over Joel’s waist while your nose remains tucked between his shoulder blades like it belongs there. 

During the day, while out in the commune, you remained cordial and unassuming around each other. You weren’t exactly hiding from the attention of others but were protecting the bond forming between you. 

In due time, you’d allow the familiarity and intimacy of the night to bleed over into the day, but for now, this nighttime ritual is sacred in its newness. It had been a couple of months since your patrol partner didn’t show, and Joel stepped up to take his place. 

As it turns out, spending six hours with the right person in the cold can change your life. 

Joel holds his breath on an inhale when he feels your fingers begin to toy with the hem of his shirt. They slip beneath it a moment later, almost shy as they trail along his waistline and brush through the thin hair beneath his navel. Joel’s hips tilt just so. 

He swallows around a low sound as your hand ventures up his chest with featherlight curiosity. Exploring, cataloging. Past his ribs and to his chest to graze the pads of your fingers over his nipples, making something stir low in his gut. 

Your hand then drifts back down to splay over the small pudge of his stomach as if to center him again. 

“You’re so warm,” you murmur. 

If he were braver, he’d say it was by virtue of your touch alone. Your hands had wandered over each other's bodies, but never quite like this. This time, your touch doesn’t seek to soothe or ground but to evoke. 

Joel rests his hand over yours with a hum. It covers yours whole. 

“Your hands are so big.” Your voice dips into a purr. “And strong. Capable.”

Joel chuckles a low, flustered sound. He’s not sure what to do with these compliments or if that’s what they’re meant to be. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you then say. “Fix my mailbox.”

Of everything you could’ve mentioned, he wasn’t expecting that. It was an easy task he’d knocked out earlier this afternoon. It took him no more than fifteen minutes. 

“Nothing to it,” he assures in a low drawl. 

Except, there was something to it. The fix meant Joel had been listening when you mentioned it broke. This wasn’t the first time he’d done something for you without asking for permission. Joel Miller is a man of action. If he sees a problem or a need, he doesn't hesitate. That strong sense of initiative had yet to steer him wrong. 

It’s lovely to be seen and heard by someone like him, especially in a commune where it wasn’t hard to slip through the cracks at times.  

A half-restrained shiver rolls down Joel’s spine when you press a kiss to the nape of his neck. The hair curled there tickles the tip of your nose. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“Welcome—” His voice catches when you pepper more kisses to his nape. His hand stills yours when he feels your attempt to trail your touch downward from his stomach. 

“Sweetheart,” Joel breathes, a little wary. 

“Yes?” you lilt. 

The sheets rustle as Joel turns over to face you. He can only make out a few of your features in the glow of the moonlight slipping into the room. The rest, his mind fills in. You cup his stubbled cheek with a gentle hand. 

“Makin’ me hot.” His voice is soft and honest, a little frayed around the edges. A pleasant buzz has settled beneath his skin. 

Maybe you wanted him to burn. 

You scoot that much closer to press your lips to his. When the initial surprise dissipates, they move, slow and easy, against your own. Almost tired if you didn’t know any better. But even in the shroud of the night, he’s wide awake. For this. For you. 

A low sound rises in his throat when you take his lower lip between your teeth and gently tug until you’ve fully pulled away. 

Joel hadn’t realized his hand had drifted to settle on your waist, but suddenly, it’s not enough. He needs to feel you entirely. A need rooted so deep he aches with it. There’s no more denying the swell in his pants, where the brunt of his desire has made itself known. 

Restraint looks good on Joel, but there always has been an air of allure around the notion of him surrendering. Of what it looked like for him to partake and be partaken of. It’d been some years since he’d allowed himself to open up in this way, and anyone he shared himself with in the past was long gone. You wanted to demystify it all and come to know that side of him for yourself. 

This time, when your hand begins to drift lower, he doesn’t stop you. Not when your fingers slip beneath both his waistbands. Or as you wrap them around the base of his warm, rigid length. A pleasured shudder courses through him as you pull upwards in a reverent tug. At the top, your thumb encircles the velveteen head to spread the small, wet bead of eagerness.  

Joel starts to move upright but trembles back into place when your loose grasp descends, mapping back down each snaking vein before gently massaging the rounded fullness that hangs beneath. 

“Love the feel of you already,” you murmur. Joel’s face warms as his arousal kicks up under your ministrations. 

In an unexpected display of agility, he repositions to hover above you, pushes down his pants and boxers, and braces himself as he kicks them away. His movements are so seamless that your touch isn’t disrupted for long. 

You spit into your hand as best you can and reach out for him in the dark, knowing exactly where to find him as he bobs towards his stomach. 

Joel’s more interested in gripping your pants, and you place your feet flat on the mattress to lift your hips for him to shuck them off. The cool air of the room registers against the slickness between your legs as you clench. Joel lowers a finger to trace along your entrance, spreading the moisture upwards as he circles your budded nerves. 

He continues paying careful attention to the spot, even as your hand distractedly falls from him to curl into the sheets. Your exhale is shaky when he stops. 

“Just a second,” Joel rasps. 

He braces himself further up your body, one large palm splayed near your head. As the mattress shifts, you realize he’s reaching toward the nightstand. You move your hand to play between your legs to ease the throbbing ache lazily. 

A faint click sounds, and a flame sparks to life, balanced on the crooked wick of a candle. The light casts a dim, golden radius in the room. 

“Can’t miss this,” he explains as he returns to his original position. 

“Need to see you.” In a testament to his words, his arousal kicks up on its own accord yet again. 

You selfishly take him in. His intense gaze. Broad shoulders. Thick thighs. The straining, desirous region of him that your hands had come to know before your eyes ever did. A thatch of unruly dark curls rests at the base of him. 

Joel pulls his shirt over his head to reveal his last covered portion. His arms are toned and firm. A thin dusting of hair spans over his impressive chest. New and old scars pepper the expanse of his torso. The faint indents of a v-line remain even with the pudge of his stomach from age and finally eating good meals again. 

Now it’s your turn. Joel helps you out of your shirt and tosses it aside with renewed urgency. As you finally lay bare, his dark eyes admire your chest as if this first chance is the last chance he’ll get. He extends a careful hand to cup one of your breasts, gaze flicking to your face to watch the way your brows furrow in approval. 

“Christ,” he grouses in an air of disbelief. 

You suck in a quick breath when he leans down to kiss along the side of your neck. Goosebumps arise in the wake of his lips as he continues downward like it’s a path he’s traveled before. Over your collarbones, between the valley of your breasts, straying to gently peck a pebbled nipple before returning to the centerline of your torso. 

In the process, he shifts himself further down the mattress, your legs propped like two mountains along either side of him. 

His kisses turn into toothless nips when he reaches the lower portion of your stomach. That sensation, paired with the scratch of his beard, makes your abdomen twitch and flex. It isn’t until he makes it beneath your belly button and strays toward your hip bones that your chest finally shakes with a laugh as you squirm. 

Joel stills you with a steady hand and peeks up at you with a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. He’s cataloging every shift and sweet sound. 

As his shoulders force your thighs to splay a little wider, you bite your lip both out of anticipation and to keep your lingering smile at bay. In seconds, he’s made a live wire out of you. 

Every other breath you take catches. You find yourself swallowing more than you had all night. But suddenly, there’s no urgency about him at all. You’ve slipped into an unspoken purgatory where your release looms on hold. 

He’s drawing things out, taking his time, ignoring the throb of his own need as he tries to pick you apart. 

Joel bypasses where you’re spread open and pulsing and delivers a kiss to the inside of your thigh, mere inches from where you crave him. You shift, hoping he’ll reroute, but he pretends not to notice. 

You try again, attempting to twist and present your core as an alternative to the fluff of your thighs. 

An exasperated huff escapes you. “Just…”

You let your sentence trail off as you attempt to give him your best pleading look. It almost works. They’re the eyes he’d steal the moon for, but he wants to relish this moment a little longer. Wants to hold out on you while you’re both safe to be these needy versions of yourselves. 

“Just what, sweetheart?” he coaxes. 

Your mouth opens a couple of times. “Do something. Touch me,” you murmur, cheeks warm. 

“I am touchin’ you.” He smooths a calloused palm along your leg to prove it. 

“Like you were before,” you specify, voice smaller now. 

Your stomach flips when he starts to move back towards your hips, and flustered, premature giggles bubble up your throat because he’s got you so on edge, and you just know he’s about to do those maddening little kisses again. 

“Not that,” you whine. “C’mon Joel, I need you.” The earnestness of those words sends a jolt toward the apex of his thighs. 

You’ve got him now, so you press further. “Please? Wanna feel you.” You make your voice softer. “Been wanting to feel you all night.”

Joel caves and runs a heavy finger through your folds, then gently spreads you open to press a kiss to that small, swollen part of you. His lips are so delicate you’d think he was kissing a rose bud. A helpless mewl escapes as he replaces his lips with the firm press of his middle finger and begins drawing tight circles. 

The touch stirs faint, premature flutters that make you tilt your hips into his hand. “I gotcha,” he assures. 

He did have you, not just in this way, but in every sense of the word. He’d proven that from the day he met you, ready to be the supply to your demand when it came to all manners of your needs. Even the ones you didn’t realize you had. The thought alone makes pleasure knot in your stomach all the more. You clench around nothing but the idea of taking him. 

“Joel,” you breathe. 

His eyes lift from your core to your gaze. Your eyes sparkle with candlelit desperation. Still taking his time, he runs his finger back down and just barely breaches your entrance with a curious probe. He’s wet with your slick and knows he’d slip right in. 

“Need you,” you murmur again. It’s different this time. 

Joel withdraws his touch and crawls back up your body, muscles shadowing as they shift. You open your legs wider so he can slot himself between you, bracing a forearm near your head. He’s close enough that your chests brush. That your breaths mingle.  

He takes himself in his hand and guides the tip to the warmth of your center. The gentle touch soon turns into a glide that bumps your clit with every upward pass. You place your hands on his shoulders because your fingers are shaking, and you don’t know what else to do. 

Like a locksmith with a key, he notches at your entrance with delicate intentionality. Both of you shudder, and he briefly touches his forehead to yours. The world stills as he slowly begins to push inside of you. You welcome each new inch with the same steady, heated snugness. Not once does your body flinch or hesitate. You welcome him in even through the dullest ache until he’s burrowed.   

Your joint groans just barely register on the outskirts of your consciousness as the blinding haze of pleasure becomes one with reality. 

Joel grants you a quiet moment of acclimation before he pulls out a little and eases himself back in. A hum vibrates through your chest. This time, he pulls back a little further, then finds his way back inside the encompassing warmth of you. 

“You’re the warm one,” he counters your earlier statement. “Taking me so well,” he praises. 

He withdraws a little more each time until his thrusts become fuller, and he finds an easy rhythm. You encourage his movements with the dig of your heels at the back of his thighs. 

He tucks his head down to place open-mouthed kisses along your neck. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders and graze down his back. 

“You feel so good,” you admit in a frantic sigh. “So so good.” 

Joel nearly comes from hearing that alone. 

There is no reprieve from the pleasure, no moment that allows you two to fully gather your bearings or muster up a semblance of composure. Every sound that slips past your lips is helpless, a little gone. They join the tiny squeaks of the mattress and the sticky, rhythmic contact of skin meeting dewy skin. 

“Faster,” you breathe. Joel listens in a heartbeat, continuing to meet that dense, tender place within you that has your toes curling. “Oh god—” you choke out, a mix between a moan and a whimper. 

Before you can find your breath again, Joel cups your breasts, switching from one to the other and running his thumb along your nipples. The sound that escapes you almost sounds pained, but your face scrunches in the prettiest, rawest way. Joel’s hips drive forward in an involuntary thrust of force.

One of his hands slips between your bodies to rub over that still-pulsing part of you. A dreamy sound falls past your lips as you writhe and arch. The tightness builds. The sea swells. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to keep it all at bay and prolong the moment. 

“Open your eyes, angel,” Joel encourages in a rasp. 

You don’t listen and silently pray that he gives up. 

“Lemme see those pretty eyes,” he tries again. 

You whimper as his finger rubs faster circles, his thrusts remaining intense. 

Joel’s voice takes on a waver, cracking around the edges with something fragile and desperate. “C’mon, baby, please?” 

You realize then that he needs it. 

When your eyes flutter open, a few rogue tears run down the apples of your cheeks towards your ears. Joel catches them. It’s too much. The newness of it all, the warm weight of his body moving above yours, making you his. There’s a glisten on his forehead, in the divot of his sternum. The way his muscles flex with his thrusts is living art. You’ve never met a more gorgeous man or had the pleasure of knowing and becoming one with someone who made you feel this whole.

“There she is,” Joel hums. 

In an instant, your body jolts against the mattress as you come undone beneath his frame. Your walls flutter around him in strong pulses of pleasure that radiate outward and leave you floating. If it were light instead, you’d be a shining star illuminating the room. 

Joel’s seen fewer sights that have struck him at his core. 

It takes every ounce of decency and strength within him to override the recklessness of pleasure, and pull out of you in a swift drag. Away from your swollen, pulsing warmth. Away from one of the few places he could confidently say he belonged in this fallen world.  

Through dazed eyes, you watch as Joel wraps a hand around himself and begins stroking. He’s slick with you, and the veins in his forearms pop. 

He spills onto your stomach in seconds with an earnest, shuddered groan. Each pulse of his release grows duller, resulting in shorter spurts until there’s nothing more than a pearly dribble running down the sides of him. 

You reach out with a weak hand to take over and coax him through the last few waves. Joel twitches in your grasp but lets you continue. Another shudder courses through him as he grows sensitive and begins to soften. 

“That’s all of me, baby,” he says, voice low and soft just for you.

You hum in a daze as you withdraw your touch. The last thing you remember is the kiss Joel presses to your forehead, the dip of the mattress as he gets out of bed, the gentleness of his hands, and the warm towel as he cleanses you.

There’s something special about the following morning. Something soft, aglow, and singular as pale sun rays slip into Joel’s room. They coat the cozy space like a seal. It’s as if the events of last night had carried over and been made manifest into something warm, and lovely, and beautiful. 

-

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all!

JOEL MASTERLIST 

ALL MASTERLISTS

[comatosebunny09]

— cw: fluff, silliness, highly suggestive, reader implied to be femme, overuse of terms of endearment (sweetie, sweetheart), mdni to be safe — notes: @leighsartworks216 this is your doing. *affectionately shakes fist*

“Sylus,” you begin one day on a whim, mindlessly scrolling through your socials.

“Yes, sweetie?” he purrs, enthralled by the deckled pages of a book, languidly massaging your foot in his lap.

“Are you ticklish?”

He chuckles something murky behind you. “Not that I am aware of.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

You don’t have to look back to sense the deadpanned look on his face. “I’ve lived in this skin for a long time, sweetheart. I think I would know if I were ticklish.”

You briskly sit up, maneuvering until you’re facing him. You lean closer with curious eyes, perched on the couch of his study like a feline.

“I don’t believe you.”

Sylus scoffs. Quietly sets his book down on the coffee table, a challenge tugging one corner of his mouth upwards. He holds his hands up, uncrossing his legs, something of mischief shining in his eyes as he sits back in an easy slouch.

“You’re welcome to see for yourself, sweetie.”

You don’t like how that sounds. How he drawled out the term of endearment. Still, you’re incredibly persistent. You’ve been exclusive for some months now, yet he’s still an enigma.

Your lips twisting with determination, you begin your examination. First, you start with the obvious places that would typically make people squeal—near his collarbones, in his armpits, down his sides, drag your nails inwards across his stomach. You peer up at his face. If he feels anything, he doesn’t reveal it, still wearing that insufferably smug look as he observes you.

You don’t find any sensitive zones on his torso. Just defined planes of muscle that make your pulse quicken and cause you to swallow past the dry film of your throat.

You proceed with your impromptu frisking, raking your nails down the sides of his devastating quads. Glance up. Nothing. Hmm.

You swivel your hands inwards, tracing over the inward trajectory of his thighs. He parts them for you, and it becomes evident he’s enjoying this. Enjoying tormenting you with the catastrophic shape of his body. Like he knows you know he feels good.

You cast him a pensive look. He feigns innocence with a shrug, signaling you to continue your investigation with the flit of his eyes.

So you do, creeping your fingers down the inner parts of his knees. Outwards. Pluck yourself from the sticky leather of the settee and sit between his legs on the floor, tracing over his calves and ankle bones.

You glance up. He still radiates complacency, yet his eyes hold something heavier than their usual, teasing weight. It’s something unmistakable, but you ignore it, instead testing the socked soles of his feet for any signs of vulnerability. Any minute twitches, any jolts or hitched breaths. No dice.

You relent with a sigh, crawling onto his lap. His heavy hands clasp around where thigh meets hip, keeping you steady, your thighs framing his.

“Guess you’re not ticklish,” you say with a solemn smile, twining your arms about his neck.

Why you thought the big, bad wolf of Onychinus would have any sensitive zones in the first place is beyond you. Maybe it was just an excuse to feel him up.

“I told you,” he husks affectionately. Voice crackles in that way that makes your belly swoop, and he closes a tender hand around your nape to draw you in for a kiss.

Your mouths part with a sticky click. And you’re dizzy and laughing something light as your foreheads press together, pheromones and fondness filling what little space lies between your bodies.

“Kudos for trying, sweetheart.”

You don’t enjoy being proven wrong, but you suppose it’s fine if you lose to him. Leaning back, you study his pretty features, the delicate sweep of his lashes as his eyes slip shut.

You thread your fingers through his hair, grazing one particularly vulnerable spot at the top of his cranium, and you don’t miss how he tenses beneath you. How he winces, releasing a sound so far-off and delicate, you’re not sure if you heard it in the first place.

Curious, you try for the spot again, evoking the same reaction, and Sylus’ hold around your waist tightens the slightest bit.

With a troublesome smile, you test the opposite side, garnering a similar response and—

Oh.

Oh, this.

Like the devilish little fiend you are, you scratch these newly revealed spots simultaneously, reveling in his response. How his carefully constructed composure begins to crumble beneath you.

He twitches and fidgets under your care, lips parting, a low, guttural sound dredged from his throat. He unconsciously bunts his head against your hands, leaning into your touch. You watch as a pretty, peachy flush creeps into his cheeks, staining the tips of his ears, and his brows scrunch in something of anguish.

Had you not known any better, you’d think you were scratching behind the ears of a feline. Had Sylus been a cat in a past life? You giggle mischievously at the notion before something very hot and prominent prods at the inner cut of your thigh.

Before you can investigate, Sylus ensnares your wrists in his hand, and he’s panting, glaring at you with those pretty, scarlet eyes to match the beautiful flush taking possession of his face.

His voice is hoarse. Smoky. Dangerous. You feel the buzz of it pooling warm in the lower reaches of your belly, leaking down between your thighs.

“You keep doing that, and I might have to retaliate, sweetheart.”

You swallow, your throat thickening, your mouth slightly open. Your pulse thrums a war cadence in your ears, and your breaths are short as desire spumes through you.

“You won’t do it,” you challenge, your tone husky. Shaky.

“Is that a challenge?” Sylus returns, his grip on your wrists slackening until he releases them.

He tugs you impossibly closer on his lap via the globes of your ass, and his weighted girth slides deliciously over the center of your thighs, eliciting a bitten-off sound from your mouth. You rest your hands on the defined planes of his chest to maintain a modicum of space, though it’s fruitless.

He draws your head down until your breaths intermingle, long, spindly fingers sneaking beneath your chin to moor you to the spot. He grazes your mouth with his, and a pleasant thrill ripples through you, your fingers pulling at the collar of his shirt.

“Why don’t I show you what happens to naughty girls who test my patience?”

[girlsworldillusion]

Scream for me little lamb (FINAL PART)

PART ONE HERE

Ghostface!Aemond x Fem!Reader

Summary: You don't know him, you haven't even seen him before. Yet this cruel killer is in your mind, entangled like a parasite. For just one night you want to get rid of this feeling - to get rid of him. What could possibly go wrong after all?

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Word count: 15k (fuck, that's it, I'm physically incapable of writing something succinct)

Author's Note: This story contains themes that may be disturbing or triggering for some, such as: DETAILED DESCRIPTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS, BLOOD, MURDER, OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, THREATS, AND ROUGH SEX. Your health (mental and physical) should always be your priority, if any of these themes are too heavy for you to handle I beg that you ignore this post.

Please do not mistake this for a love story. The reader clearly suffers from a serious level of emotional instability and the abuser takes advantage of this fragility to threaten and use her. This is NOT healthy and NOT romantic in any way and I obviously do NOT agree with this attitude in real life. This is just a FICTIONAL HISTORY and it is only in this context that something like this can be tolerated. The tags are all there however and if you do not feel comfortable reading something like this, there is no need to leave any derogatory comments. JUST DON'T READ IT.

To those who stay, enjoy reading!

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

In the previous chapter:

And then the masked figure takes a casual step into the bathroom, the easy confidence in this simple act foreshadowing his ease in overpowering his victims. You swallow hard, backing away slowly as you lock eyes with the killer’s empty holes. The knowledge that there is no way out of the room is painfully obvious to you. The man takes up the entire space of the exit; the width of his shoulders stretching almost from one side of the doorframe to the other, his long legs slightly apart to fill any gaps.

The only way out of here was if you stepped over him; and that wasn’t going to happen.

----

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as your head tilts down discreetly. Submission. It’s instinctive, really. Your body knows what this man is capable of, remembers the brutal, bloody state his victims were found in. You don’t want that fate for yourself.

He hums at that, pleased with your pliant reaction - and you blush at the raw humiliation of feeling so inferior to someone else.

“So good, sweetie.”

He sighs ecstatically, pushing the two of you deep into the bathroom just enough to close the door, the click of the key locking it sounding purposefully loud. You feel the shape of an invisible hand holding your beating heart between its fingers, your breath coming in shallow huffs through your lips. He’s locked you in here, with him.

How did this happen? How did you, probably the only person who was actually taking this whole police alert about a serial killer on the loose seriously, end up here? How the hell is this possible, God?

Your phone vibrates from where it's on the floor and you jump in fright, the screen facing down doesn't allow you to see who's calling when you look at it. But it doesn't matter. You immediately look up at the man, see how he understands what you're going to do before it even happens; his ghostly face tilts toward the ceiling, an almost disappointed sigh sounding from beneath the mask.

"I praised you too soon, right?"

It turns out that if showing their fragile parts to a predator seeking mercy and lowering the head in submission is a natural primal instinct when there's seemingly no escape, then it's also a natural instinct to act immediately when a glimmer of hope and survival appears.

And your phone ringing is a glimmer of hope.

You dive to where it lies with your heart racing, desperate for the opportunity to warn someone of your situation and get help. But your fingers barely graze the object before a large hand grabs a fistful of hair at the back of your head, holding you in place before you can reach it.

On your knees on the bathroom tile, you’re thrashing hysterically in his iron grip, ugly sobs of pain escaping your lips with each rough tug at the roots of your hair.

“No! Let me go, please! HELP!” You scream as loud as you can, hoping it’s enough to alert someone outside, even though the obnoxiously loud music downstairs limits your chances to almost zero. You barely register the heavy thud of the knife hitting the floor as you open your mouth to scream louder, your voice muffled by another heavy hand slamming into your mouth, the leather of his glove squeezing your lips and cheeks until they hurt.

He lifts you to your feet with just his grip on your hair, your scream of agony once again muffled by his gloved fingers. The man doesn't let you go even when he reaches the bathroom sink, where he practically throws you against the counter, your hip bones jarring sharply with the impact. You slip a little in pain, shaking hands gripping his wrist as you claw desperately to make him release your mouth, staring in horror at the shadowy figure behind your body.

Your heartbeat is roaring loudly in your ears as you cease the attack and stare at the dark, empty eyes of the mask in the mirror, his body against yours.

The indigo lighting makes his presence even more sinister, shadowing a tall, frightening silhouette looming over you like a mythological god of death, dressed all in black. Except, of course, for his bizarre mask with sunken, innocuous eyes, like black holes etched in an agonized expression, the mouth dark and open in an eternal silent scream. The material of the mask is so white that it contrasts exaggeratedly against the black background covering his body, even in the violet light of the bathroom. Over his head he wears a wide hood that frames his mask and gathers around the long line of his strong shoulders like an ominous shawl, followed below by a kind of ragged-looking tunic, long sleeves on each arm, a subtle tightening around his waist, deliberately highlighting the defined plane of his abdomen. Below his waist, the tunic continues flowing to his ankles, with an opening running the length of each leg clad in trousers - to allow ease of movement, you presume. He needs agility to stalk students and kill them mercilessly, after all. To finish off the somber look, he wears military boots on his feet, intricate lines of laces running the length of them.

"How about you and I play a little game?" He asks close to your ear, white mask poking the side of your face, empty eyes staring at your reflection in the mirror. You struggle to breathe between the gaps of his fingers on your face, your eyes growing moist as the desperate situation truly sinks in.

"A really fun little game called 'don't scream when I let go of your mouth and in return I won't decorate the floor with your entrails'. How does that sound?" The way he says it, casual and easy, rivals the cruel grip on your hair, or the way his fingers press into the flesh of your cheeks until you squeal in pain.

The smell of blood surrounds you again, the same metallic, damp smell you felt when you were near the dripping knife he had between his fingers, and your senses seem to be heightened by the adrenaline flooding your veins. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that the smell is coming from him this time. From his clothes, you notice, as if the slimy stuff had been splattered across much of the shadowy fabric covering his body. And it was. You know it was.

Who was the victim tonight? Who was stabbed so brutally that their blood splattered like ketchup all over this monster’s clothes?

Would you suffer the same fate?

“I asked you a question, princess. Do you want to play with me or not?” He presses, a hint of impatience in his voice, the already crushing grip on your scalp tightening even more.

You nod as best you can at the restraint of his fingers in your hair and mouth, pretending you actually have some say in this, salty tears sliding down your waterline with the shaky movement.

“Good girl.”

He laughs close to your ear, a low, dark — but happy — tremor. He’s enjoying himself, basking in the satisfaction of your scared, teary expression. He’s insane.

“That’s it, love, isn’t it so much easier this way?” He purrs as he loosens his grip on your mouth, the back of his index finger massaging your cheek as you practically choke on the breath that vibrates too raggedly through your newly freed lips. He towers over you, watches you in the mirror with predatory focus - sees you struggle to keep yourself together, fresh tears dripping from your lower lashes, wetting the leather of the glove on his finger. “Mmm, you look so good like this, it makes me so fucking hard to see your tears fall for me.”

“Oh my God…” you choke, absolutely terrified at the man’s sickening sincerity, your eyes wide and wet, face to face with the singular reason for your nightmares. 

“Shh,” he takes a step closer to you, pinning you even tighter against the sink counter and his body, letting you feel the undeniable truth in his earlier statement — the thick tent in his pants digging into your lower back until you whimper out a sharp sound, “calm down, baby. Don’t do anything stupid now.”

You find yourself subtly wilting at the dangerous warning, though more out of sheer horror than subservience.

“A-are you going to kill me?” Your voice cracks at the end, scared and shrill; the sound of someone truly cornered — a little mouse caught in a cruel glue trap, just awaiting its inevitable end.

“Now, that wouldn't be fun, would it?” he pretends to ponder, his gloved fingertip drumming over your jaw now, down to your cheek, and you’re shaking so hard you think you might be shaking his body along with yours. “Oh no, I could never kill you. Hurt you? Yeah, maybe. But killing my little girl? That's a big nope to me.”

If he thought that would bring you any comfort, then he was sorely mistaken.

He grabs your face before you can properly react to his frightening words, his large, strong hand barely needing to exert much effort to do so, eclipsing your delicate features with his long fingers, the endless darkness of the glove contrasting with your skin. He squeezes your cheeks together until your lips purse into a fishy pout, forces your jaw up so you meet the blank stare of his mask in the mirror - and all you can do is cringe under his dangerous aura.

“Look at that, aren’t you the cutest little thing?”

You definitely don’t like the tone he uses, the easygoing, smug way he holds himself above you; as if he knows there’s absolutely nothing you can do to free yourself from his grasp, completely at his mercy. Chest thrusting into you, muscular thighs encasing your hips, hips pressed against your ass; keeping you in place. You try to claw at his wrist again, just to confirm the horrifying fact that no, he’s not going anywhere.

The grip on your cheeks loosens as he slides his hand to your throat, gloved fingers curling to rest over the hysterically pulsing vessels on either side, completely encircling the slender column of your neck with elongated digits like spider legs. He doesn’t apply any real pressure, but he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t need to. As he holds your gaze in the reflection with those cold, dark circles of his ghostly mask, the threat of his vast capacity for violence hangs as heavily as he does over your body.

He could rip you apart, right here and now. He could sink his sharp teeth into your neck like a dog would a chew toy, shaking your stuffed body between his jaws until only foam and patches remain.

The paralyzing fear is an increasingly real sensation in your chest, the cold curtain of numbness lifting on your skin and you swallow hard, your throat working under his fingers. Your heart pounds violently, so hard you can feel it in your ears, in your skull. Your eyes flutter in the mirror and your breath is just a broken whistle between your lips. He's pushing you straight into what will be a second episode in the same night, an unprecedented feat in your life - as fucked up as it has been so far.

"W-wait, please I-" You gasp, pulling at his grip messily, already feeling the spiral of panic wrapping around your thoughts like a vise, the claustrophobic noose that is the feeling of total inability to control yourself tightening around your throat.

"Cut that shit, little girl." Your tormentor breathes close to your ear, firm and authoritative, almost sullen as he stares into your terrified eyes in the mirror, his fingers on your throat squeezing slightly - just enough to make you feel it. "You're staying here with me, understand? It was cute the first time, but I don't want to hear about that shit now. I have much more interesting things to do with you than watch that pretty little head go somewhere I can't reach it. Yeah, I'm a selfish guy like that."

He finishes with a dry laugh and you don't know what's worse; his complete disrespect in describing your very real and very traumatic panic attack as something 'cute' or his incorrect assumption that you had a choice in this - that you could simply stop it from happening.

The grip on your throat is tighter now, your breathing becoming severely labored. His hand wraps around your throat and presses hard enough to make you struggle to breathe. You buck and push, running on pure instinct even though your efforts are restrained by his strength, the blood on his black robes spreading across your body like an artist’s brushstrokes in movement.

The notion that this man killed someone before coming to you is there once more, even more prominent now, pounding in your head like blows from a hammer.

“Relax, damn it, or I’ll make you.” He continues his unreasonable demand, squeezing his grip to press you against his chest until you feel every heated inch of him against your body, especially the disturbing way the thick line of his cock inevitably pushes and presses into your lower back with each sharp breath.

You want to scream at him and tell him that what he’s doing is the complete opposite of encouraging you to relax. But anxiety courses through your veins and your eyes close, spilling salty tears. You see grotesque shadows and demons you never thought you would see behind the darkness of your eyelids. It suffocates you, terrifies you, makes you tremble. You can’t move, you can’t escape, you can’t even open your eyes; you can only feel. Your heart is about to explode. You can’t hear anything. Your head hurts and your mind starts to shut down. That’s it, you’re falling again.

And then you feel your body shaking uncontrollably, something crawling under your skin like a lazy parasite. It’s not bad and that’s the first warning sign. Your temporarily inert mind, shut down for God knows how long, restarts with a slow trickle, your breathing becoming a little less hyperventilating and more...warm? However, you can’t force yourself to open your eyes yet, you can’t hear anything around you, you can’t even deduce what’s happening beyond the dark barrier of your closed eyelids. You feel strangely calmer, but filled to the brim with confused apprehension.

You shiver as the strange sensation comes on stronger, sticky molasses coursing through your veins, warming your belly to bring your mind back to reality.

Brought back....

When your eyes open, lethargic and sleepy, tears still blur your hazy vision until you can stare once more at the killer's ghostly mask.

“Welcome back, princess…” The tall man speaks and even hidden under the mask you know he’s smiling. His upper body is hunched over, wrapping your body in a sort of unwanted intimate cocoon. One of his arms is around your torso, keeping both of your arms firmly attached to your sides as if you were a Barbie doll, his other arm stretched down, beyond the visible limits of the mirror. You try to cast your eyes down to see where his hand is, a bad feeling in your chest, but your vision is fuzzy, swimming in dizziness and inconstancy. The threat of a second episode has drained the little strength that was left in your body.

You might even feel compelled to show gratitude for having escaped the oppressive spiral of a new crisis before it reached critical levels. Except something doesn’t feel right.

“W-what?” You ask in a thin voice, your head spinning with tiredness, your body kept upright only by the sink counter and the pressure the man exerts on your back. Feels wrong. You feel like you’re going to throw up at any moment. Your body is begging you to lie down and take a nap for an entire year. It’s a different kind of hysteria, you realize, like you’ve escaped one panic attack only to fall into another completely different one.

Heavy breaths rush from your mouth and your tongue feels sticky and dry as you try to swallow, squinting back into the mirror, trying to piece together the fragmented pieces of information in front of you to make sense of what’s happening.

He’s looking at you too. Even hidden beneath that mask, you feel his gaze burning into your reflection, drinking in the drunken confusion etched on your face, the fear — the shiver of unwanted pleasure that rips through your body like an invisible knife.

What’s happening?

You want to scream.

As you gaze up at him from beneath damp lashes, the burning sensation in your body seems to creep upon itself, gradually merging with the nerves in your belly as something warm and syrupy — needy — pulses deep in your core.

“That’s it, baby. See how much relaxed you are now?” He purrs with lazy irony, savoring each syllable on his tongue like an addictive candy. “Of course you did, the baby just needed something different to focus that little head of her on.”

There’s a gentle but rhythmic swaying of the muscles along his arm, you notice with your eyes locked on the mirror, a disturbingly familiar movement — and a shiver of wet pleasure licks up your spine as you squint, a very instinctive, primal part of your brain finally breaking through the hazy fog to scream that it knows exactly where his hand is.

Your awareness of the world around you returns like a punch to the gut, painful and suffocating, as you feel the leather of his glove between your legs.

"N-no! No, please, I don't want to-" You stammer, tired and scared beyond belief, struggling to escape the man, but his grip around you is like a heavy chain, his arm still keeping yours locked tightly at your sides.

This man has somehow managed to rescue you from a traumatic encounter with your own demons, only to plunge you into a different kind of terror - one even more agonizing.

Your sobbed protests mean nothing in the face of the killer's sick desires, as he languidly slides two of his fingers in a V around your clit, up and down. A shiver runs through you, your thighs instinctively clenching around his hand, a reaction that in turn elicits an amused chuckle from the man.

You shake and beg louder as he continues to rub your pussy, his hand writhing inside the tiny shorts you wear under your costume skirt, ignoring your breathy sobs and whimpers as if you were just a cute, whiny puppy. You shiver, your inner walls clenching around nothing with each lick of his fingers around your clit, reacting against your will to his teasing touches.

A haze of fear and pleasure takes over your mind as you shake your head, struggling to breathe through your nose to keep from passing out. It all feels too much and yet not enough, your hands twitching nonstop where they’re held, your body shaking from head to toe. Your blood runs thick as you stare at him in the mirror, begging in a way. Trying to say anything, since your voice doesn’t even seem to work with the overwhelming wave of feelings coursing through you. Your lips just part, nothing but a wordless plea.

“Oh, poor girl, don’t struggle so much…just relax, I’ll take such good care of you. Don’t worry your pretty little head about anything but staying there and being soft and pretty for me. Let me think of everything else.” He sings condescendingly, the elongated tip of the ghostly mask’s chin appearing in your line of vision as he rests his jaw on your shoulder, the material of the hood brushing against the side of your flushed face.

His scent is enveloping you like a chokehold now; rich, clotted blood, running red and still warm on his clothing — which is now permanently stained on your costume as well, to your horror. But beneath all that disturbing scent of wet iron, there are also notes of crackling, mossy sandalwood and something fresh, citrusy like lemons or bergamots.

If it weren’t for the blood trying so hard to overwhelm everything else, his scent would be pleasant, your clouded mind realizes, seductive even.

The sight before you is breathtaking, to say the least - and not in a pleasant way.

A pathetic, broken little girl is crying, her cheeks red and streaked with tears, her eyes drunk and her brows furrowed in anguish. On her body she wears a foolish Sailor Mars costume that barely covers her body, a stupid thing she didn't even want to wear in the first place, the fabric of the red skirt draped in front of her thighs swaying suggestively, right where the hand of the man behind her remains hidden. The man in question, a vicious killer highly wanted by the police, covers her almost completely with his tall frame and black robes - a stark contrast to the girl's almost childish outfit. The white mask on his face rests on her shoulder, his long arm caging her small body close to his, touching every part he can reach as he squeezes and caresses her as if he would die without it. It's almost romantic, in theory, but horrifying and frightening when you know what's really happening.

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut, refusing to look down and confirm what your nerves and body already know all too well is happening. Fear grips your throat so tightly that you shake like a leaf, tears streaming from your eyes as you feel his first finger delve inside you.

It should hurt. The rough material of the glove in direct contact with such an entirely sensitive part of your body should be uncomfortable, at the very least. But it isn’t. There’s something aiding your endeavor, your hindbrain adds as his finger sinks in all the way to the first knuckle with just a little pressure from his wrist. There’s something sticky and thick there along with his finger, messing with your folds with humiliating sounds — spit, probably.

“Please…stop—” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly you swear constellations explode in the darkness of your eyelids.

“You know,” he begins, ignoring your foolish plea, impatient as he pushes his finger the rest of the way into your trembling, clenching walls until you squeak out a sob, body tensing like a bow beneath his. “There’s a look on people’s faces that I meet. A hysterical, helpless look when they realize that this is the end for them. No matter how much they’ve resisted and fought, they all get that look when the time comes. It’s not exactly a look of begging for mercy. No, they’re usually past that point at this moment.” His chuckle is nothing short of disturbing near your ear, the arm around your waist rising so that he can grab a thick fistful of your hair between his fingers and squeeze until you cry out loudly at the sharp pain and open your eyes, obeying his silent demand to face him once more through the mirror.

“No, it’s not a plea for mercy, sweetie. It’s just a anguished conformity, you know? A part of them even wants to hold out longer, out of instinct I guess, but deep down they know it’s useless. They just know it’s over for them. And that’s when that look appears.”

Your breath hitches visibly as he slides a second finger alongside the first.

“It’s the same look you have now. That look of pure agony and submission on your face, all because you just know you can’t escape me...mmm,” He’s closer than ever, rubbing the mask on the side of your face, and all you can think is that he’s right. As much as your body tells you to run, you know there’s no way you can outrun him, he’s unfortunately more capable than you in every way that matters right now.

He presses himself even closer to your body, his voice slurred in your ear.

“You make me so fucking horny, baby.”

He’s not slow, much less gentle when he moves his fingers inside you. He fucks you with them seriously from the first few seconds, curling them each time he sinks back into your heat, your walls clenching around him, warring to adjust to the unexpected assault. Your cries of pain are interrupted by small involuntary moans and gasps every time he presses too deep inside you, finding a spot that makes you dizzy, held only by his painful grip on your hair. You bite your lip, struggling to keep the noises inside.

He makes a grunting sound, tongue clicking disapprovingly beneath his mask.

“None of that, princess. Let me hear those beautiful sounds. They’re there because of me, I cultivated them...they’re all mine.” Your head falls back on his shoulder as he suddenly moves his hand down your clavicle, long fingers pushing aside the fluffy purple lace of your costume to grip one of your breasts tightly. “You’re all mine.” Even over the fabric of your clothes, his grip on your breast is possessive, and you wish your arms would fight back when he starts dragging his palm across your nipple, prickling it until it becomes a sensitive little peak. But all you can do is lift your hands to rest them on the counter, your head still thrown back against his chest.

“Fuck,” he groans, his thumb now rubbing against the nub of your nipple with small flicks that send a jolt of pleasure straight between your legs. “I knew you’d be perfect. So pathetic to me, baby. You feel so good…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, a muffled sob escaping your lips as he pushes your body forward, making you arch into the counter, his larger body pressed against your back, his hands still glued to their respective places. He curls his fingers into your pussy, a small moan leaving you, and begins to pound against your back. He keeps you bent over as he thrusts his clothed cock between your ass cheeks, each rough thrust pushing another inch of your skirt up your hips.

“Spread your legs for me,” he pants next to your ear. When you tense and don’t comply immediately, the hand on your breast squeezes so hard it actually hurts. “Are you going to make me repeat myself, princess? Every second you make me wait, I get more impatient. Are you sure you want to see me impatient?”

You quickly part your legs, the action causing his fingers to dig deeper between your swollen walls with each hard thrust, wet sounds sounding too loud in the cramped bathroom. His hips move against your back in rough motions, grinding up and down, causing heat to spread throughout your body until your head is spinning, broken sounds leaving your lips. The gummy walls of your pussy contract around his fingers and he growls as he ravages your body like it belongs to him.

You feel good and horrible.

Blood on fire, nerves on fire, you breathe as a way to steady yourself in this moment of maddening agony. You are uncomfortable in every way possible in the given situation, and oh how it fills the void in your soul with something...alive.

Here, at the mercy of this killer's cruel hands, you feel alive for the first time in what feels like forever. It's horrible and unwelcome and scary as hell, but it's also absolutely electrifying.

How fucked up is your mind anyway?

The man continues to grind into your ass with every heated inch of his cock, the movement of his fingers in your pussy quickening, the heel of his gloved hand rubbing relentlessly against your clit in this position. The hand on your breast doesn't stop teasing your nipple, poking and pinching. With every noise he pulls from you, his movement becomes faster, hips matching the rhythm of his fingers in your intimacy. As if you were egging him on. You whimper, squeezing him so hard you could tell you were trying to keep him out, but the action only serves to heighten the sickening pleasure coiling in your stomach.

“Shit,” he hisses, thrusting his fingers in and out, in and out, watching in the mirror as your face contorts with pleasure. “So good. Feeling so good to me. You squeeze my fingers so hard, princess. Fuck. That’s my good fucking girl, yeah?”

Admittedly someone with a blatant emotional inability to accept any kind of compliment — especially one from a fucking serial killer who’s currently keeping you impaled on his fingers while grinding his cock into your ass and making you cry like he’s getting paid to — you slump your shoulders and pant, staring wide-eyed at the man, your rapid breathing fogging the glass of the mirror. His words sink into your bones, stoking the rising heat in your abdomen, and your pussy clenches around his fingers again. He lets out a short laugh, rubbing his masked face against your burning cheek.

“Do you like that, you filthy slut? Do you like when I tell you how good you feel? Hell, you’re fucking squeezing me. Your pretty little pussy wants me so bad.”

Your eyelashes flutter and your breathing becomes more ragged; fear, pleasure, and pain combine into one intense experience, and you realize with horror that you’re approaching orgasm. It’s humiliating, but it doesn’t stop you from tentatively moving your own hips against his palm, seeking more friction on your little clit as heated tears roll down your cheeks.

‘No, no, no, please.’ You whimper to yourself, eyes nearly rolling into the back of the head as you arch your ass into his hips in involuntary response to the inescapable, frenzied sensation coursing through your body.

“The poor baby’s gonna cum.” He chuckles, though his own voice is breathy, wild. “Yeah, gonna make a fucking mess of that pussy and get it all nice and wet for my cock, right?” He growls wickedly between his chuckles, pushing your body forward with each hard drag of his cock into your ass, grinding the leather of his glove into your clit as he repeatedly hits the same sensitive spot in your cunt.

You can’t take it anymore, your clenched jaw slackening as you begin to give in to the pleasure. The overwhelming wave of your coming orgasm is visible on the horizon and you can’t do anything but stare at it head on, waiting helplessly to be absolutely swept away by it.

"Ah ah, fuck!" You cry out between parted lips, viciously squeezing the edge of the counter between your fingers, losing control over your body, unable to stop yourself from moaning lewdly in time with the forced climax.

With one last flick of his fingers and a pinch to your nipple, you have no choice but to stare blankly into the mirror as you shatter into a thousand pathetic pieces with a strangled scream. The trembling of your inner thighs is quickly followed by your toes curling inside the red boots of the costume as you cum hard around the masked killer's fingers.

Your pussy quivers violently as he shakes with laughter against your body, with a dose of sincere joy that you would find almost childish if it weren't for the obscene way he is still thrusting his cock into your back. He continues to finger fuck you throughout your orgasm, leaving you gasping and writhing in shocks of pleasure, your eyes wide and wet in the mirror.

“Please stop, that’s enough-” You gasp, your legs locking from the overstimulation as he continues to work your clit mercilessly. “P-please, I’ll do anything, please just stop! Stop now -"

You're interrupted as a whirlwind of dizzying events ensues; one moment he's fingering your pussy to overstimulation with no intention of stopping - the next he's pulling his fingers from your quivering walls with such force that it elicits a shocked gasp from you. Your body is suddenly spun around and your back slams painfully into the mirror with an impact strong enough to crack the glass into several sharp ridges on your back, small shards getting stuck in the back of your costume. You have half a second to scream at the dangerous sensation before he's straightening you up on the counter, his body wedging between your parted legs before you can even react and close them.

You're still trying to figure out what happened; how he managed to just lift you into the air and slam you into the counter like you weighed nothing. How he was so quick to do it and, most importantly, what motivated him to do it. But all is forgotten when he grabs your neck between his fingers, roughly pulling your face closer to his until you're face to face with that ghostly mask.

But there's no fake face in the world that can hide the anger bubbling through the man's pores. A feeling so obvious, intense and abrupt that it makes you shiver and try to pull away reflexively, but his grip won't let you go anywhere. His already undeniably imposing figure straightens to its full height, intimidating and dangerous, a ominous and dark aura that encircles your body like a spool of doom.

"Stop? Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me when to stop? Do you know who decides when we stop, you bitch? Me! That fucking cunt belongs to me. It's mine as fuck and you're not going to tell me when I should or shouldn't touch it. Because your whole body, your mind, your fucking soul, is mine. Mine."

He curses and bites acidly right in front of your face and fear hits you all at once, absolutely terrifying: the way he’s panting under his mask and hissing with barely contained rage, the way your name leaves his lips in a heated growl. A direct threat from a mindless animal. It’s all clear — so, so clear.

He’s dangerous and unstable and horrible and you can’t escape him.

Your hands start to tug at his wrist, pushing him away, already sensing what’s coming - and it really comes. Ignoring your futile attempt to push him away, the hand on your throat tightens. His fingers press, cutting off the air, squeezing and hurting your flesh. Your windpipe is tightly caged between his palm and thumb and he shows no hesitation as he presses hard, suffocating you with a cruel grip.

Now, unlike his outburst of anger a few seconds ago, with your life literally being measured in his hands, he becomes the cold and indifferent embodiment of his alias, watching your fight as if it were nothing new.

It isn't.

The world around you begins to spin as you feel dizzy, your head swimming and spinning as your heart beats uselessly against the finger over your carotid artery, numb lips and throat working ever more slowly beneath his hand. Your struggle is over, as meaningless as it was to begin with.

You surrender to this ghost, dropping his hands from his wrist and letting your body go limp beneath him.

The monster senses your surrender, humming contently at your soft submission, even though you are barely conscious enough to notice. The grip on your throat loosens and you instinctively tilt your head away from his grasp, gasping for breath in desperate noises, coughing and spitting as tears spill over in response to the throbbing sting in the circumference of your throat. You feel a large hand stroke your hair as you struggle to catch your breath; and the almost patronizing touch, as horrible and unwelcome as it is, grounds you for a moment, helping you gradually transform your rapid, labored breathing into deep sighs.

"Don't forget what I'm going to say now and maybe we won't have to go through this again, princess:" He whisper at you with serious voice. "You're mine. For better or worse. You're mine."

The hand in your hair moves forward, tangling in the strands, massaging your skull, and it's probably just the hazy haze of suffocation that keeps you from noticing his next move, but it's the feel of a gentle, wet kiss on the bruised line his fingers have left on your skin that makes you conscious once more. He holds your head firmly by the hair, preventing you from moving to get a better look, but it's immediately clear that he's pushed the mask up enough to expose his lips, which continue to slide along the curve of your neck and jaw.

Your ears are throbbing with the pounding of your heart as you stare over the killer’s shoulder at the wall across the bathroom with wide eyes – the man blowing puffs of pure wet heat across your skin to leave goosebumps in his wake. His mouth is undesirably soft and delicate on your bruised skin (pleasant really, you’d say, if you weren’t, well…in the situation you’re in), his other hand coming up so he can rub his thumb across your lips, slowly parting them until he pokes your teeth with the tip of his glove.

“Open that pretty mouth and show me you know it, sweet little slut.” He whispers the degradation with a noticeably lessened dose of hatred than before – low and breathy, his mouth on your cheek, his thumb pulling away to run his index and middle fingers across your parted lips.

His breath bathes your skin in wet heat, the refreshing scent of some mint gum he chewed recently still there. (He was chewing a damn piece of gum while he murdered someone, your mind completes in full hysterics. Brutally piercing some poor student's insides with the sharp blade of that knife while he carelessly rolls the soft gum between his teeth. He's sick, sick, sick.)

"Suck them clean." He orders, cutting through the murky waters of your wandering mind as pushes two fingers onto the flat of your tongue, forcing you to accept the invasion.

It's on autopilot that you register the strong, smoky taste of leather mixed with the familiar taste of your arousal, which still glistens with the fresh wetness of your orgasm on the surface of his glove. You squeeze your eyes shut, gagging more at the sheer depravity of the act than the intrusion itself.

"That's it, princess. So beautiful like this, taking my fingers like a good girl..." he pulls his face away to look at yours, smiling at your fearful gaze; you close the lips around his fingers, sucking and licking slowly at the soft leather of the glove as you clean your own taste from the material as if you meant it - even as the tears keep falling. All you can see in the purple lighting of the bathroom is the lower half of his face and even that is partial, the white mask resting on his nose shadowing what little skin is visible. Despite that, it is evident how his smile stretches, wide and mischievous - pearly teeth slightly crooked at the front, canines sharp and shiny, like those of a cunning predator that has caught up with its prey.

His grip on your hair tightens to keep you still, his fingers coming to life as he thrusts slowly, out and in and out and in, into the cozy warmth of your mouth. You choke around him, saliva pooling between teeth and flesh as he pushes your tongue down, fucking your mouth like it’s a pussy — each slow stroke pushing deeper, until you feel the tips of both his fingers sliding down your throat.

“God, I want to feel so bad that pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock,” he sighs, his gaze locked on yours, fascinated by your gasps and sobs, his smile slowly dying so he can bite his lip as he hums dreamily, “you’re going to be so good to me, I just know it.”

Your wet gaze is half-lidded, mouth slack and full, only giving in to the forced intrusion when you feel him gather the strands of your hair into a messy ponytail in his other hand to pull and push your head along his now-still fingers - the explicit and purposeful parallel of the depraved act with another very unique one does not go unnoticed.

He's guiding the rhythm of your head as if he is dictating how you suck his cock.

It is humiliating; a byproduct of male dominance that is offensive and filthy in its most brutal form. You hate every damn second of this silent abuse. But your pussy seems to have a mind of its own, because with each forced thrust against the saliva-soaked leather of the glove, it clenches a little tighter around nothing, demanding attention.

You whimper at the betrayal of your own body, mouth stuffed and saliva beginning to drip down your lips and chin.

When he withdraws his fingers from between your lips, it is with calculated slowness, prolonging the elasticity of a thick thread of saliva that remains joining the digits in the glove to your loose tongue. He grunts a satisfied sound at the debauched sight, lowering his face to stretch out his own tongue and break the sticky bond after a few seconds of contemplation, licking the saliva accumulated on your chin upwards with a greedy drag of the wet and hot muscle, lighting flames of embarrassment on your cheeks.

You shudder at the grip on your hair as he pulls your head back at the same time as roughly sinks his teeth into the soft plush of your lower lip. Your little hands immediately spread themselves on his chest to try to push him away, but this and your cry of pain only serve to draw an amused laugh from him. It is obviously of his own free will that he mercifully gives in to your plea after a few seconds of torture. He sucks the sensitive flesh into his lips, licking and soothing the bite with a gentle, wet suction.

Mistakenly, your body decides to relax against his hands, welcoming the gentle but cunning care that is his tongue caressing the small, bloody cut he left on your lip. He eases your pain, even if it is because of him that you feel it in the first place.

It is natural for the contact to evolve, after all, his tongue is right there; sliding across your lower lip, his lips brushing yours provocatively. It is really predictable what would happen next, but it still pulls a dazed gasp from your throat.

His fingers hold your head firmly by the ponytail and his mouth covers yours completely, like a wet, warm cocoon that you cannot escape. The groan that sounds from his throat at the feel of your lips on his is one of deep satisfaction, a breathy appreciation that rumbled as he curls his body over yours, locks your legs around his waist, and moves his mouth over yours.

It’s nothing like any kiss you’ve ever experienced in the past. You’re not even sure if it could even be called a kiss.

There are perhaps no words for it other than hunger and need as he barely touches his mouth to yours before his lips are forcing yours apart so the wet muscle of his tongue can slide between your teeth. He’s rough and intense, kissing you like he’s kicking your soul out of your body. It’s all a clash of teeth and tongue that leaves you with your hands trembling in the collar of his robe, your eyes half-lidded and your cheeks flushed as you struggle not to choke on the wild rhythm of the pseudo-kiss. Every inch of the contact feels equally forced and premeditated, an unaltered conclusion that has you subtly pushing your hips forward against him as the sheer surprise and discomfort of the act subsides into something deeper. Darker. You can barely breathe in the tiny, moist inches that open between your lips, making small choking sounds in his mouth - stunned, outraged, humiliated, bursting into flames-

The pointed chin of the mask is digging painfully into your skin at this angle and all you can do is try to tilt your head to the side to avoid hurting yourself, since the man doesn't seem to have the slightest interest in your comfort. But not even this is enough to contain the chilling flame that grows between your legs with each hot breath that leaves the killer's nostrils on your cheek, his greedy tongue licking your teeth and his lips drinking your saliva as if it were the most delicious wine.

When he breaks the kiss it's like breathing after a long time underwater, your other senses dulled and directed only at him like a funnel.

"What in the bloody hell was that? Getting a guy all heated and bothered with a kiss," He grins between a breathy laugh, barely separating his lips from yours, rubbing the tips of your noses together in a comical imitation of affection as you both breathe heavily, "you really are something special, aren't you little girl?"

As you gasp for air, feeling your cheeks darken several shades at the unwanted compliment, the man caresses your face in a disturbingly affectionate manner, as if he's rewarding you for letting him kiss your mouth like that, even though it's clear he's not done yet. Pulling away from you just a few inches, you twitch and yelp as he roughly grabs you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the counter, making you subconsciously lean your back. A second later, he rips the tiny shorts you're wearing down, skimming over the curve of your ass and thighs, grabbing the flesh there greedily as he simply rips the thing off your body.

It takes a few seconds for the realization that there are no more barriers in place to keep the killer at bay to sink in — not that it ever did stop him before anyway. But knowing that beneath your red pleated skirt there’s no covering to offer even a modicum of safety (even if misguided) is nerve-racking in a way that makes your blood roar through your veins, and, illogically, not in a bad way.

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs, wet, breathless lips brushing the hollow of your throat as he bends down slightly to unbuckle his belt. The clink of metal is nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart and the loud music downstairs. “That’s what you do to me. Every time I see you, every time you look up with those big, shy eyes — I want you to look at me, I need that look to be mine. And you don’t understand, do you? You drive me so fucking crazy, girl.” You barely put up a fight when he takes a thigh in each hand and wraps them around his waist before taking his cock in his palm and stroking it a little. It takes everything in you not to look down, teeth sinking into the soft, swollen surface of your lower lip as you hear the wet squelch that the contact between his gloved fingers and his cock makes with each lewd tug.

There should be more resistance in you, but all that’s left at this point is exhaustion and the painful slap of reality that comes with accepting the fact that you’re not rejecting this as much as you used to. There’s a war going on between your body and your mind. Where, of course, you know how sick this man is and how dangerous it would be to give in, there’s also the certainty that he brings out something undesirable in you — that intoxicating, dark sensation of feeling good about being so violently desired by someone. It’s not something you’re proud of, of course. But there’s no denying the way your body wants to succumb to it, to give itself completely to this cruel man you don’t even know but who is obviously obsessed with you. It’s something you can’t begin to comprehend, much less accept, but it comes rushing back to you anyway.

Your poor therapist might have a thing or two to say about such urges.

He rubs the bulbous crown of his cock against your sensitive, shamefully touch-starved clit and you shiver as the heat and dew of his pre-cum spreads through you at the contact. A warm, newborn droplet trickles over your bud of nerves, bathing it in tingling as he steadily nudges the tip along your wet folds. His thumb joins in the teasing, swirling with a few hard rubs followed by a softer touch, too deliberate to be anything but expert, pushing against the hood and pulling it back, exposing your nub to him even more. From his expose lips he makes a deep sound as he feels you getting wetter, more slippery. He circles your clit relentlessly and it’s him who moans louder between the two of you, even though it’s you who’s eyes are rolling back in pleasure.

He recovers quickly, though. Hearing and seeing how loud the sounds of your wetness ring out in the small bathroom, he breathes a laugh so mocking and icy that you feel yourself immediately wither against the mirror behind you, your face burning with the blush of a new wave of humiliation. The killer ignores you, of course, using one hand to lift your thigh up and to the side, doing the same with the other, adjusting both of your legs so that your feet rest almost flat along the edge of the counter - exposing you as if your modesty and dignity mattered nothing at all.

And it doesn't. Not to him.

"So wet." He teases, annoyingly making a point of giving voice to what you've both already realized. His hand slides over the curve of your thigh possessively, pushing the draped fabric of your red skirt with it so that it bunches at your hips. He groans as watches his length freely slide through the slickness between your legs, giving a shallow pump forward. The gloved thumb presses with just the right amount of force, rubbing in a circular motion that makes your toes curl inside the boots and your throat tighten at the noise you suppress. That is, until the soft, wet tip catches against your opening and he pushes inside without further ado.

You gasp loudly at the sharp pressure, reflexively slapping the hands against his chest to push him away, but soon both his arms are around your body, preventing you from going any further, pinning you against him with his strong hands and his cock.

“Aaaah!” You cry out, and he immediately brushes his lips against your ear, leaving a sharp bite on the sensitive flesh, enjoying the struggle evident on your face. Your pussy hasn’t been used properly in a long time, and this man certainly doesn’t lack in the size department.

“Shhhh,” he hums, sounding too pleased for it to even remotely be interpreted as an attempt at comfort. “You can handle it, baby,” he whispers in your ear, one hand relaxing its iron grip on your body to cup your cheek, “I know you can.”

It’s not like he’s giving you any options other than to handle it. And yet, over the sting of the stretch and the ache of being taken without denying it, your insides burn with dark desire. It’s like being fully satisfied with something you didn’t even know you needed.

“That’s it?” he asks as you throw your head back in the mirror, eyes closed and teeth digging into your bottom lip. “Does it feel good to you like this? Baby likes a little pain, yeah?”

You blush, unable to think about it too much without feeling like you could go straight to the hospice.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press you for an answer. Instead, firmly breaching your tremble hole, he thrusts and thrusts and gasps heated and wetly into your ear, pressing deeper until he’s halfway in. And then he stops. The fingers of one hand close loosely on the bruised skin of your throat and you freeze, fearing for a moment that he’s going to choke you once more — this time while impaling you on his thick cock. But as the seconds stretch by without such a thing happening, you begin to notice something else. Those fingers; cruel, bloody fingers, responsible for the deaths of many people, are unsteady on your flesh.

He’s trembling.

The elongated digits are gripping your flesh with no real pressure, just a nice, soft collar around your throat, but the way they’re trembling is noticeable even through the barrier of the glove.

You open your eyes to a slit, knowing you can’t see him properly with the way his mouth remains pressed against your ear, breathing heavily and heatedly. And there’s no logical explanation as to why such an action catches you so off guard. But feeling this killer, this horrible, terrifying man who is obviously incapable of a basic level of respect for human life, gasp and tremble at being inside you, makes you gasp in response. Your insides clench involuntarily and more moisture coats the heavy shaft in your pussy, making it easier for him to pass through.

Then, slowly, he moves his other palm up to squeeze your breast over the fabric of your costume before he begins to pump the rest of his length inside you.

“Mmm…that’s it,” he murmurs, “f-fuck, you feel so good, so good.”

Again, you say nothing, burying your embarrassing moans and your tears as best you can — both from pleasure and humiliation. The man is so disturbingly warm curled up against you, his body broad and tall and so firm, dark clothing heavy but soft over his defined stomach that flexes against you with each thrust - the mask poking your flesh every now and then as his breath hitches in your ear. You want to cry out in fear as much as you want to scream in pleasure.

It’s a bitter kind of betrayal the way your body seems to want to decide the game for you; your quivering pussy giving in, against all logic and reason, to accept the forced intrusion, allowing the rest of his cock to pass inside your silky walls. You lose the battle almost immediately after that, gasping at the feel of every inch of his thick member firmly seated inside you, breathless at what he’s daring to do to you. Worse than if he had broken into the bathroom to murder you, you’d say. Because here, he’s not just violently attacking you and taking your right to life, without you being able to fight back. Here he’s making you submit to him; making you want to surrender to the overwhelming sensations that he brutally rips from your body - like a priest exorcising a poor possessed soul. He humiliated you in the worst possible way and he knows it.

And you find yourself less and less concerned about it.

You tilt your head to the side - and now there is no more internal restraint to prevent your moans.

“Please…aaah…”

“That’s it, princess,” he chuckles, as if he senses you’re giving in.

The time he stays still inside you doesn’t last long, just the few seconds long enough for you to feel the heat and enlargement of his cock, the thick veins pulsing as he bounces between your walls. It’s as if the pain has pierced you beyond anything else, pierced you like a sharp bolt of lightning that has fried your nerves until it’s left behind nothing but a sense of…overwhelming fullness. You’re completely boneless, trapped between his strong body and the mirror, your hands clenched loosely in the dark fabric of his robe. It’s a sensory experience that quickly becomes too much, but not enough.

When he pulls his hips back you experience a confused moment of panic, frustrated as you feel him pull away from you to leave your pussy achingly empty. There’s no time to question the insanity of your thoughts though.

His fingers are still shaking as he pulls away from you, releasing your throat to tangle them deep into the roots of your hair as a scream is forced like a punch from your lungs when, in a single strong thrust, he is fully sheathed within your quivering insides once more.

Between the iron grip on your hair and his hand gripping your breast like a vise, all you can do is grip his robe tighter as he ravages you. His teeth are where your neck meets your shoulder with a sharp bite, pulling away to thrust inside you in another violent thrust, your hole stretched and more vulnerable than ever. Your frantic brain is making you all too aware of every little sensation racking your body. The way his thick cock opens you, how each thrust makes your smaller body tremble, leaving you breathless as you dig your nails into the soft fabric of his robe to try and hold on through the punishing rhythm of his hips. When this night is over, and assuming you’re still alive, you know you’ll be bruised and sore everywhere, from your hips and ass to your breasts and throat. In your mind and in your soul. Right now, you don’t know if you’ll ever recover from this. If you’d ever want to.

"S-stop..." You don't know why the words are coming out of your mouth; not only would they be useless to the man, but they also carry no real force behind them. You don't even know if you really want him to stop. It feels more like an instinctive reaction than what your brain deems to be the right thing to do. "I - I'm going to scream."

He laughs, recognizing your empty threat for what it is, but your stomach still twists when he grips your hair to pull your face towards his.

"Oh, you promise? Please do it, little girl."

Out of spite, you close your mouth, but that only seems to incite him. With an amused chuckle and one last pinch to your nipple, he releases your breast to grab both of your thighs. His hands are large on your flesh while his fingers bruise the soft skin even more.

"Such a stubborn little thing. We can't have any of that, can we, sweetie?"

His hands curl under your ass and, after a greedy squeeze, he’s lifting you up, not letting his cock slip out of your pussy for even half a moment before he slams you against the wall. Your spine arches and your bones rattle from the nothing short of violent impact, but he doesn’t care, writhing and pulsing inside you, undeniably stimulated by your pain - and oh god, this definitely shouldn’t feel as fucking good as it does.

It barely takes a second before he’s holding you steady and still by your thighs before he starts ramming his wet cock in and out of you again, like a machine, so hard that each thrust of his hips makes your back hit the wall.

In this position you’re forced to wrap your arms behind his neck for safety, feeling his hands close on the inner curve below your knee to spread your legs even wider, his body so intimately pressed against yours that it’s almost unsettling. Especially after so long without any human contact like this. You feel, to say the least, overwhelmed by such a sudden onslaught of intimacy.

You tense when he thrusts in a particularly dirty way, grinning like hell when you hiccup with a moan. He repeats the movement out of pure tease, his mask askew but turned toward you, the mocking line of his lips right next to yours.

“Mine,” he whispers, “My princess, my little pet, my cute little toy.”

His thrusts become not only hard but fast as well, and you can hear each time his body hits yours with a wet slap, each withdrawal slick and sticky.

“Please, w-why are you doing this? Why me?” It’s all you can manage to ask, your head growing increasingly confused, your pussy growing wetter.

He slows his movements to a blessedly slower grind, humming dramatically as he pretends to ponder your question.

“Why you?”

In an abrupt movement that you wouldn't have expected in a million years, he lets go of one of your thighs and abruptly rips the mask off his face, with such ease that you initially don't understand what it means. But then, with finality and violence, the weight of reality falls upon you.

He took off the mask.

He let you see his face.

The face of a murderer wanted by the police.

You were already dead. Yes, if such a fate was uncertain before, it certainly isn't anymore.

The shock of the revelation is so absolute that it takes a few seconds for you to actually focus on his face. But slowly, each individual feature seems to stick to your mush brain.

First you are greeted with that shock of long platinum blonde hair, tied in a loose bun, a few strands stuck to the sweaty skin of his forehead and the sides of his face.

The hair alone would be enough for you to easily recognize him.

But then your gaze falls to those eyes.

Eye, actually. A single, functional one, a stormy blue — enigmatic and dark as the turbulent waters of the farthest reaches of the ocean. The other, or where the other should be, is occupied by some kind of ocular prosthesis of a blue hue that could not be less like his good eye — a vivid, electric blue, like a rare, brilliant sapphire stone.

It is the first time you have seen him like this, so exposed. Always hidden by a pair of sunglasses or, failing that, a surgical eye patch. The pale skin of the man’s face would be flawless, were it not for the long, jagged scar that cuts across his cheekbone to above the line of his damaged eye.

The purple hues of the bathroom highlight all his sharp angles and an elegant appearance that is characteristic of the aristocratic genes of someone so well born.

Yes, you know this man.

Aemond Targaryen.

A college guy. Normal, as far as you can tell. Or as normal as someone privileged and born with a silver spoon in their mouth could be. Yes, he was introverted, arrogant even with his silent and mysterious attitude, as if everyone was beneath him. The few times he was pushed to enter a conversation or any other social interaction (most often by his own brother) his comments were imbued with a polite acidity that is totally unique to someone with class, or with discreet but effective jabs that carried a humor considered, at least, questionable.

Aemond constantly balanced on the fine line between cool elegance and petulant irreverence, which generated controversial opinions about him among the students. To you, he was intriguing. Someone you quietly admired, offering polite greetings and a sincere smile when your paths crossed.

Yes, you knew him - as did the entire student body knows him. The Targaryens were obscenely wealthy, widely recognized for carrying an exorbitant legacy not only of family polemics, but also of successful generations, all in the field of technology and communication.

And yes, Aemond Targaryen was someone seriously conflicted, with his taciturn and enigmatic aura.

But a serial killer? That would be impossible.

And yet he was here, smelling of leather and sandalwood - as well as blood and death, wet crimson stains on his dark robes, forcing you to the most terrifying and controversial act of your entire life.

The dawning horror of the notion that the killer on the loose could be someone you know, someone who was present in your daily life, who attended the same classes as you and yet, who you never even dreamed of suspecting, seems to want to suffocate you momentarily.

“I see you around campus. You know, some wise ones tend to avoid me whenever possible, and then there are those pathetic rats who try to get close out of some specific interest in what my clown family can offer. But you? You’re always kind. Even with your mysterious and solitary attitude, you’re still so stupidly kind to me. It’s ridiculous, princess, but also so cute.” He’s pleased by the utter shock on your face, grinning evilly as he shoots his hand out and wraps both forearms around the inside of your knees, his cock thrusting deeper into your pussy, leaning in menacingly until his teeth are grazing your ear.

“You’re all I can think about, baby. You’ve invaded my mind, my body, my life. You’ve fucking ruined me.” He speaks directly into your ear, a harsh whisper that makes you gasp and shiver despite the crushing weight of the discovery still fresh in your mind.

“It’s only fair that I ruin you too, right?”

You glow at the intimacy of his words, incandescent with the blush spreading across your cheeks, your throat, your collarbone.

“You...oh, fuck...” Your accusatory words to him die on your tongue as one particular thrust hits a spot inside you that has you curling the toes in response. Little gasps escape your lips as he hits the same spot over and over, your eyes filled with revulsion and desire beginning to soften with an inevitable flutter of the lashes. 

 “That’s right, just take it, baby.” He sighs with a smile, kissing your jaw as you tilt your head back. His voice is like molasses; soft but rough around the edges — sweet but dark with the huskiness of his lust. It’s getting harder for you to control this feeling now. You feel your legs tighten, instinctively trying to wrap yourself around his waist tighter. A hand rising from his broad shoulder to tangle in the platinum strands of hair at the nape of his neck, eliciting an approving grunt from the man. He watches you with awe and a hooded gaze as you give in to that feeling of helplessness once again.

“You feel so warm and wet, dripping all over that pretty pussy, drooling on my cock like that…you’ve been just as desperate as I have, umm? So lonely…you’ll never be lonely again, princess,” he promises hotly, groping his way up your thighs until he grabs your ass, thrusting slowly, deeply, brushing against your cervix each time.

“I’m going to fuck your ass like that someday.” He says casually with a sly smile as his fingertips slide along the crack of your ass, thrusting his cock into your pussy harder to show you what he means, making your breath shallow and your eyes widen. “I think I’ll do that next time indeed. Fill every tight little hole in your body. Mark every inch of your skin as mine.” 

“Oh, God -” You feel tears forming in your eyes and streaming down your cheeks as you squeeze them shut, shaking as he teases you with wicked words, his hands coming up to grip either side of your waist. “Stop, please.”

“Oh no, baby, I’m not stopping. Not now and not ever. I’m going to claim that body in every damn way I can. With my cock, my fingers, my tongue.” You moan and pull away from him, your cheeks red and wet, shaking your head in a mumbled protest that’s too weak to be taken seriously. There’s more pleasure on your face than fear. He chuckles. “Do you like that? Do you like the idea of ​​my tongue in that sweet pussy?”

Before you can think to deny it, his mouth crashes down on yours, rough and brutal, hungry. There’s blood on your tongue, you notice, the cut reopened in his greed, the taste ferrous and acrid in your mouth as his tongue slides inside — his, maybe, or yours, or both, you don’t know.

As quickly as it begins, it ends. Aemond pulls back enough to brush his lips against yours, sharing quick, wet breaths.

“Oh yes, you do. You love knowing that I want to lick that pussy until you come, once, twice, three times — until you squeal and beg me to stop. But I won’t. I’ll make you come as many times as I want, as many times as your body can take. And even then, even if you pass out from exhaustion, I’ll fuck you. Like a beautiful little sex doll.”

Amidst the sensual humiliation of his wanton words, you feel your back scraping against the wall; up and down, over and over. The grip of your fingers in his hair tightens and he growls in his throat, palming your ass to move it with more fervor. He holds his own body still, using only the strength of his arms hooked in the crook of your knees and his hands on your waist to move you up and down his cock.

His face, though it still manages to hold that cold, wicked smirk, is smudged with a soft blush across his cheeks and the bridge of the nose, the rest of his pale skin glistens slightly with sweat, and his good eye is dark with desire — the pupil so wide it almost completely overpowers the blue of his iris. And he’s beautiful like that; even with the prosthetic eye and the frightening scar. Beautiful and ethereal, completely belying his sick personality and unforgivable sins.

Through parted lips he gasps with effort and it takes a moment, but when he pushes you up again, your face completely implodes into flames as you realize he’s using you to masturbate. He’s doing exactly what he said he would, using you like a sex doll, a flashlight clenched around his cock.

His thrusting becomes faster and rougher as he grips your waist tighter between his broad palms, dragging your pussy down his cock with short strokes. Your own breaths shorten, becoming ragged sobs each time the fabric of his robe rubs against your sensitive clit. When he’s basically grinding your pussy against him, undulating your hips in a hurried back and forth, he leans down to press the forehead to yours. His heavy, cold gaze stays locked on yours through each drag. 

“That’s it. That’s it. Look at me. You’re so tight, so good. Keep looking at me. Good girl.” He punctuates each word with breathless slowness. Each guided movement of your hips is intentionally placed — rubbing your walls against his thick cock while simultaneously stimulating your clit against the mound of fabric of his tunic in a way he knows will send you over the edge.

Despite the order, your eyes grow heavy and fluttery, beginning to roll back as the muscles in your thighs and abdomen tense in preparation for the inevitable climax. That scary and wonderful cliff that taunts you in a messy way, approaching faster than you can understand.

A hard slap on your cheek brings you back.

“What did I just say, princess?” he growls, his voice rough with the effort of holding back his own desires. And your cheek stings where he’s hit you, glowing an even deeper shade of red, but you barely give it half a second’s attention — not when he’s looking at you like this; all breathless, sweaty lines and smoldering gaze.

“Keep your fucking eyes on me.” He releases your jaw with a warning jerk, sliding his hand down through your wet mess to find your swollen clit and circle the bud with his thumb, his other hand still tight around your waist. His body grinds into yours, flattening you against his lean muscles and the wall, slamming his hips into yours without pause.

You take a deep, shaky breath.

Your boots cross behind his back, skirt swinging at his waist with each thrust. And yet you do your best to hold Aemond’s obsessive gaze – unable to even name the intensity of the emotion swirling within you. The muscles in your thighs now tremble visibly, clenching tightly around his body in your impending release.

“Aemond – I need, oh, I can't…” You whisper, barely realizing what comes out of your mouth, a broken moan escaping along with the jumbled words, your entire body twitching under the expert assault of his thumb on your clit and his quick, relentless thrusts. You were close. So close. Balancing precariously right on the edge. And he knew it too. 

“That’s it, say my fucking name as you cum for me. Come on, do it now little girl.”

It happens quickly after that, relentlessly, your eyes trying to close without your permission, but you are obedient and keep them half-lidded as you stare at Aemond, a choked cry finally escaping your throat. 

“Aemond!”

With a determined growl, sweat dripping down his temples, he thrusts into you harder and harder until the tight coil snaps. Shockwaves of electric pleasure overwhelm you, forcing all the air from your lungs in a messy gasp. You shake as you come, clenching the fist against your attacker’s chest, nails digging into the roots of his silver hair, trying to ignore the stinging taste of shame as you find purchase in his body. 

“Look at me. Look at me, baby.” He pushes his forehead against yours, sending you a sly, proud smile as your eyes flutter and water with the effort of keeping them open through the climax. His pace quickens with the excitement of seeing your drunken gaze and flushed face.

His own release washes over him like the purest rush of insanity; brows furrowed as if he’s in pain, lips parted in a hoarse groan that raises every little hair on your body. His warm cum fills you, bubbling at the tight rims of the ring of muscle where his cock stretches you. He stays buried inside as his balls empty, his head finally tilting back and breaking intense eye contact as his lips release another long, satisfied groan.

When it’s all over, he slowly leans down to touch your foreheads once more, and you feel an overwhelming, incoherent wave of satisfaction when notice the muscles in his arms and fingers trembling where they touch your skin. 

“You’re mine,” he murmurs between labored breaths. “All mine.”

He babbles possessively, rolling his hips into you to prolong the intimacy, even as you feel him softening discreetly within your walls.

“I’ll burn the world for you, I’ll do anything to keep your eyes on me like this. I’ll kill as many as it takes to have you by my side.” His voice, husky and haunting, makes you shiver with horror — with heat.

You don’t think he needs your involvement in the story to fulfill the last part of his dark promise. Not with the previous list of confirmed murders or the blood that stains his clothes tonight. That stains your costume now too. But his words still send a swarm of butterflies dancing in your stomach and, not for the first time, you find yourself questioning the integrity of your mental health.

He’s smiling at your flushed, uncomfortable features, swollen lips brushing against yours playfully as he catches the breath to say something else that will surely upset you deeply. Before he can, however, his broad body freezes against yours, whatever he was about to say abruptly dying on his tongue.

Like a tense and intriguing suspense, the two of you are slowly bathed in the garish red and blue lights that filter through the small bathroom window, overshadowing the soft purple lighting from before.

The police.

Just as the realization sets in, the sound of sirens is heard; loud and distinctive. And it is then, and only then, that you notice that there are no more sounds of music coming from downstairs.

When had it stopped?

Relief is the first thing you feel. Hope and security flicker in your chest until a new wave of tears blurs your vision. But the feeling quickly withers before another realization. The police, along with your college friends, were minutes away from finding out where and who you had been all this time. They would find Aemond, it was true. They would finally arrest the killer known as Ghostface. But they would also find you. You, abused, raped and humiliated.

God, could they deduce just by looking at you that, at some point during this violation, you had started to want this?

Your jaw is gripped by his firm fingers, making your wide, wet eyes focus on the man in front of you. He looks at you with such intensity, serious and analytical, and in that moment you are sure that he knows exactly what you are thinking.

“I know where every single one of your friends lives, what every single one of them does during the day — every damn minute of their activities is recorded for me,” he whispers slowly, sinking each word into your overworked brain to make sure you understand. “The same goes for your family members. I know where they live, who they are, and what they do. Dare to open your pretty little mouth to anyone about me and you’ll get one of their heads every time you open your dorm room door in the morning. I’ll even do the favor of gift wrapping it for you, baby.”

Your stomach lurches with sudden nausea, all the color draining from your face at the threat you know he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out if need be.

“I truly hope you won’t betray my trust, love. Like I said before, I don’t want to kill you.” He smooths his knuckles down your tear-stained cheek, softening his tone to something softer and gentler — yet equally terrifying. “But I’ll do it to someone you care about without a second thought. So don’t test me.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he seals his lips on yours. Just a light, wet touch, more an intimate exchange of heated breaths than a kiss. With an approving grunt when you sigh and surrender to his touch, he pulls away.

Your shaky, weak legs give way as he leaves your body, and you slide down the wall in a confused, weeping heap until you’re sitting on the tiled bathroom floor.

Hovering above you, Aemond tucks his penis into the pants and fastens his belt, straightening the robes with a perfectly neutral expression and calm manner, as if at this very moment the cops aren’t searching the frat house for him. Long fingers casually grip the mask lying on the counter, giving you one last intense, appraising look, licking his lips slyly before covering his face.

That ghost mask is back then, cold and frightening, pulling the hood up over his head before bending down and holding the bloody kitchen knife in the palm of his hand. Black boots click on the tile floor as he turns back to you and heads for the door, casting a glance over his shoulder as he places hand on the doorknob.

“This won’t be the last time, princess. I’ll come back for you.” His voice is dark and muffled by the mask, sounding more like a threat to your life than a lover’s promise, especially now that he’s back in his ghostly, cruel persona. “Until then, try not to miss me too much, and of course, be on your best behavior.”

He leaves as disturbingly as he came, with a dark swish of his cloak and an amused chuckle, closing the door with a teasing gentleness — as if he’s trying not to scare you. You might even buy his act, if it weren't for all the psychological terror he's inflicted on you so far.

And then you find yourself alone in the bathroom once again, with nothing but your own shame and accusatory thoughts.

And that's exactly how the cops find you a few minutes later. Sitting on the tile floor, pale as death, your Sailor Mars costume stained with blood and throat marked from the cruel grip of your attacker's fingers. Your cheek still stings from the slap he gave you.

You think you can hide the finger marks on your thighs by deliberately tucking the legs in, taking the opportunity to keep the messy puddle of cum out of sight of the lawmen. But one of them still wraps his jacket around you in a gesture of solidarity as he leads you out, reciting kind words that, despite their intention, do nothing to actually calm you.

“Oh, thank God!”

You stagger back at the sudden hug Mako gives you as you exit the house, crossing the area marked off by yellow police tape. The officer next to you clucks his tongue in disapproval, but steps aside to offer the two of you some privacy.

“Someone called the police when they found the bodies on the next street. It all happened so fast. The party was going on and then everything turned into absolute chaos and I couldn’t find you anywhere!” She babbles quickly as pulls away from the hug, looking you up and down with her puffy, red eyes, her hands shaking where they are — clenched tightly on the arms of the police jacket you’re wearing, as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. “W-when they said that you could be upstairs with him…I-I thought…fuck…I really thought—”

“I know. But I’m here now. And I’m fine.” You cut her off, wiping away your own tears as you try to give her a very unconvincing smile. Predictably, she doesn’t buy your lie, but doesn’t press it either.

“They couldn’t catch him, pumpkin…” she says slowly after a moment of silence, her face contorted in pain for you. “By the time they got upstairs, he’d already escaped. I'm sorry."

You want to tell her that you know that, you were there when he fled before could be caught. Before you can, however, the officer from before is back - this time accompanied by another, a tall, tired-looking man with a gray beard. The sheriff, you assume.

"If you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions, miss." The older man grunts, looking like he wants to be literally anywhere else but here.

"She does, actually. Can't you see how she looks?!" Mako is quick to respond, leaning forward to position herself in front of you like a protective barrier. The officers look at her like she's a little girl throwing a tantrum, nothing but tired indifference on their faces.

"It's okay, Mako. I got it." You try to calm the situation, placing a hand on her shoulder to gently guide her to the side. "I'd rather do it now, actually. I just want to put this all behind me as soon as possible."

It's impossible to put this behind, but you don't say that part.

Mako holds your gaze for a few seconds, keeping such a watchful, worried glint in every expression on your face that, for a minute, you fear she might know exactly everything that happened just by that look. When she sighs and steps aside in reluctant surrender, you almost sigh along with her.

"Okay. But I won't go far, I'll be waiting for you right there."

You mumble an 'mkay' and she reluctantly walks away, not before casting a sharp glance at the two officers standing in the same position near you - who promptly ignore her silent attempt at a threat. When she finally walks away, you sigh, staring at the badge on the older man's chest for a few seconds as you prepare to craft a narrative of the facts that doesn't reveal anything about the killer's identity.

"Alright. What would you like to know, Sheriff Myers?"

Fortunately, the police in your town have never been the most diligent or perceptive, and while they may ask a few important questions here and there, they generally remain naturally ignorant to some confusing gaps in your version of events. You are careful to avoid saying anything about the sexual assault you suffered, opting to tell them only about the physical violence that they have inevitably noticed by now; the marks on your neck, wrists and the red slap on your cheek.

They accept your half-truths so easily that you would be offended if that wasn't exactly the goal. In the end, all that matters to them is the answer to one question:

"Did you get a look at his face? Skin color, hair, eyes... anything that might help us identify this fucker once and for all?"

And in that moment you think of Mako, her cheerful smile and irreverent attitude. You think of your parents, so safe and oblivious in your hometown. You think of the faces of every your family member, friend and colleague who could suffer an agonizing death at the hands of the killer if you dared to answer the wrong way.

"N-no, sir. I'm sorry, but no, I didn't see anything. He was completely covered the whole time, with gloves and a mask." You huddle deeper into the thick jacket over your shoulders, your arms wrapped around yourself.

The sheriff takes a deep breath, clearly disappointed at once again running in circles, but he doesn't press you on it. And after a few other less important questions, they both say goodbye with a standard guarantee of protection that you don't trust for a second.

They've barely moved away from you when your phone vibrates in the pocket with the warning of a new notification. After glancing over your shoulder in alarm to see if anyone was watching, you feel the heart race before you even reach for it, fingers already shaking with nervous anticipation, knowing exactly who the notification is from. With a shaky click of your thumb on the now mostly cracked and destroyed screen, the thing lights up for you:

--

Notification Center

2:23am - Unknown number

"Well done, little girl. You made me proud (and a little horny, I must admit) with all those pathetic little lies to the authorities. Keep being a good girl and everyone you care about will be safe. Scout's word.

We'll meet again sooner than you think.

A.T."

--

[xxgoldie]

Hyewwo, if you don't mind.. 👉👈

I, U, and X for Lighter? 🥺 Thank you so much for what you do!

main event page - event masterlist

I: Injury - how do they act when you get hurt? No matter the severity of the injury, Lighter worries about you. Something bad happenning to you is like his worst nightmare, so his eyes instinctively fly to you in a panic every time you make any sound of pain, even if it's just a papercut or stubbed toe. If you get seriously injured, though, he's an absolute wreck. He wants so badly to protect you and make sure you're okay, but seeing you in so much pain and covered in your own blood has him losing it, the closest he's getting to helping is half-begging half-threatening anyone with medical training to Do Something. He hates hospitals, but he won't leave your side until you're okay, even if you end up in one. Won't even let himself sleep until your condition is stable. And as your recovering and sent home, you'll have a 24/7 assistant and guard until you're back to tiptop shape, that brief taste of losing you has him extra protective, even permanently.

U: Upset - how would they comfort you if you're upset? Lighter is a practical man - he's great if you're frustrated about something and need to vent since he'll analyse all the details with you, picking apart the situation and helping you to decide the next course of action. But that's not the most helpful response when the feelings are more fresh, and he understands that. He doesn't really know what to do with himself if you cry in front of him - he hates to see you so upset and he rarely knows what to say to make you feel better. Instead, he'll opt to just hold you, pressing soft kisses into your hair and mutter soft reassurances, little "I'm here"s and "you're okay"s. As you start recovering, his mission becomes to make you laugh, whether it takes a corny joke or a tickle attack with kisses pressed all over your face, distracting you until you're ready to talk through whatever upset you.

X: X-Ray - how easily can they read their partner? how easy are they to read? Lighter is really perceptive - he's really good at reading people in general, so he sees through you so easily with how much time you spend together. He can always tell if there's something bothering you, or if you're particularly attracted to something he does. The first he uses for good, coaxing you to talk about it or getting you a treat to cheer you up before you even tell him something's wrong. He'll find solutions you didn't know existed to problems you barely have, and all you have to do is make one slightly frustrated sigh. The latter he uses for pure evil, he's an absolute menace, showing off the things he knows you like. No matter how cool you try to play it, he can Tell he's affecting you, its lowkey infuriating how proud of himself he looks. When it comes to reading him, its a bit tougher. He's pretty good at hiding and repressing his thoughts when he wants to, not letting them show on his face. Besides, his sunglasses make it a bit harder to read his expressions. But with you, he doesn't hide his thoughts that often, especially in private, and you can pretty easily tell exactly what he's feeling just from his face. Between that and how easily he reads you, you can probably have whole conversations with him just using facial expressions

[hypnzo]

CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

(HEADCANONS)

Warning!! : Might be inaccurate? (personality-wise)

CHARACTERS: Leo Valdez, Will Solace, Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson, Piper McLean (in order)

These may not be exactly accurate as they are technically supposed to just be headcanons.. :') I still did try my best to keep it close to their character as much as possible!!

Leo Valdez would be the type of guy to make snow angels with you. It's a fun gesture but it often times ends in a snowball fight. Landing one last hit of snowball at his face before he tackles you to the ground—pecking kisses at your lips, temple, cheek, everywhere he could. You both giggled it out as he proudly exclaimed that he won that snowball fight. He was so wrong, but you'd take his kisses as a reward for it.

Leo Valdez would be the type of guy to envelop your hands in his, nestling them between his palms, only for him to then blow on it after he traps your hands in between his, pulling your hands closer to his face, pressing one soft kiss on your finger and blows on it cheekily. “It's my way to keep you warm!” he states with a grin on his face.

Will Solace would be the type of guy to remind you to bring a jacket whenever it's cold outside, knowing just how much you'd complain about the weather whenever you forget to bring one.

Will Solace would be the type of guy to carry an extra jacket from his closet just in case you somehow forgot yours. “I told you,” he says while chuckling at your flushed state, but he's already draping his jacket on your figure, his scent and warmth lingering around it and that was just what made the gesture more sweeter.

Annabeth Chase would be the type of girl to hold your hand while she's reading some books. It's cold outside, she doesn't feel like doing much. She's too focused on the book, but she occasionally squeezes your hand, letting you know she's still there with you as she quietly takes in the warmth of your hands, quirking up a small smile while she browses through the words of the book.

Annabeth Chase would be the type of girl to grab some hot chocolate, always remembering to grab two: one for you, one for her. It's a simple gesture, but it slowly became a routine for her. “Here, take it easy. Just... relax,” she reminds you while she sipped on her hot chocolate, knowing the exact feeling of being stressed out on things, “I'm here.”

Percy Jackson would be the type of guy to just cuddle the night away. It was cold and boring, what else could you both do other than cuddle? He embraced you, inhaling your scent and savoring your warmth. Maybe it wasn't as boring as he thought it would be.

Percy Jackson would be the type of guy to twirl you in his arms, dancing with you by the ocean while you're wearing his jacket as the cold breeze and scent of the ocean became as one, a feeling of comfort nestled onto the both of you under the stars. Kissing your temple as he held you close, “You look so pretty in my jacket,” he murmurs on your lips before leaving a peck.

Piper McLean would be the type of girl to throw a snowball at you only for it to end up with the two of you making a small snowman, decorating it to both your likings. Grabbing some buttons for its eyes, a summer hat to keep it "warm", and adding some twig branches you both found lying on the ground, sticking it at its side. You both shared proud looks of your creation as you both dusted off the snows that were staining your hands.

Piper McLean would be the type of girl to style your hair, decorating it with some candy cane hair clips that were shaped like a heart. Though they don't really celebrate mortal holidays, this was still a special occasion you both did with one another. “Do you like it? I think you look absolutely adorable,” she says with a proud smile, holding your face as she guides your head to face the mirror.

Have a request? Feel free to send one in!

[chaoticloving]

Yacht

Harry styles x actress!reader

Summary: Harry worries something is wrong during a family trip to Italy, turns out your just horny

Warning: sex to get pregnant lol

Italy, it was always Italy.

As two high profile A-listers, Harry Styles and Y/n Y/L/N-Styles could never go anywhere without being caught. Once in the car, another in the street, and of course at concerts and premieres.

Vacation was another highly intense time for the couple, but it was only amped up to the max because of the Love on Tour's ending.

The night of the final show, Harry had his wife, mum, and sister in his dressing room. As the tour has lasted literal years, he figured he owed everyone some sort of gift: gift giving was his love language. He got the lovely couple of the band, Sarah and Mitch, and the little love-bug, a couple of odd-ball things he knew they would all like. He got similar items for the rest of the crew, personalizing them for the recipient.

His wife though, along with his mum and sister, he believed were owed some time with him. Call him selfish but Harry really did miss being with his family, and it was clear from the thousands of messages and voicemails that they all missed him deeply too. So he figured, why not Italy?

Italy is his go to place for relaxing, despite the constant paparazzi, it was quite peaceful when out in the water or in his shared home. Not only that, but his mother truly adores the country and the history; he feels he owes it to her for putting up with all of his shenanigans when he was younger, he knows he wasn't as easy as Gemma was, and stardom really did exacerbate it. But he's better now--Y/n has whipped him into shape--and he's wealthy enough to go to Italy as much as Anne wants.

Gemma just loves the opportunity to gossip with Y/n, along with the chance to sun bathe on the yacht. She was a simple person to please, and would be appreciative for a coffee and croissant.

Y/n, though, his love, isn't one that can be shown love to through gifts, at least expensive gifts. Her net worth is the same as his, but beside all of that, she is extermly picky about what she wants. All of her brithday gifts are something she specifically told Harry, from brand to color, nothing was left for interpretation.

He thought the vaction would be good though. Y/n likes the quality time between them, how they could just be themselves with nothing stopping them.

The yacht was a perfect hit though. Anne and Gemma both loved the salty breeze of the mederterain sea, but he didn't think it was enough for Y/n. He needed something that was more of a wow factor.

Harry was nervous, biting his nails as he took Y/n down to the docks for a midnight boat outing. He planned this a bit ago, but now was second guessing the whole ordeal.

"I love the smell of Italy." Harry said, holding his hand with his wife. "Something about it...just isn’t it perfect?"

"Is it the cigarette smoke?" Y/n joked, sneaking a quick peak at the corner of Harry's mouth. "Why are you taking me to the docks?"

Harry cleared his throat. "A midnight trip since I wanted some one on one time with you."

They had reached the docks by now, and were slowly getting on. He felt Y/n's hands get tighter around his hand, squeezing every now and then while the life guard was untying the rope connecting the yacht.

Harry looked over to his wife, watching her to make sure she was enjoying herself. She was looking beautiful, hair down while her face was pointed up, looking at the night sky's stars. Her outfit was loose, a simple dress that she threw on after showering to get the sea off of her. It was one he picked out long ago, around their 6 month anniversary, and it was still beautiful.

Her wedding ring completed the look though.

A beautiful antique ring, one that looked as though it was carefully preserved throughout history, looked ethereal on her.

"Hey H?"

Her voice was beautiful too. It was no kidding she was a movie star, her voice draws you in and cages you so you could never leave--not that Harry would want to.

"Yes, Love?"

"You're staring."

Harry blinked, not what he was hoping she would say. He hates to be called out.

"Just wanting to make sure you're happy." He shrugged. "I love you s'much, and I want to give you the perfect gift."

Y/n smiled, a warming one that made Harry's legs feel like jelly. She could never get over the love she felt from Harry, his passtion ratiating from him at all times was truly sickening to the loveless.

"Harry, I love this trip." She brushed her hand through his hair. "Everything you do makes me happy."

"But, earlier, on the yacht you seemed...off."

Y/n bit her lip, looking down to the sea beside them. She didn't mean for Harry to feel disappointed in himself, but she knew exactly what caused it.

"I just had a lot on my mind..." She said, not giving much up which Harry was not happy with.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"I ran out of my birth control about a couple weeks ago, and my hormones are really messing with me." She said, hoping he would get the hint.

"So you're horny?" Harry laughed, a boy-ish grin forming on his face. "I can deal with that."

Y/n laughed and pushed his kissing face away from her neck. "Yes, but since I haven't been on birth control in a few weeks, my doctor thinks I could get pregnant."

Harry's jaw dropped, which then formed into another smile, this time one of excitement and hornieness. "So, you mean...we could start trying for a baby?"

Y/n just nodded. Harry put his hands on her face and kissed her. Her hands moved from his hair down his arms then under his shirt. Harry, bless his soul, was a little nervous to move his hand down, but when Y/n broke apart this kiss so she could strip out of her dress he had no problems.

Harry followed and took off the white shirt he was wearing before, alog with his pants. He got pushed down to a long cooler seat. Y/n strattled his hips and startedkissing him more. Harry started to trickle down to her neck, leaving a hicky closer to her boobs so no one could see. He loved the moans coming out of his love, the way he knew she was feeling good was getting himjust as turned on.

"You were horny." Harry snickered, getting back to work soon after. “Sitting on the yacht; you knew I’d fuck you if you asked.”

"I would've done something about it if my in laws weren't in the vicinity."

"My bad." Harry said, but it was half hearted as now he just really didn’t care.

The conversation didn't last long, soon enough Harry's boxers were off and Y/n bra and panties were somewhere else on the boat. "You sure? I got a condom somewhere."

"If I wasn't sure I wouldn't be off the pill." She reminded him. "What about you?"

"I've wanted a kid ever since you said 'I do'." They kissed, softly now, but Y/n soon sat on Harry's hard cock and they both moaned in ecstasy.

Harry was a little shocked to be honest, rarly they have sex without any foreplay or lube, and he doesn't think he's ever felt her so wet--he had to make sure not to cum too prematurely.

Y/n was focused on Harry and her breathing. Sex felt different now knowing they are activly trying for a child, she knows Harry's dick is the same, but something about it just made it better.

She begain to bounce, Harry's arms coming up to squeeze her boob while the other grabbed her ass. He positioned his legs and pushed up into her, again, again, and again. The repative motion was made all the diffference by one of his hands coming down to her clit to make her feelmore pleasure. She gapsed when he pintched her clit, mouth then forming a smile as he looked down to Harry's.

"Babe, I think-I think I'm gonna come." Harry groaned. "I wanna get you pregnant and it so fuckin' hot--come with me. Are you close?"

His voice was fast passed, he rushed through his words as he tried to hold off from coming. Y/n was feeling the same way though; the love, the passtion, and the idea of being pregnant was too much.

"Har, I'm about to." She groaned as Harry's hips shot up in a more paniced order. He felt crazy, moaning and looking just at her made him want to exploed. "Come with me."

Her voice trailed off and turned into a moan as Harry came inside her, no protection. It felt like heaven to the both of them, forgetting the sweat that clang to their bodies.

"I love you." Harry whispered. She was still on his dick, just collasped over him now, but she knew he said it out of love. Sex changed after marriage or after any new step within a marriage; after marriage was so loving, and they had a sense of understanding that truly could be sourced from empaths.

"I love you too." She whispered back. Giving one small kiss to his lips.

"If you get pregnant, I don't know how I'm going to top that gift." Harry jokingly sighed.

"Hm, you could give me another one." She chided. "I want a bunch of Styles babies."

"I'll love any amount of kids you want." Harry decided. "Even if its twenty."

She laughed. "No way am I going to carry twenty, maybe we'll just get some pets."

"What happened to a whole bunch?"

"Only if they're just like their daddy."

"Damn, I only wanted them if they're just like their mummy." Harry joked being distrought, groaing with faux aggrivation.

"Maybe they'll have the best of us."

"My beauty, and your personality." Harry joked, which Y/n didn't like so she jokingly shuved him. "Maybe not your personality."

[sirxaibs]

Keigo Takami / Hawks X Reader (eventually various X reader but that’s if I decide to continue with the burst of inspiration)

If this isn’t that meaty for you…. THEY JUST MET LET THEM COOK

Summary: Small light banter for a first meeting between freshly debuted Hawks and an Isekai’d reader.

Basically after reading copious amounts of amazingly talented stories by amazingly talented writers. “DEPOLLUTE ME, GENTLE ANGEL” by @fallen-w1ngs and Changing History by SummerBlack on Quotev. With “depollute me” the author humanizes the pro hero from being just a symbol. Meanwhile with “Changing History” the author introduces an emotion more attuned to feeling real and how life isn’t just a cycle that is predetermined. So my dynamic of choice was you as the reader have already been thrown in this world for the first 18 years of your life. If you were put in this world why not do the expected? Become a hero. But if all things are fake why take anything seriously?

If you couldn’t gather from that, the reader and hawks will grow and learn that they have the ability to matter and deserve to feel like they belong. I don’t have a very serious style of writing but I do try! Maybe not my best but key emphasis on try! Today we delve into YOU! YOUR CHARACTER!

This was all made on my notes app while on vacation 😺

Word count: 4280 ish, (idk through editing I added some things)

A blur of red and gold emerged first, feathers catching the sunlight just before their owner stepped forward with an easy, lopsided grin. Hawks, the newly minted Pro, looked entirely unbothered by the attention, despite the sudden chorus of excited shouts.

“Hawks! Can you sign this?”

“Dude, your debut fight was insane!”

“Picture, please?”

He laughed, ruffling his windswept hair as he glanced over the eager faces.

“Man, you guys really know how to make a guy feel welcome,” he said, grabbing the nearest pen. “Alright, line up nice and neat, yeah? I’ve got places to be, but I can’t just leave my awesome fans hanging.”

As he signed posters, notebooks, and even the occasional wing-shaped keychain, Hawks kept that signature smirk in place. He’d always known he’d make it this far—but seeing the real, tangible proof of it in the form of starstruck faces and excited voices?

Yeah, this was pretty damn cool.

As the crowd died down, Originally just going to walk away you thought about when would even be the next time you’d see him. Unfortunately since being thrown into this world, the whole concept of canon magnets for main characters was not even a concept in your life.

“You know, if you’re acting like this right out of the gate, I can’t even imagine how inflated your ego will get once you’re officially ranked among the top heroes.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I have no idea where you’re getting that impression.” You almost felt bad for taking away his moment. The disheveled blonde looked like he might’ve been having a sincere, heartfelt moment.

“It’s always the pretty boys with the massive egos,” you sighed dramatically, looking away. Seeing Hawks in all his glory had to come with a little entertainment, right?

He took a step back, eyeing your UA uniform as if sizing you up.

“Maybe the hostility’s coming from jealousy?”

“It’s the Icarus trope for me” you mutter

“Sorry?”

You laughed lightly, rolling your eyes. “Oh nothing! You sure would think that.”

To be honest, you hadn’t meant to bump into him. You were just on your way home from school, with nothing more in mind than a nice nap. Being a third-year at UA in the most boring era of this universe really didn’t leave you with much to look forward to.

“I mean, looks like we’re heading in the same direction,” he said, curiosity creeping into his tone as he took another sip from his drink.

“You’re not wrong, but the flashy vibe you’re giving off? It’s almost alarming.”

He gave you a distraught look.

“Imagine this, I’m getting saved by—wait, what’s your name again?” Oh, it wouldn’t be impossible for actually knowing him. Sure, he had only debuted a few months ago and the crowd that just left that chanted his name every two seconds would be a sign for his name, but you couldn’t help it. In your past life, the sheer amount of content of the show you consumed meant you had to know him but better safe than sorry.

“Hawks,” he replied, deadpan, amusement flickering in his eyes.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. In response he raised his brow

It probably looked like you were laughing at him, which, in a way, you kind of were. You remembered the draft photos of when his character was first being developed—back when they considered giving him an actual hawk head. The thought alone made you smile.

“Pro hero Hawks saves me, and the sheer massiveness of his ego completely blindsides me. I’m struck by how conventionally hot he is, and then I die in your arms. Yeah, not a good look for you.”

You sighed inwardly. All in all, you were probably born in the worst generation in the My Hero universe. You couldn’t even be part of the middle generation where you could’ve had the chance to work as a teacher with Aizawa and the rest of the crew. It was a possibility, sure, but it felt so far out of reach. And the idea of being around Present Mic—preferably with his hair down and you age-appropriate for him? That would’ve been a dream.

But here you were, a few years older than the main cast. Actually, you were the same age as Keigo. As much as you loved his character, he didn’t really become important until the fifth season. Which meant you had little to no relevance to the plot or any of the major characters. You couldn’t help but feel like you were stuck in some lame generation, unable to make an impact.

Why couldn’t any isekai story go right? You really felt like you’d lost the genetic lottery over and over again. You couldn’t have been born just a few years younger, so you could’ve at least had the chance to be around your other favorite sunshine-blonde character, Mirio. Not being his age had probably made you feel like you’d lost years of your life unknowingly.

“Maamaa, we just met, and you’ve already got a grudge against me?” He teased, giving you a playful frown.

Immediately it springs in your head that you’ve probably come off as a total asshole. Screw the curse of having an outside point of view. The fact of knowing none of this was real maybe gave a bad look on the outside.

You suddenly felt a wave of regret hit you, realizing how your words had come across. His playful tone, the teasing frown—everything made it clear he wasn’t offended, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had crossed a line. You opened your mouth, but your thoughts were tangled, and it took a moment to collect your words.

“Ah, look, I—” You hesitated, eyes darting away, feeling heat rising in your cheeks. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. It’s just… I don’t know, sometimes I get carried away, and—” You mentally cursed yourself for being so awkward. You hated how easily you could go from sarcastic to genuinely sorry in a second.

Hawks gave you an odd look, the smirk still there, though softer. “Hey, no worries. I get it.” He shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal, but you could tell something about his tone had changed slightly. Maybe he was trying to lighten the mood too, like you were.

“No, I’m serious,” you quickly added, glancing up at him, feeling the need to apologize properly. “It’s just… I don’t know. I’ve been here long enough to see how people get caught up in all the… hero stuff. And I didn’t want to be another person acting all starry-eyed over you just because you’re a pro hero, you know?” God you sounded pathetic. Maybe if you prayed to all might really hard it would go away.

Hawks studied you for a second, then nodded slowly, his expression unreadable for a moment. “I get it. You don’t want to be one of those people who just worship the ground we fly on, huh?”

You sighed, relieved that he understood, but still uneasy. “Yeah... fly on. It’s just… this world, this universe… It’s all so… strange. I mean, I know you’re a big deal, and I respect that. But sometimes it’s hard to take things seriously when everything feels like it’s set in stone. To be so ‘MUCH’ all the time. Anyways I’m literally doing exactly what yours doing for a career so don’t take my words to heart. Heroes are kind of just people that help people and I’m like one or those people and by no means-” You paused, biting your lip.

There was an odd moment of silence before Hawks chuckled, and for a moment, you thought you might’ve said something ridiculous.

“You’re fine.” His tone was soft, genuine this time, as he took another step back, giving you space. “You’re not the first person to think I’m all ‘ego and feathers,’ but not everyone’s as honest about it as you are. So, props for that, I guess.” He tilted his head, his usual cocky grin returning, though it seemed more self-aware now. “But hey, if it helps, I do my best to keep my ego in check. It’s not as big as it looks.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond, but the words that came out were almost reflexive. “Well, you’re doing a pretty good job of hiding it, I guess. You’re going to be one of the top ten. I know it.”

Hawks laughed softly, the sound surprisingly genuine, and you found yourself relaxing a little. Maybe you hadn’t totally messed everything up. “You’re so sure about that? Well then fair enough. Just don’t expect me to give up my flashy style anytime soon. It’s a package deal.” He says that as if he doesn’t get In the top ten within a few months.

You could tell he wasn’t taking offense anymore, but you still felt like you needed to clear the air. “I mean, you’re doing your thing. I just—” You faltered, trying to find the right words, feeling like you were digging yourself into a hole. “I just didn’t want to be some random person making snide comments. You’re a pro hero, and I respect that.”

His eyes softened again, and there was an odd sincerity in his gaze. “Thanks. That means more than you know. You look about the same age as me so as you’re a pro as well, wouldn’t you know it you’ll be up there at the top, maybe we’ll have a hero rivalry” he smirks

“Ah yes the trials and tribulations of endeavour and all might persist in the bodies of 18 year old aspiring heroes” you pause for a moment thinking about it. You know that’s not too far from the original source material

“Well I’m not exactly a pro just yet, give me a few months and I’ll be there”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the awkwardness between you two slowly evaporating. It was strange, how you’d gone from a sarcastic comment to a brief but genuine moment of understanding. And yet, in a world where everything seemed so scripted, the fact that this had played out in such a way felt a little… surreal.

After a beat, Hawks stretched, giving you a wink. “Well, I should probably get going. Hero stuff, you know?” He shrugged, turning on his heel. “But hey, if you ever need a hand or just wanna throw some more sarcastic remarks my way, I’m not hard to find.”

You managed a small, half-smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He flashed you one last grin before taking off, his wings spreading wide as he took to the sky, disappearing into the distance. You watched him go, still feeling that odd mixture of guilt and amusement bubbling in your chest.

Shaking your head, you turned and continued on your way home, feeling slightly lighter, despite the awkwardness. At least you hadn’t ruined everything completely. But, then again, in a world like this, there was always something new to look forward to. Maybe you’d even see Hawks again and maybe next time, you’d be a little better at handling it.

Or, you’d at least try to be.

In this world, reports of people with superpowers started popping up everywhere. No one really knew what was causing these Quirks. And before long, the supernatural became the new normal. Dreams became reality, and the world turned into a superhuman society, with 80% of the population possessing some sort of strange ability.

Blah, blah, blah. The world might sound impressive at first, but being dropped into a world where you know everyone’s futures? That kind of ruins the excitement. Save the fun stuff for when Izuku is supposed to take over

You’d think living in a world of superheroes would be a dream come true, but it felt more like playing a life simulator with a DLC attached.

‘Actually if any one had heard that thought, please smite me dead on the spot’

Maybe when you finally met Shigaraki, you two could bond over how lame your lives were.

————

The moment Hawks took off, disappearing into the sky with all the grace and flair of a man who knew exactly how cool he was, you were left standing there, alone in the middle of a busy street. You blinked a few times, processing the bizarre encounter, like a glitch in the matrix where you’d just met one of the to be top heroes, and somehow managed to be the awkward, sarcastic mess you were known for.

Oh god, you thought, did I just make myself look like an idiot?

The awkwardness of the moment hit you all at once, like a ton of bricks. Your brain replayed every word you’d said, every overly dramatic sigh, and every time you’d made some weird comment about his ego. I probably just ruined any chance of ever having a normal conversation with him ever again, you thought with a groan.

But, hey, at least you’d gotten one thing right: you had no idea how to not embarrass yourself in front of a pro hero. Progress, right?

Your feet shuffled along the sidewalk, your eyes fixed on the ground, just in case anyone noticed how ridiculously flustered you were. You didn’t even know where you were going at this point, your legs had basically decided to take you home, but your brain was still stuck on the fact that you’d just made a snide remark to one of the most famous people in the world. That was bound to come back to haunt you, right?

In the midst of your spiraling, a thought hit you like a slap to the face: What if he tells people?

No, no, no, no. Hawks wasn’t the type to hold grudges. He’d probably just chuckle about it with his equally cool friends and forget about it. Right?

… what if he tells Mirko. All you feel is dread

But still, the mental image of him, sitting around with his hero buddies, casually telling them about the weird girl who got all awkward and snarky when she met him, was enough to make you want to curl up in a hole and disappear for the next decade. I’m never leaving my house again, you thought, hands buried in your pockets. It’s safer this way.

As you trudged home, you passed by the same old buildings, the same street vendors, the same couple having a heated debate about the proper way to cook curry (which, honestly, you were kind of invested in now). It was the same old world. But now, you couldn’t help but feel like you were living in some kind of sitcom where you were the awkward side character. This is what I get for getting tossed into this universe, you thought, rolling your eyes at the universe itself. And why am I still here? Shouldn’t I be a sidekick by now?

You eventually reached your apartment building, doing your best to ignore the fact that you’d just been face-to-face with Hawks and didn’t manage to do anything remotely cool or competent. The elevator ride felt longer than it should’ve. It was like the universe itself was giving you a moment to reflect on your life choices. By the time you reached your door, you felt like you needed to apologize to the doorframe for even existing.

With a dramatic sigh, you kicked off your shoes and collapsed onto the couch. You stared at the ceiling, wondering if you should’ve just said something normal like, “Hey, cool wings.” That’s it. Cool wings… nope absolutely not, move on, but no, you had to act like a nervous wreck who couldn’t even handle basic social interaction. Congratulations, you’re a disaster.

But as your mind started spiraling into self-loathing, you couldn’t help but chuckle a little. The whole situation had been so ridiculous, so out of place, that it was actually kind of funny. You’d just had a conversation with Hawks granted, it was a weird, awkward, almost cringeworthy conversation but still, a conversation! That was more than most people could say.

“Maybe I should just call it a day. Hide under the covers and pretend nothing happened.”

You threw your arms dramatically across your face as if the weight of your shame was too much to bear, but in the back of your mind, a tiny thought crept in: Hey, if I run into him again, maybe I won’t make a fool of myself next time.

Then again, you thought with a grin, Probably not.

At least tomorrow’s a new day, right? You could try to be normal then probably. Or at the very least, you could give yourself a good pep talk, like, “You got this, champ. Try not to make an idiot of yourself this time.”

As you lay there, wallowing in your embarrassment, you couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. Because, in the end, this was just another bizarre chapter in your weird, barely-coherent life in the world of heroes. Maybe next time, you’d at least try to make a good first impression. Or maybe, just maybe, you’d accidentally land on your feet and make it out of another embarrassing moment unscathed.

Who knew? Anything was possible in this crazy universe. Well, except you being smooth. That was clearly out of the question.

————

The bell rang, signaling the end of class, and as your classmates hurriedly packed their bags and ran out the door, you sat there, contemplating your life choices. Graduation was right around the corner, and while everyone else was excited about the future, you were just kind of… existing.

You were in your third year at UA, the very school that trained the next generation of Pro Heroes. But here you were, staring at your desk like it owed you money, with no idea what you were supposed to do next.

Let’s be real, everyone else had a purpose. Izuku? He was going to be the greatest hero of all time. All Might? He was the symbol of peace, the beacon of hope, and probably the only guy who could do a cartwheel and not look like a dad on a trampoline. Even Bakugo had a clear goal in mind: to be the best, which, considering his attitude, was more like a “do it or I’ll yell at you until you cry” kind of vibe.

But you? You were just here. You weren’t supposed to be in this world. Seriously, how did you even get here? One minute you were living your normal life, and the next you’re dropped into the middle of a world full of heroes, quirks, and crazy villains, but there’s no manual for how to fit in. It was like being cast in the world’s weirdest TV show and being told, “Yeah, just figure it out, you’ll be fine.”

And you were so fine. So fine, in fact, that you didn’t even know what the point of it all was. You had no grand dreams of becoming the next All Might or Deku. You weren’t even sure what your quirk was half the time, maybe you had an ability to be totally average? If so, congratulations, you were really nailing it.

“Look, you’re fine, you’re fine,” you muttered to yourself, giving the window a dramatic look. “You’ll graduate, become a hero, maybe stand by the snacks table at hero events, get a cool costume, the usual.”

You sighed, staring at the city below. Your classmates had their lives all planned out, while you had absolutely no clue what was happening. “Like, how do you even become a hero if you’re not, like, destined for greatness?” You asked, though you were fully aware the universe wasn’t going to answer. Or if it did, it would probably just laugh and say, “Sorry, you’re just here for filler content.”

You turned to the empty classroom, contemplating your entire existence for a moment. “Man, is this what it’s like to be a side character? ’Cause I really didn’t sign up for this. I was just trying to live my best life, and suddenly I’m here, trying to figure out if I should be saving kittens from trees or passing out flyers for charity events.”

A laugh bubbled out of you. “Who knows, maybe I’ll be that hero, the one who’s really good at handing out pamphlets at superhero conventions. You know, hero stuff. The job that’s always available but no one really talks about.”

You let out a half-hearted groan. “Ugh, I’m like a glorified intern in the superhero world. ‘Oh, sorry, your quirk is literally just being chill? Guess you’ll be a sidekick to the sidekicks!’”

But then it hit you: maybe that’s fine. Not every hero needs to be the big shot. Maybe your purpose was to just… exist. No huge fanfare, no dramatic showdowns with villains, just a random person who shows up at the right time to, like, hand out snacks or prevent a minor inconvenience. You could totally be that person! There’s a whole squad of heroes out there who are doing important stuff without anyone caring about them.

You snapped your fingers. “Wait a minute. Maybe this is my calling! I’ll be ‘The Human Buffer’. I’ll help all the heroes hand out protein bars, hold their coats while they go into battle, be that one person who’s just there to make sure they look good in their hero pose. Yeah, I could be that hero!”

You stood up, grabbed your bag, and strutted out of the classroom with newfound confidence. You might not have a big, world-saving destiny, but you would be the hero who was always there with the perfect snack after a long day of saving people. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a role that needed to be filled, and by golly, you were going to do it.

“Alright, world,” you said dramatically as you walked down the hallway. “You don’t need me to save the day, but I’ll be here when you need someone to tell you where the bathroom is during a fight. Hero work!”

As you passed your classmates, all talking about their big future plans, you couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe you weren’t meant to be the hero everyone else was, but you were still going to make your mark. Whether they needed an emotional support snack or someone to bring them a towel after they worked up a sweat, you’d be there.

And hey, you’d probably get a cool title too: The Most Average, Most Helpful Hero.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like the idea of being a hero. Who wouldn’t want to swoop in and save the day, right? But the thing was, you didn’t belong here. You didn’t have that spark that made someone destined to be a hero. You weren’t meant to exist in this world. You were more like an accidental extra, someone who wasn’t supposed to show up on the hero timeline but somehow did. And now you were just… waiting for your scene to end.

It wasn’t that you didn’t respect heroes, of course, you did! But watching everyone around you with their grand dreams and bright futures made you feel a bit like the odd one out. Even if you’re living in a year with just side characters. They had their roles, their destinies. Meanwhile, you were stuck in a universe where things were already set in stone. It was like showing up to a concert that was already halfway over and realizing you’re just gonna have to sit in the nosebleeds for the rest of the show.

Keigo had mentioned once that it was important for heroes to ease the worries of the people. Isn’t it paradoxical that his future words are the ones giving you a path. That they had to be more than just strong, they had to make people feel safe. And you’d never had any doubts about that philosophy. But how could you be that person when you didn’t even feel like you were supposed to be here in the first place? It felt like playing a game you didn’t know the rules to, in a world that wasn’t yours.

Sure, you were about to graduate from UA and technically become a Pro Hero, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were sort of stepping into a role that didn’t really have anything to do with you. You had no grand dreams of fighting side-by-side with All Might in his final battle. There were so any many risks and what if a simple butterfly effect made the villains win by you being here. Honestly, you’d probably end up being the hero who handed out flyers for charity events or stood at the front of the line for photos to be safe. Was that the kind of hero you wanted to be?

“Well, I guess I’ll be a hero of some kind,” you muttered, though it was more out of obligation than excitement. “But what does it even mean if I don’t have some grand purpose in all this?”

A little chuckle escaped your lips. This was ridiculous. Here you were, stressing over your place in a world that was literally made up. You were a character in a story that already had its plot laid out, and yet you were still acting like you had to be a main character. It was all just so absurd.

But you didn’t want to be that person someone who just complained about fate and waited for something to happen. You could still make a difference in small ways, right? Maybe not as the next All Might or Deku, but as someone who showed up when it mattered, who helped out in their own way. The world was full of side characters doing small but important things, why couldn’t you be one of them?

With a grin, you stood up and grabbed your bag, heading out of the classroom to join the rest of your classmates. Maybe you weren’t the protagonist of this story, but hey, you could still make your mark on it. A little self-awareness never hurt anyone, right? Besides, in a world full of heroes, sometimes it was enough just to be one even if you were doing it a little differently than everyone else.

[andre-and-cal]

give me your sweetest yet freakiest headcanons for these little faggots, like sickly sweet and disgustingly freaky

Of course !! Enjoy :)

Fluffy and NSFW Caldre HCs

Andre likes to run his fingers over the scars on Cal’s thighs and arms. When they’re alone, sometimes Andre keeps his hand rested on Cal’s arm or thigh. And when Calvin is wearing a simple t-shirts or shorts, Andre can usually feel the mounds littered over his limbs. As a result, Andre frequently finds himself absentmindedly grazing his thumb over the raised scar tissue. Cal finds it quite soothing and hasn’t said anything about it; he just lets Andre do what he wants. After all, Andre is stubborn, and he dislikes being told to change or that he’s doing something wrong. Additionally, when he’s in between Cal’s legs and sucking him off or peppering slow, lazy kisses over his skin, he makes sure to place his hands against the other evident ridges on his inner thighs, so that he can feel the scars’ unique shapes and textures beneath his fingertips. He finds it fascinating how Cal’s previous self-inflicted cuts scarred over in a similar manner to his own.

Calvin tries really fucking hard to stay awake when he sleeps over at Andre’s. But by the time the clock hits midnight, or even an hour after, he’s out cold. Cal becomes determined to stay awake when they’re over at each other’s houses, but he always falls asleep first. One of Andre’s silent, unspoken displays of fondness toward Calvin is leaning down to him and pressing a kiss to his forehead after he’s fallen asleep, or his cheek, or anywhere on his face. Funnily enough, though, Cal’s a deep sleeper, while Andre’s more of a light sleeper. Andre often finds himself tossing and turning in bed, restless. He’s not sure if it’s maybe because of the subtle, lingering stress in the back of his mind toward planning Zero Day with Cal, or if it’s something else. Also, a lot of the times when they’re cuddling, Andre likes to be the little spoon. He refuses to admit it, but Cal holding him helps him sleep better.

Andre acts on certain desires for the sole purpose of just hearing Cal make noise and to watch him squirm beneath him, because listening to Calvin’s mewls makes Andre’s dick stand right up. To elaborate, sometimes Andre will drive his shaft against Cal’s prostate gland a little too roughly, or he’ll pinch or lap at Cal’s nipples ever-so-suddenly to watch his face contort in bliss, to listen to him let out grunts, gasps, and moans. Cal feels that Andre’s body looming above him, face burrowed into his neck, is heaven. Calvin is the furthest thing from religious, but he finds that Andre is the real-life personification of a sacred object. Or a poem. Definitely a poem, too. When he’s on top, when he’s bouncing on Andre’s dick or has his dick in his mouth, Cal will occasionally lean down or pull back to leave deep, bloody bites on Andre’s shoulders or taut thighs. He’s extremely intrigued by Andre’s body and blood, and he likes to inspect his comrade by watching him bleed.

When the air surrounding them is content and they’re alone together, Andre finds it easy to relax— especially after a difficult day at school— by playing with Cal’s hair, feeling the oiliness of his bangs beneath the pads of his fingers. It’s rather mesmerizing to them both, and Andre finds it attractive how naturally light of a blond Cal is.

Occasionally, Andre does allow Cal to stick his fingers inside him, albeit dubious. Calvin was the first one to bring it up, intrigued by the prospect of Andre experiencing the pleasure similar to what he himself does. And Calvin loves exerting a sense of possessive control over Andre, feeling him tense up and clench around his fingers and all. He relaxes when Calvin kisses down his neck and licks up his naval, and he lets out strained moans he has no idea he’s got in him when Cal rubs firm circles against his sweet spot. When either one of them is on top, they have an unspoken “lieutenant-like” role. At least, in their eyes they do.

Prior to the establishment of their “comradeship” and “superiority” on the social hierarchy, Andre’s heartbeat would quicken when he and Cal were close in proximity. He still gets nervous at times— a rather good nervousness— but it’s now become natural to him. He would get all hot and red in the face when Calvin was near him. It used to be such a gross, sickly sweet feeling that it made Andre want to projectile vomit whenever the “bullets” would swarm his innards. He wondered if this was how other people felt about someone they exhibit amorous tendencies toward. Andre knows that he and Cal’s relationship is vastly different than what the majority of the world engages in. In addition, when Cal is experiencing a low mood and idealizing suicide, he believes that he and Andre could be gods somewhere else if they really wanted, though they’re stuck in this “useless world” and at their “fuckass school”. Cal likes that Andre views the world similarly to how he views it; he feels that they were inevitably bound to connect the way they do. Because to him, their unity is high above all else.

Calvin was just-barely able to convince Andre to slice his name into his arm, since he’d already cut Andre’s name into his. He feels that it secures their unspoken suicide pact.

Holding Cal in his arms, and Cal holding him in his arms feels right. Years of regret from longing and aching to be closer than they actually were paid off. Especially when they’re physically intimate; they’re like two pieces of a puzzle connecting together. Or like two bullets fitting perfectly inside a gun magazine, ready to fire. Click.

[sissylittlefeather]

Kinktober Day 6: Pussy Worship

First Taste

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, cussing, kissing, oral sex (f receiving), p in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, ejaculation

Word count: ~1k

Kinktober Masterlist

Elvis has been with girls. He's been with quite a few girls by now. It's 1959 and he's no stranger to naked women. But when he finds you at the Moulin Rouge and goes back to your apartment, he's in awe.

You have the most beautiful pussy he's ever seen.

Everything is in proportion and the right shape and color. It looks like it was crafted perfectly for him. He looks up at you from where he's on his knees between your thighs on the bed with his eyes wide. You're a beautiful girl, there's no doubt about it, but he's been with beautiful girls before. This is something else entirely.

"Is there something wrong?" You ask demurely, your French accent making the words sound sexier.

"No, no honey. Nothing wrong at all. It's just..."

"Quoi?" He stares at you blankly so you translate. "What?"

"Nothing... just..."

"Tell me, Elvis." You bat your eyelashes and his heart flutters. He's just going to have to tell you.

"Honey, you have the prettiest little pussy I've ever seen in my life." You giggle and try to wave him off. "I'm not kiddin', baby this is amazing."

He slowly spreads your legs open further and looks down at you again. Yep. Still perfect. He runs his finger up your slit and finds just the right amount of wetness. You moan softly with the sensation and wiggle your hips, begging him to touch you more. Suddenly, he has the strangest inclination to taste you. He knows that's a thing that people do, but he's never done it before. Quite frankly, he thought the idea of it was disgusting, but now he's here looking at you and his curiosity gets the better of him. He gently licks the end of his finger that was wet with your arousal.

The taste is sweet and earthy, almost like the way a flower smells, and is not what he expects at all. It actually tastes good. He wets his finger again and puts it in his mouth, but it's not enough. He wants to taste more of you. Without another thought, he leans forward and presses a kiss to your clit. The smell of you is intoxicating and he barely notices that you arch your back and whimper. He carefully pokes his tongue out and runs it up your slit. Moving back down, he pushes the tip of his tongue inside you. The experience is almost overwhelming so he pulls back. Luckily, your clit is just there, so easy to see, so he puts his mouth around it and swirls his tongue over it. You grab the top of his hair and grind into his face and it's like he can't get enough. He licks and sucks and moves his tongue in and out of you like a man possessed.

Finally, he realizes you're writhing and moaning in pleasure as he eats you. This just heightens his experience and he ruts his hips into the bed to try to get some friction on his aching cock. He never dreamed doing this would turn him on so much, but now he never wants to stop.

"Fuck, Elvis!" You cry out as your orgasm slams into you and he feels your pussy pulse and throb as he continues to lap at you. He's not ready to stop, but you're so sensitive, you tap on the top of his head. He backs away for a bit, nose and mouth and chin glistening, and looks up at you. You whine. "It's too much."

"No, please, baby don't make me stop. You taste so good. You're so pretty. Please, baby." You couldn't say no to his round blue eyes if you wanted to, so you nod and he smiles, diving back into licking you. Your eyes roll back as he moves his tongue on you furiously. Now that he's tasted your climax, he wants to make you do it over and over again.

And he does. After a stunning four orgasms, he finally rolls onto his back, exhausted and sweating. He can barely talk, his tongue is so worn out. His dick stands up, still hard and throbbing with need, precum leaking from the tip. He almost came a couple of times just from the excitement of licking you and grinding against the bed, but he didn't.

You look over and realize how hard he is. You're spent from the orgasms, but you want to repay him for what he just did for you, so you sit up and drag yourself over to straddle his hips. He watches you, mesmerized, as you line his cock up with your entrance and slowly start to sink down onto him.

"Fucking shit..." He hisses as your pussy takes him in, squeezing him just right. Once you've got him fully inside you, you whimper and start to move on him. His eyes roll back and he bites his bottom lip. He's never felt such exquisite pleasure before. "Goddamn, baby, your pussy..."

It's all he can get out before he quickly lifts you off of him just in time as he cums and his release spurts out of him all over your pretty pussy. You collapse on the bed next to him and lay there for a while.

Eventually he gets up and goes to the bathroom to get a towel to clean you up. As he does, he can't help but admire you yet again. When you realize he's staring and touching you more than necessary, you sit up on your elbows.

"Is it really so different?" Your voice breaks his trance and he looks up at you.

"Huh?"

"My pussy. Is it so different from what you are used to?" He smirks.

"Honey, I have half a mind to marry you for it. I've never experienced anything like it."

"Would you like to stay and have it again in the morning?" He looks at you eagerly.

"You serious?"

"I do not joke about sex. And besides, I love the way you look at me. I need more of it." You smile and pat the mattress next to you. He climbs back into the bed and lets you snuggle into his chest.

Elvis spends the rest of his life searching for another pussy like yours. He has plenty of good ones along the way, but none measure up to you and the beautiful secret between your legs at the Moulin Rouge.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

@ccab @atleastpleasetelephone @deltafalax @msamarican @angschrof @lustnhim @jhoneybees @polksaladava @searchingforgravity @librababe99 @hooked-on-elvis @peaceloveelvis @theelvisprincess @your-nanas-house @makethemorning @mrspresley69

Anyone else want a Kinktober tag everyday?

[anemonelovesfiction]

Use Your Words

Lo’ak x Fem Human Reader x Tsireya

Warnings ⚠️: Established Relationship (between Lo’ak and Tsireya), Virgin! Reader, Fingering!, Eating out! (Mostly) Voyeur Lo’ak! (Except you know he’s there, and he speaks)

MDNI 🔞

Reader (you) has a tendency to stare at and avoid Tsireya outside of a group setting, so she gets asked why she does this, but you can’t come up with a clear answer, so Lo’ak and Tsireya coax the answer out of you, but you avoid answering her, so her and her mate figure out a plan to get you to use your words

Translation Station

Olo’eyktan: Clan Leader

Marui: Home

Tsmuke: Sister

Tawtute: Sky Person (human)

Sa’nu: Mum, Mommy

Tsakarem: Tsahik in training

Irayo: Thank you

Marui: Home (in Metkayina)

Srane: Yes

Paysyul: Water Lily

Tewng: Loincloth

Yawne: Beloved

Syulang: Flower

Tswin: Neural Queue

Word Count: 5.9 k

My fingers worked diligently as they continued braiding the leather bracelet in my hands, weaving the braids tightly together to maintain its shape, my mind working a million miles a minute as I attempt to finish this bracelet while watching the beautiful goddess before me. Her hands coming to squeeze her hair from the excess water it was carrying, watching as the water dribbles down her forearms and drip off her elbows, eyes shamefully looking between the valley of her breasts and watching as the water glides down her cleavage.

I feel a heavy heat settling on my face right as Lo’ak comes into view to greet her, my eyes finding my fingers as they continue weaving through the bracelet I planned to give Tuktirey for her birthday, noticing that my weaving looked consistent. A sigh leaves my lips as I find a natural stopping point, wanting to pick back up at a later time to give my fingers some much needed rest, and possibly stop myself from continuing to stare at the teal woman several feet away from me.

“You stared at her for less time.”

I looked back up to see Neteyam side-eyeing me, a small smirk playing at his lips as he looks at me, eyes turning back on his own work, he was attempting to make a proper courting gift for one of the girls in the clan that had managed to capture his attention.

After his almost fatal attempt being deemed heroic by the Olo’eyktan of the Metkayina, most girls decided it was the appropriate time to flaunt themselves and their skills toward Neteyam, in hopes of being chosen as his mate and having the ultimate bragging rights. But very few had decided to keep their distance from him, one of which had managed to capture his heart, as she treated him with a kindness that wasn’t out of pity.

“Why don’t you tell them how you feel?” He asks as he snaps me out of my own thoughts. The beach was in perfect view from the marui we resided in, which is why Lo’ak had decided to run off the second he’d seen Tsireya coming up the shoreline, feeling myself ducking my head out of embarrassment as I came to realize I’d been staring at them again.

“Are you kidding me?” I scoff at his words, physically turning my body to face his to prevent myself from zoning out at the two on the beach, jealousy filling my body as I think of how easy it is for them to be together, regardless of how different they were from one another.

“What?” He asks at his own suggestion, stopping himself from working on his craft as he turns his head to look up at me, shrugging his shoulders as he notices nothing wrong with the question he’s asked, it warmed my heart that he thought of me as his family enough to not notice the obvious difference.

“It’s sweet that you think of me as your tsmuke, Neteyam, but you have to be honest with yourself and remember that I’m tawtute, not na’vi.” I stated.

“You might just be surprised if you put yourself out there.” He speaks while shrugging his shoulders, it almost sounded as though he’d been alluding to something but I couldn’t help the eye roll piercing through as I shake my head at the same time.

“When are you finally going to tell Ayari you like her?” I asked, flipping the script and watching as his once cobalt blue skin flushes with a purple tinge, a blush covering his features and I couldn’t help but let a smile cover mine.

“At least I’m working on it.” He stated simply before going back to work on his craft.

_________

“Pff,” I huff as I begin to think about Neteyam’s suggestion earlier, I had currently been walking toward Ronal’s healing hut with a heavy basket in my hands, struggling to carry it with all of the contents inside, but it was mostly my fault I’d been in this situation in the first place.

I had lot’s of plants whose healing properties were needed for the Tsahik and instead of placing them in my human sized basket to make two trips, I’d selfishly placed them in a pattern where none of them would get smushed, in a Na’Vi sized basket instead, using my hip to hold onto the bottom as my hands struggled to carry the sides.

I would have also been a panting mess had I not been stubborn, I refused to show anyone around me any weakness and had to pretend I was doing just fine, I’d gotten several double takes as the people had seen me walk around the woven walkway, the bouncing action making carrying the basket almost unbearable, but now that I was feeling the sand in my toes and the hut was in view, I couldn’t turn back.

As I approached the hut with the basket barely in my grasp I wondered how I was going to get through the curtains without taking the entire length of them in with me, but by some miracle, or Eywa selfishly listening in to the thoughts of my mind, they were split down the middle as a teal arm had held them out of the way, as I look up to excuse myself to whoever was above me I tense, the basket nearly dropping before my fingers flexed and grasped them harder.

“How are you carrying that?” Her voice was mixed with confusion and awe a she steps out of the way, keeping her hand on the curtain she had held and gives me a walkway toward the desk I usually set my basket on.

“You have decided to become efficient, Y/n.” Ronal was quick to spare a glance at me before settling her mortar and pestle down, she appears to have just finished cleaning it as she stretches, her hands placed on her lower back for some support, I’m sure her pregnant belly was heavy as she lets out a content sigh, I ignored her comment.

“I didn’t want to keep you waiting,” I replied almost automatically, not wanting to have ignored Tsireya’s comment as I answered her mother, but truly not knowing what to say to answer her question, but by the looks of it, it appeared as though she would be leaving soon either way, but I held my breath out of my own anxiousness.

“It is appreciated.” Ronal answered as she stands from the chair she had been sitting in, her sigh being an indication that she had been done with whatever task she had been working on, ready to begin the next.

“I will see you later, I must go meet with your father, Y/n can help you put the herbs away.” She is quick to answer and I can feel the hairs on my body stand at attention at her remark. How was I supposed to spend the entire afternoon helping Tsireya put stuff away when I couldn’t hold a proper conversation with her outside of the group setting?

“Alright Sa’nu,” She replies to her mother as I stiffly turn my neck over to watch as Ronal gingerly takes Tsireya’s cheeks in her hands, leaning down to kiss her daughters forehead, my cheeks growing hot at the display of affection between the two, my face turning back immediately as my hand reaches out to fiddle with the herbs and plants in the basket.

_________

I could only focus on properly picking the herbs apart as I placed the stems into one basket and the leaves in another, eyes scaling the stems gently before moving onto the next, ensuring that each leaf has been plucked off and each stem was bare.

The leaves from the herb I currently had in my hands were used in cooking dishes to enhance the flavor of the dish itself, kind of like a seasoning that was favored here, the stem, however, is ground up into a paste using an oil to help break it down. Since I was not the tsakarem I was not allowed to tamper with the mixings and makings of the medicine they used, but I could help around with organization, stocking, and plucking.

I’d been sitting silently as to not interrupt with Tsireya’s concentration, but it was proving to be difficult as I’d often find myself looking up to steal glances at the beautiful teal woman, grateful to Eywa that she had not captured my stare with her own, slight sweat starting to build on my brow as I nervously plucked along and settled the stem into its basket, feeling her hand touch mine as she had taken that opportunity to grab more stems for the paste she was making.

My hand is quick to move back but her light hearted laughter is what catches me off guard, I had not expected to hear such a melodious sound so early in the afternoon, my eyes curiously reaching up and feeling my body freeze as I met hers.

“If I didn’t know any better I would assume you disliked me,” She speaks as she places the few strands of stem she had grabbed into the mixture she held, moving the pestle along the shape of the mortar to grind the stem down.

I had no idea if I should fake a small, laugh, or think of a response to her words, kind of sitting there and staring at her like an idiot seemed to be the only option I had at that moment, but I wasn’t expecting her to end up looking back at me and watch her smile drop as I stared at her, was I being a creep?

“Is that why you don’t speak to me when we are alone?” She asks as if a sudden realization had hit her, her ears lowering slightly as she asks her question and I could only stupidly stare at her, uncertain of what to say.

“I guess I hadn’t realized I did that,” I hadn’t meant for those words to leave my mouth, it happened to be the first thought to run through my head, and unfortunately out of my mouth. I could see as Tsireya looks away from me, shaking her head slightly as she smiles, focusing on the paste before her.

“Lo’ak believes I am crazy for thinking you avoid me.” I could feel my eyes widen at her confession as she had stated it so evenly, no wobble detected in her voice. I could only swallow as her eyes meet mine again, the smile she had never leaving her lips, and I could feel my breath being taken away at that moment, a slight burn in my chest the longer I stared at her.

“I-“ I stop myself from speaking as I attempt to draw in a breath at the same time, feeling that burning sensation going away before clearing my throat.

“I don’t mean to avoid you.” I answered her again but felt my voice quiver and wanted to punch myself for having shown too much emotion.

“Why do you?” She asks and it felt like a punch to the gut and I hadn’t expected her to be this bold with her questions today.

“…” What do I say at this point, I avoid you because I like you, but I also like the guy I grew up with at the same time because my mind does not comprehend how to like just one person?

“I have to go-“ I mutter before standing abruptly and leaving the healing hut. Feeling as though the air from the hut was too hot, the sweat running down my forehead wasn’t helping cool my skin, until the breeze calmed me down as soon as I was out of the hut.

_________

“So this is where you’ve been hiding out, huh?” Lo’aks voice breaks me out of my concentration and I can feel my heart begin to race, I’d decided against going to dinner to avoid Tsireya once more, not wanting our conversation to pick up where it left off, especially if Lo’ak was around, that would be embarrassing.

But I’d also taken the opportunity to avoid Lo’ak as well, since I’d had an inkling that Tsireya may have told him what had happened, leading the two of them to confront me together, and that was a bridge I wasn’t willing to cross.

“Wasn’t feeling good,” I muttered past my lips without sparing him a glance, lying to him as I answered, finally realizing that my fingers had stopped braiding the bracelet I wanted to finish for Tuk, trying and failing to remember which strand went next.

“You’re lucky I pay attention.” He mentions as he squats in front of me, sliding something my into my lap, my eyes snapping up to meet his, moving my gaze to settle upon my lap and seeing a slice of fruit there, I couldn’t bring myself to concentrate, bracelet me damned, I’d lost my place with it anyway.

I could see his hands meet one another as he interlocks his fingers from the corners of my eye, I could feel his stare burning holes at the top of my head, feeling a heat rise up to my cheeks, choosing to not say another word as I couldn’t think of anything smart at the moment.

“Irayo,” I surprise myself by breaking the silence, not having realized I’d spoken until the heat rose to my cheeks once more.

“You look fine to me,” He replies to my previous comment about not feeling well. I could only stare up at him through my lashes as I attempt to scramble my thoughts for a reasonable lie.

“Think before you speak, Y/n.” He warns and I felt as though I had been caught in a lie- which I had been- I could only duck my head and avoided eye contact with him, unsure of what to do with my hands and kept them by my side, the juices of the fruit starting to stain my thighs as I left it there.

“I didn’t want to go to dinner.” I only feel some relief for revealing half the truth, knowing he was going to question me, not knowing how to respond to whatever question he’d have.

“Why did you not want to go to dinner?” He asks, one of his brows raising in the process, I could feel the shame start to swallow me whole as I bit my lip, not wanting to answer.

Because I was avoiding your mate didn’t sound like a practical answer, but his gaze was too intense to look away from.

“Because I wasn’t feeling goo-“ I started by going with the first thought in my head, not getting far enough to complete the sentence as he cuts me off with an eye roll and a stern voice.

“Try again.”

I scoff at his words and let a nervous laugh escape my lips, disbelief filling my features as I look back over at him, his face looking unamused.

“Lo’ak, I’m telling the truth-“

“So this is where you disappear to, I would have thought you went chasing after Tsireya.” Neteyam jokes as he enters the marui, and I couldn’t have felt more relieved that he’d walked in at that moment.

I could feel the anger radiating off of Lo’ak as I feel my shoulders relax, thankful that Neteyam had chosen that moment to walk in, I don’t think I could have faced telling him the truth.

_________

The cool breeze into the night had scattered across my skin as I sat on the beach with my toes buried in the sand. My hair had been flowing freely as each curly strand decided to dance in its own way, I allow a sigh to pass my lips as I stared out into the water before feeling the weight of a familiar hand drape itself across my shoulders.

I turn my head with a soft smile, he returns the smile but it does not meet his eyes, his brows furrowing as soon as he’s sat right beside me.

“What is it?” I asked without having to dive too deep into the question, knowing he was going to understand what I meant, I’m thinking his talk with Y/n did not go very well. I reach over to grasp his hand in mine and give him a reassuring squeeze.

“She avoided answering my question.” He stated somberly, I could see him tighten his jaw as soon as his mouth closed and I could feel his frustration.

“What do you think we should do?” I asked as I sat beside him, face turning back to the lapping waves of the ocean, the splashes calming me down enough to return my breathing to normal.

“Are you absolutely certain about this?” He asks as he lets my hand go, and places them on his head as his knees come close to his chest, his thoughts must be going wild right about now.

“I dreamt about the three of us together and it felt right, I believe it was a sign from Eywa, so I told my mother about it-“

“You told your mom?” His was in disbelief, his legs outstretched immediately as he looked at me with widened eyes, I would have laughed had it not been a serious conversation.

“She said she would keep it between us, and she is tsahik, she confirmed that it must have been a sign the great mother provided for me, but was very disturbed about it being a tawtute…” I trailed off

“But the true question is if she feels the same,” He stated, uncertainty filling his voice as he speaks, my heart hurting as I wanted to comfort him.

“I know she does.” I reassured him as I began to think of her avoiding me at dinner, had she not already had feelings for us she would have showed, without the fear of our conversation continuing, and she would not have run off in the first place.

“Well then,” Lo’ak seemed to have a sudden mischievous glint in his eye. “Whats the plan?” He asks as a smile starts to grow on his face.

_________

Learning to ride on the back of an Ilu was difficult. When I started learning, I had to be partnered up with someone who could connect to the beautiful creature in the first place, but everyone usually went too quick causing the water to shoot up my nose regardless. But whenever I rode with Kiri -or that one time I went with Tsireya- they made the Ilu move slower, and I felt like I could enjoy the breath taking scenery before me, and those were the moments I often cherished.

But I’d made the mistake of allowing Tuk to take me for a ride not too long after she had learned how to ride an Ilu, the others were taking a leisurely swim as they watched her take the Ilu out for a spin.

But the moment my head finally broke through the water, I was a mess, my mask had become dislodged -like it usually did when people rode their Ilu too fast- and water had shot up my nose, leaving a burning sensation behind as I attempted to empty the water from my mask before reattaching it to my face, a seemingly never ending cough taking over.

“Oh my-“ I’d heard Kiri through my coughing spell, attempting to take a breath but failing as another cough was in the way.

“Tuk!” I could hear Lo’ak’s accusatory voice as I felt someone lifting me out of the water, my body going limp against theirs as I searched for warmth, my coughing starting to calm down as the breaths were finally reaching my lungs.

“I didn’t mean to!” I could hear her whine, a soothing hand being placed on my back as it runs in gentle circles in an attempt to calm me down, finally feeling a deep breath and sighing as I had stopped coughing.

“Thank you,” I mutter at the person who was carrying me.

“You could have taken it slower,” Lo’ak was still going at it with Tuk and it actually caught me by surprise as he was usually laid back, I would have expected him to have been laughing along with Ao’nung.

“I told him to go slow!” Tuk whines back with her brother.

“Do you feel better?”

I go rigid as I realize whose arms I’m and feel a sense of urgency to disappear, maybe even dive back into the water and swim away, but there was no use as she’d out-swim me.

“Mhm,” I answered as I nod my head that was still on her shoulder, feeling as my tummy filled with warmth as my anxiety started to sky rocket.

I could feel her hand leave my back, placing it on my bum to get a better hold on me, but I could have sworn it was done on purpose and feel my face growing hot, all of the loudness between Tuk and Lo’ak had gone away as all I could focus on were her hands on my bottom.

“Come on Tuk, just leave it,” I could see Kiri dragging her away from the corner of my eyes as Tuk sticks her tongue out at her brother, but that just meant I was left with Tsireya and Lo’ak. I bite back a groan as I wished Neteyam and Spider were here, swiveling my forehead onto Tsireya’s shoulder and closing my eyes, taking in a big breath and knowing what was coming.

“Are you okay?” Lo’ak asks me and I can feel my heart quicken in my chest off his voice alone, I’m certain I would have started shaking had Tsireya not been holding me, her body keeping me warm.

I could only nod my head against her shoulder not daring to look back at him wanting to remain hidden from their stares.

“Use your words,” Lo’ak coaxes, the water indicating he began stepping closer as it sloshes a bit, going still as I feel a four-fingered hand on my back.

“Srane,” I answered nervously, still hiding my eyes from the pair.

“Good.” He answers before taking his hand off of me, just when I think I’m home free I feel his hand underneath the chin strap of my mask, my face being pulled away from it’s hidden spot and coming to face his.

“Now tell me,” He begins as he slightly tilts his head to the side.

“Are you avoiding us?”

_________

Fangs found their way onto my neck as they scraped along my pulse point, goosebumps being left on my body as they dragged deliciously on my sensitive skin, my head lolled to the side as I allowed Tsireya to mark me as she wished.

I couldn’t keep my hands to myself and gasped as she started to suckle on my pulse point, my hands being woven into the ringlets of her hair as my nails felt her scalp, a soft hiss coming from her mouth as she dug her fangs into my neck lightly.

“Careful,” Lo’ak’s voice makes me open my eyes, mine making contact with his, my lip coming between my teeth as I attempt to focus on him.

“Maybe she doesn’t want me to be careful,” Tsireya speaks, bringing her hands from my cheek down my arm, goosebumps left in their wake as I shiver.

“Do you paysyul?” She speaks as she addressed me this time, but before I could even think of what to say, her mouth is back on my neck and a moan is escaping my mouth.

“See?” She teases him with her words as her lips trail down toward my collarbones, teeth lightly nipping the area and causing my skin to erupt in a new set of goosebumps, my eyes travel toward Lo’ak to see his jaw hardened as he looks at the back of Tsireya’s head, his eyes trailing over toward mine before settling a smirk on his features.

“Do you?” He repeats the question smoothly, it has heat rising up to my face and I felt guilty for not responding verbally, just a quick tip of my head as I closed my mouth, having wondered if I’d looked stupid for leaving my mouth open after moaning.

“Hmm.” He hums as he looks downward, his eyes moving up to look at me through his lashes. “What does that buy her, darling?” He asks aloud.

Before I could attempt to figure out what he’d meant when he said that, a stinging sensation burns my bottom as the sound of a slap resonates within the walls of their marui. A shocked gasp leaves my lips just as Tsireya chuckles, my hands finally coming free from her hair as I laid them next to my body to support myself, knees buckling a little.

“You have to use your words with us, paysyul.” She comments before kissing down my chest and reaching the valley of my breast, my top stopping her from being able to do that.

My eyes hadn’t left Lo’ak and I watch as he raises a brow at me, silently wondering if I had gotten past my shock and understood what Tsireya was telling me, I could feel her eyes staring holes into my head as well, I move my head towards her and feel my face heating up once more.

A flurry of unrecognizable shapes were felt across the skin of my waist as she impatiently waits for me to say anything, but my mouth had suddenly dried up, and my tongue felt like lead.

The top I wore was easy to take off, it was the same fabric as my tewng was, only big enough to cover my breasts, but it was tied on my backside, something I wasn’t sure she knew how to take off.

“Please take my top off,” I finally spoke, breaking through the silence and feeling her finger grasp the string tying my shirt onto my body, the fabric loosening its hold on me, I shrugged my shoulders and feel the fabric bunch up as it slides off of them.

She surprises me as she grasps the fabric and gently pulls it away from my body, the act alone making my nipples stand at attention as she discards the cloth, all without taking her eyes off mine.

“Go ahead.” Lo’ak instructs his mate and I feel as her arm glides up from my waist and onto my breast, giving it the slightest of squeezes, a surge of warmth traveling down toward my cunt. She smiles as her fingers grasp my nipple and give it a twirl.

My body twitches at her touch, her other hand coming up toward my other nipple and repeating the process, my gasp cutting through the silent marui.

“Why don’t you put her in your mouth, yawne?” Lo’ak suggests as he stands behind her, my eyes moving to meet his figure as he stands with his hands behind his back, his eyes on his mate.

Before I could even move my eyes toward Tsireya to watch her movements, I feel a sense of warmth wrapping itself around my breast, her tongue having flicked my nipple as her other hand continues to tease the other.

“Tsireya,” I gasp and buck my hips against the thigh she’d managed to wedge there, a moan ripples past my lips at the sensation.

I can hear -and feel- her hum of approval before feeling her hand abandoned the nipple she’d been toying with, taking her mouth off the one she’d been licking, and trading places, another gasp and low moan resonating within the walls of the marui.

Her tongue had flattened once she reaches my nipple before twirling it with the tip of her muscle, my hips wanting to feel the relief they did, but she had moved her thigh, a chuckle coming from her as she realizes what I’d tried to do.

“Please,” I whined pathetically before hearing Lo’ak hum, my eyes had shut on their own without my knowledge until I opened them back up to see him with a smirk on his face.

I’d already started panting from the attention Tsireya had been giving me, but I was desperate to feel more.

“What do you need?” Lo’ak’s voice was deeper than I’d ever heard it before, it had my arousal spiking as I let out a short moan in response to his question, he only retaliates by squatting down on his feet, arm reaching out to touch my thigh.

His big warm hand was suffocating my thigh, he could easily grasp it if he wanted, but he didn’t, and I could hear a whine coming from the back of my throat at the contact.

“Use your words, syulang.” He speaks clearly just as Tsireya pops off my nipple, my eyes falling onto hers as I’m sure I looked a mess.

“I want you to eat me out,” I gasp at the words coming from my mouth before seeing the beauty before me smile sweetly.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” She admits before her hand trails down toward my waist, tickling my sides as she does so, a light laughter bubbling from me and it helps relax my nerves, her fingers work quick and my tewng is off.

I could feel the heat rise to my face as my legs come to a close, her hands resting at my thighs and prying me open, a whine beating its way past my lips.

“Don’t hide yourself, you are beautiful, paysyul.” She mutters as she leans down toward my face, her head making contact with my mask, one hand coming up and tapping on it gently, letting me know to hold my breath, and once I inhale the mask comes off and her lips are in mine as she kisses me, my hands coming up toward her cheeks as her tongue swipes my lips.

I nervously open my mouth to give her access and am met with a sweet flavor on her tongue, she must have been eating fruit before whisking me up from the water.

I can feel her hand trail up my thigh and gently stuck her finger inside, her kiss muffles my moan as she sticks the entire length of her finger into my wet pussy, my legs closing around her arm as her tongue dances around my mouth.

“You feel incredible mama’s,” Lo’ak mutters in a breathy voice, but my brows furrow in confusion, breaking my kiss from Tsireya to look toward him, noticing his tswin is connected to Tsireya’s, he must have done that while I was distracted. I take the opportunity to slide my mask back on and take a deep breath, chest heaving slightly at the long breath hold I’d done.

“Oh,” Tsireya mutters as her finger stops its movements, she has a certain expression on her face that causes me to look down between my thighs.

“Look at you,” Lo’ak coo’s, a smile spreading on his face, but my eyes trail back toward Tsireya’s teal hand, a bit of blood was staining her palm, but it’s source was coming from me.

From our human biology classes that Lo’ak often snuck into just to hang out with Spider, he knew exactly what this blood meant, as the one learning about woman’s anatomy, I knew what this meant too, but Tsireya was surprisingly calm.

“How sweet to think you’ve been waiting for us all this time,” He snaps me out of my thoughts enough for me to feel Tsireya had started to slowly move her finger again.

I could feel my face heating up again, but for two reasons, because of Lo’ak’s words and because of the pleasure Tsireya was starting to bring to me.

“I think she can take another,” She stated rather confidently as she attempts to bully a second finger in.

“Easy baby,” He stated as she finally manages to shove her second finger in, my body clenching down rather harshly at the sudden intrusion.

“Ohh,” I groan as she gently moves her fingers inward, it seems like forever before she reaches the hilt, but once she does, I can feel a heat coiling in my belly.

“How does that feel?” She asks as she leans over to kiss my jaw, her fangs starting to scratch me lightly, her kisses driving me crazy as she continues moving her fingers inside of me.

“Ahh, ‘Reya,” I whine, her mouth back on my neck, suckling my pulse point as her fingers start to speed up. I could feel myself spreading my legs wider to give her easier access.

I open the eyes I didn’t know I’d closed up until that point, watching as she shuffles her body closer toward mine, I could feel her breath fanning over my cunt and all I could do was squeeze in anticipation.

“Go ahead.” Lo’ak’s voice cuts through my thoughts once more and I look downward, capturing Tsireya’s eyes with mine just before she leans down, placing my clit in her mouth and giving a small suckle, with that my head is thrown back and my back arches, bringing my cunt closer to her.

“Fuck,” Lo’ak grunts.

Tsireya doesn’t stop her ministrations as her fingers start plowing through me, her mouth starting to work on overdrive and I can just feel her smirk on my pussy.

“Please-“ I whine as I begin to grind my hips against her face.

“Please what?” Lo’ak stated rather harshly.

“Please make me come,” I moan as my hands come out from underneath me, placing them on Tsireya’s braids as I attempt to bring her face closer toward my cunt, humping her face -regardless of my knees buckling at this point- in an attempt to coax my orgasm out

“Thats hot.” Lo’ak comments and I finally open my eyes to witness him palming himself through his tewng, the tent in his loincloth being a big distraction to me, feeling as her fingers change pace and move quicker.

“Fuck!” I gasp as the coil in my belly tightens further, the feeling of comfort being brought to me through Tsireya’s ministrations, my fingers tightening over her scalp and letting my pathetic moans loose for the two of them to hear.

“Thats it baby,” he encourages the both of us with his words while continuing to palm himself through his loincloth, his hand working faster, the size of him being visible through the fabric and my mouth watering at the sight of him.

“Go ahead and come, syulang.” Lo’ak mutters and I couldn’t help but listen as my body writhes against his mates fingers and mouth, feeling absolutely high as I rode the wave of my orgasm.

I felt on top of the world the moment I gave in and came around her fingers, my cunt squeezing them for all their worth, becoming a panting mess as I come down from my high.

I look over to see a satisfied Tsireya coming up from my cunt, juices soaking her face, her fingers finally coming out of me at that moment, a bit of blood still covering them. I turned my face toward Lo’ak to see the prominent boner in his tewng, mouth watering at the sight of it before asking.

“Do you need some help with that?”

[tragedybunny]

Sunlight and Stars in the Sky part 2 - Astarion x F!Reader

First part - here

Weary and embarrassed you try to put distance between yourself and Astarion. But you slowly come to realize things are changing between the two of you.

Astarion is gone when you wake up, probably out hunting, and you breathe a sigh of relief. At least you won't be able to embarrass yourself further. Throwing yourself at him, being refused by him of all people, forcing him to let you into his tent to calm down, and that nonsense you'd spouted, gods he must've been so annoyed with you. 

All he wanted from you was a bit of fun, some enjoyable interludes during this journey you'd found yourselves on. You weren't so naive that you thought there was more to it. Yet he'd somehow found a little place in your heart. Which you had stupidly exposed to him last night with that stars in the sky drivel. If he kept his distance from now on, you'd know why. 

Head pounding from the wine, you fumble around for your boots. Slipping them on, you hurry back to your tent, and throw yourself under the covers, glad you didn't run into Astarion. The rest of the night is filled with fitful sleep, the drink making you nauseous and your memories driving you almost to tears. When the sun at last rises, the camp awakens muted and somber. Unable to face him, you wait until the scent of breakfast fills the air to finally leave your tent. 

Naturally he's somehow right there. "Good morning Darling," even he seems muted after everything, probably worried you'll be all over him again, "feeling better?"

"A little, sorry for the trouble last night," you murmur hastily, trying not to look at him before rushing off, unable to make yourself listen to his conciliatory response. 

Breakfast and breaking camp take far longer than they should and your solemn crew takes to the road that leads beyond the monastery to the shadow cursed lands much later than they should. As seems to be your fate though, not even a simple road is easy, and a group of undead bar the way. Body and mind aching, you fumble through the fight, spells missing their target, and reactions slowed. You don’t see the monster that’s crept up on you until it’s nearly too late to dodge its flailing attack. Suddenly the earth lurches and you’re facing the dirt. Panic constricts your chest, death is so close, even all you managed to overcome wasn't enough. Rolling, you try to get your feet under you, and find your assailant hovering over you. Your lungs inhale what is likely your final breath and you tense just a crossbow bolt sprouts from its forehead. It stumbles back and Karlach’s axe removes its head from its body. 

Most of the gory sight is blocked from your view as Astarion appears over you, crossbow back over his shoulder, pale hand outstretched and brow furrowed. “Are you alright my Dear?”

You wince and take his hand, twice as humiliated as before. Reaching a sitting position, you stop, your body unwilling to go further. Everything from the Nautiloid, to the Creche, to making a fool of yourself, bears down on you, and it’s all too much. One win at the Grove amongst a tide of wounding losses. Hands rub at your eyes to push away the tears. “Sweetheart,” Astarion is suddenly crouching next to you, brushing your hair out of your face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head, pulling away from that touch that you want to be real affection so badly. 

“You look exhausted.” Before you can protest, he’s turning to the rest of the group. “We should stop for the night.”

“Tsk'va, we’ve barely made progress,” Lae’zel snaps, any good humor she's developed gone for the moment, “we still have worms in our head, did you forget that whilst basking in the sun.” 

His eyes narrow for a moment, and he looks like he’ll shout back, but he contains it. “We’ve all had a hard time, and we’re in rough shape. Let’s get some rest and start fresh in the morning.” 

They don’t need to be told he’s talking about you, collapsed in the dirt, and you can feel their eyes turn on you. “That sounds eminently reasonable," Gale chimes in and the rest assent.

"Let's go find a nice spot," Karlach says brightly, taking Wyll by the hand and leaving the main road. 

The others follow in their wake until just the two of you are left. Reluctantly, you start to get your feet under you, feeling as weary as he says you were, and silently start off towards them. The crunch of his boots tell you Astarion is just behind you, a small mercy as he can't see the state you're in. Your chest aches, you can't seem to banish the tears that keep threatening, and nothing feels like it has a point anymore. When you catch up with the others, they're already setting camp for the night, with Gale prepping dinner with as much cheer as he can muster and the others barely speaking at all. The whole of it seems like too much and you collapse on a log near the fire, Astarion joining you seconds later. 

Shifting closer, he looks like he's about to speak when the sounds of an argument draws your attention and he just sighs instead. "The Underdark is backtracking, a waste of time and dangerous." Lae’zel is shouting at Shadowheart. 

"Well it might deter the interference of your people," she returns.

"That is a point, this road is already dangerous," Halsin chimes in. 

"What do you think," Wyll has wandered over from setting up his tent and turned to you. For the second time today, your whole group is looking to you, only this time they're expecting that leadership you've shown them this whole journey. 

"I…" you just can't find it in you.

"Gods," Astarion growls, "can you all not make one simple decision without her? She's tired and you're putting this on her. It's bad enough you expect her help solving all your petty problems."

"But it's fine if it's your petty problems, right Astarion," Gale accuses, his face dark. You know his problem is far from petty. 

"Say that again," Astarion hisses and does something you've never seen him do to one of your companions, he snarls and bares his fangs. 

"Astarion," you scold, stirred from your stupor finally and he gives you a wounded look. "Let's just get some dinner in everyone. Then we can discuss the Underdark." They need you, it would hardly do to give up now. 

"Right, you heard the lady, give her some space until dinner is done," Karlach waves them off and gives you a wink. 

Part of you expects Astarion to be angry with you for the reproach but instead he gently takes your hands in his. "How about I get the tent set up, you can rest before dinner. Or you could stay there the whole night, you don't owe them an answer." 

The tent, your mind reels. It's his tent and he's never been fond of anyone infringing on his space. Is he still feeling sorry for you? You cringe, and pull your hands from his. "I can stay in my own tent."

"Oh," he seems to shrink in on himself. "I had been wondering since you were gone when I got back last night. Did I do something wrong? I admit I'm new to having someone close like that.” His voice is quiet and unsure, and nothing like what you’re used to. “Or maybe it's my temperature, I know I'm not exactly very warm," he offers and laughs somewhat awkwardly.

"I just don't want to…" For the first time today, you really look at him, and you don't see the same Astarion you've been traveling with. His eyes are wide and soft, his expression full of hope and longing and not scorn for the world around him. You find his hands where you left them, as though waiting for yours. Something has changed, something that makes your heart flutter and chases away the darkness of your thoughts. You were going to say pretend; pretend he wanted you there, pretend you didn't make an idiot out of yourself; but that doesn't feel right anymore. "Impose," you slide your hands back into his and small smile ghosts over his features. 

"Love, I told you last night, you're not imposing. Well you were very drunk," a small kiss on your cheek makes you flush, “perhaps you don’t remember.” 

“Some rest is probably a good idea,” you admit, giving in to the ethereal moment that seems to be burgeoning between the two of you. 

He squeezes your hands before letting them go. “I told you so,” his usual smirk is back in place but it’s softer than before. 

While he’s gone you try to temper yourself, this could be temporary, and you should focus on your very grim situation, your losses and setbacks are still real. But it all vanishes the moment he’s leading you back to the tent and settling you into a pile of pillows and blankets, some of them from your own supplies. Your things, mingled with his, the two of you, joined together. With your approval very visible from the smile you can't hide, he joins you, pulling you into his arms so your head rests against his chest. From around the fire you hear voices, friendly banter, spirits are lifting, hope is prevailing. You’re glad but still so tired, and it’s so nice here with Astarion, a little peace for just the two of you. “Thank you, I really needed this,” you murmur sleepily. 

“Think nothing of it, my Sunlight,” he kisses the top of your head. 

It brings back the other night, but there’s no awkwardness for you now, you spoke true, no matter what happens from now on, he’ll always be the light of all your nights, the beauty out of darkness. “My Starry Sky.” 

He gives a small hum of approval, “I am growing fond of that nickname,” and he holds you tighter. There’s a note of sadness you think in his voice, but you’re almost asleep, maybe you imagined it. 

[trashmouth-richie]

the way that steve and eddie fuck you, are not the same

bf!steve is an all missionary man.

threading your fingers with his as he lays chest to chest with you, kissing you sweet and delicate along the column of your throat, even though his monster cock is splitting you open, he nearly comes when your eyebrows pull together and your breathing is hot. when you cry out for him? He’s a total mess.

His breeding kink taking over fully as he hikes one of your legs up into the crook of his elbow, “mm shit, doing so good for me honey,”

“you’d look so fuckin’ pretty with my baby in your belly,” he’d moan, the infamous lock of hair hanging rogue in his face as he bites his lip, “that’s what you want, huh?”

he was obsessed with the idea of it. a family of his own to love and dote on. he knew you’d be the perfect wife and mother some day.

so what if that day came sooner rather than later?

bf!eddie is all mouth

all mouth in a way that you could barely catch your breath between kisses and heated gasps. it didn’t matter what position you were pretzeled into— his mouth never left your skin.

he devoured you in a way that left prominent wine colored hickeys all over your skin, love bites allover your thighs. he’d moan into your neck , drunk on the fact that you chose him, the freak of Hawkins high.

he’d spill I love you baby each time your body bent further into him.

he loved you in a way that stung your spine and buzzed your brain.

he’d eat you out for hours having you come again and again, lapping at your puffy clit and slick cunt whispering how perfect your body was how you were his girl, his angel, his everything.

finishing the love making by washing your hair in the shower, ordering take out and brushing your hair.

king!steve fucked for him not you.

he never called you a whore, he never called you anything. you were an empty hole for him— and you praised him, loved the feeling of him splitting you wide open. he’d mutter under his breath about how tight your little pussy is and how it was his, right?

of course it was.

you mewled for him and it only stretched his ego wider, threatening to burst with such cockiness you were sure he’d combust.

he came before you did, not really caring if you would or not, no effort put into it on his part.

he’d toss the condom into the trash and zip up his jeans, fixing his hair in the mirror and calling you by the wrong name before he’d slink back to the party

kissing another girl on the mouth and squeezing her ass, another easy target.

mean!eddie fucked with anger

the rumors were true, he was hung like a horse and knew how to use it. he pulled noises from you that would shake his trailer walls, screaming his name as he pounded into you deeper and deeper.

he didn’t use pet names, you were simply his whore, a bitch a slut.

you’d leave with finger shaped bruises on your hips from him driving you down onto his cock when you rode him in reverse, his thick veiny cock bruising your g spot.

your head ached from his fist in your hair as he took you from behind with your ass in the air and your knees carpet burned from the shitty couch.

hand prints on each ass cheek, lips bit and swollen after choking on his length til you nearly passed out, and he mistakenly awarded you with a kiss but bit your lip to show he didn’t mean it.

you’d be covered in sweat when he was done, your legs shaky with the sweet high of too many orgasms.

He didn’t wear condoms, just tossed you the morning after pill he kept in bulk in his dresser and made you take in front of him.

“don’t want you tryin’ to trap me.” he’d goad and when you giggled and rolled your eyes, his would turn black as he shoved the water bottle into your hand, making you stick out your tongue and show him that the small white pill was gone.

“Good girl”

[lovings4turn]

ᯓ★ 𝐏𝐎𝐕 . . . 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌 𝐍𝐘𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑

— aka. a meditation on what it would be like to date william nylander

+ now , i am not the most familiar with willy , but in honour of the lovely @faerieroyal ‘s birthday , i have tried my absolute hardest to write a lil something (because i know they love him dearly) so happy birthday lovely — hope you like this little surprise !!!

IN SHORT... loving willy is easy, and right, like the spring sun that warms your face as it filters through your window panes; comforting, a feeling that you never want to let go of. it's bear hugs and spirited kisses, strong arms to crawl into every night and a beaming smile to wake up to every morning. everything has fallen into place, all because you have him.

ᝰ you always claim he’s like an orange cat, in constant search of snuggles and somewhat mischievous and bright in nature. he could try to deny it, but he knows he’d be wrong, if the way he’s constantly nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck is anything to go by. his beard scratches the skin a little, but he always presses a soft kiss there in apology.

ᝰ if there’s one thing willy loves most in the world, it’s the feeling of you playing with his hair. it’s crazy, how much power your fingers hold: all you have to do is rake your nails soothingly across his scalp and he’s positively putty in your hands, any and all stress melting away in your hold.

ᝰ willy loves his silver chain. willy loves how much you seem to love it, too. he notices that, without even noticing, your hand will reach up to fiddle with the metal when you’re cuddled against his chest, rolling the links between your fingers as you continue your conversation like nothing is happening. there’s a level of familiarity to it, of intimacy and understanding, that causes his heart to race that little bit faster.

ᝰ this man loves physical affection. whether it’s pressing a kiss to your temple in greeting or wrapping his arms around you whilst you’re chopping, willy feels a deep-rooted need to be touching you whenever he can. even if it’s just a brush of hands or your knee against his at dinner, willy likes the physical reminder that you’re here, here with him.

ᝰ not only a boyfriend, willy also operates as your own personal teddy bear. somehow, he’s always impossibly toasty, and his large frame is practically made for you to curl up against and seek refuge in. willy is more than happy to indulge you in this, wordlessly opening his arms and nodding at you to snuggle up to him, to find comfort in the shape of his body and the soft, rhythmic beating of his heart.

ᝰ willy loves you with an ardent enthusiasm, all burning embers that never seem to dwindle, no matter how long they smoulder. because much like the fire that licks at his heart whenever he thinks of you, you burn bright and beautiful and he is simply mesmerised by your warmth and light.

[aestheticpearl]

— 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥

✧·˚ things with zaros have always been casual, right?

“i need to leave, i have a meeting with my mother.”

“stay.”

the word hangs in the air for a moment as zaros wraps his arms around your bare waist. you didn’t mean to be in this position with him, well you didn’t mean to be in multiple positions with him yet here you are, both of you naked under the covers of his bed after some passionate activities.

your fingers subconsciously play with the ends of his hair as he draws shapes on the small of your back, the action sends shivers up your spine.

“i have to go.” you reply but show no actual initiative to move from his arms.

“please my earis,” he says teasingly as he hides his face in your neck to place a whisper of a kiss. “stay with me. i do not wish to hate you again once you leave this room.”

“so it must be.” you kiss him gently and remove yourself from his arms to dress yourself as he watches your every move.

zaros stares for far too long as you button your clothing and secure everything in its proper place. he watches as your nimble fingers that once gripped his bed sheets mere moments ago now grip the fabric of your royal robes that hug your figure beautifully.

“i assume i will see you at dinner?” you ask, turning to look at him.

zaros refocuses on your eyes and suppresses a smile so you don’t notice how eager he is to see you again that the dinner between your two houses.

“yes of course.”

“good.” you reply as you tie the final knot on your robe and leave the room without another word.

zaros sat in his bed contemplating on how he got to this point in his life. fucking the earis but not being in a real relationship with them, everything was so confusing to him. he knew that you did not love him the way that he loved you, but a small part of him wished you did.

zaros leaves his bed and starts to get ready himself, putting on his shirt his eyes catch himself in the mirror and locks onto the marks you left on his lower neck. his fingertips graze over bruised skin gently as he examines them. you told him to never mark you for fear of someone seeing them but he never minded you making your claim on him.

something about these marking though triggers something in zaros and anger gets the best of him as he throws the vanity chair across the room. he breathes heavily before composing himself and fixing his hair in the mirror to join his mother for the upcoming dinner.

by the time dinner has rolled around zaros does his best to maintain his emotions that seemingly got the better of him after you left his room. your constant glances over at him are starting to get to him though and he does his best to focus on the food that is in front of him even if he can feel your eyes on him.

"i must excuse myself for a moment i believe i lost one of my broches in the hallway. zaros will you accompany me to look for it?"

zaros looks up at the mention of his name and stands to follow you into the empty hallway.

“did you actually lose your broche or is this just a ploy to get me alone?” zaros smirks, part of him can’t help but be a bit full of himself.

“i need you. let’s fuck.”

zaros is taken aback by the sudden confession. it’s not the crudeness of the statement more of the time and place for it and this was not the time nor place to fuck.

“you’re insane if you think i will fuck you while our parent are in the next room.”

“so that’s a no? i would’ve thought you were bolder than that zaros, i guess i was wrong about you.”

your words hit all the right places that you were intending to get zaros to do what you want. it’s easy to read his face since he is very expressive but somehow unaware of it.

your hand finds his arm and guides him to an empty room with a lock and against zaros’ better judgement he lets you take control of him once more for the second time that day.

“you’re such a good boy for me zaros.” you say as you kiss him deeply. a flush warms his face at the unexpected compliment from you. you rarely praise him like this, let alone kiss him with so much care, it confuses him.

“let us go before they grow more suspicious, hm?”

you’re both sweaty but he can’t help but think about how angelic you look with the glow of sweat shining on your body.

“you look beautiful…”

you lock eyes with him and nod before being the first to leave the room to return to the dinner. zaros is left alone with his thoughts for the second time that day and he hates it. he doesn’t know what to think or how to feel about you. he wants you but you don’t want him and it’s driving him mad. what could he be doing wrong? why are you so cold with him but so loving at times?

all zaros wants is answers that you are not willingly to easily give. unlike him who will always give his body, and soul if you’d only let him, to you.

.love always <3 pearl

.masterlist

[plant-dad-sulu]

I'm going to make my own post on why shatner's kirk is hard to draw because i'm a star trek fan and an artist and work in theatre/film and am insane, so here we go

For reference:

I've seen someone say before that he's hard to draw because the lighting changes his features too much to pin him down, but that's just not true. If that was the problem then no one in any tv show would be easy to draw and let me tell you it's hard to get nimoy and kelley wrong. The actual reason, in my opinion, is all the soft edges.

A lot of people who complain about him being difficult to draw -- myself among them -- work with lineart, and one thing lineart depends on is defined features. Shatner has obvious and recognizable features, but the combination of the softness of those features with the way they've done his makeup means that drawing those features makes them feel too severe and leaving them out makes him feel like some generic Man.

His lips, for example, are clearly there, he's got really nice lips, but because they have been made up to be essentially the same colour as the rest of his face it feels wrong to the artist's brain to draw them as thick as they really are. To leave them out entirely removes a defining feature that makes this Shatner™ and that creates a sort of paradox in which nothing really looks right.

It's the same with his eyebrows. As we can see in the photo, he has decently thick eyebrows, but while they are defined at the bottom they seem to blend in with his forehead at the top. Partly this is because he's on the edge of blond and partly it's because they've got some makeup in there (foundation or possibly just powder to keep him from being shiny). So we are faced with the same issue: to draw them defined would feel wrong and to draw them thinner would make this Not Shatner.

His nose, too, has very soft edges in a way that's hard to depict with lineart without making it feel more defined than it actually is. His nose bridge is fairly broad and isn't super pronounced, and his nostrils aren't particularly defined from the tip of his nose either, so no matter what lighting you get, the shadows will tend towards softer. Same with his cheekbones and jawline -- they are undeniably There but because of the gradualness of the curves, none of them are super defined leaving the artist with the question of "do i draw this in or do i shade it in or do i leave it unshaded and let the viewer extrapolate?" It doesn't help that he tends to smile tenderly, which doesn't create sharp lines in the face and doesn't create much change to the other soft features.

The most definable and easily depicted aspects of his face, in fact, are his eyes and his hairline. He's got partially hooded eyes that are decently defined by his eyelids, both of which are nice and easy features to draw, and they settle into nice dark shadows by his nose bridge. The only place, in fact, where his nose and eyebrows casts sharp shadows. His hairline is insanely recognizable. The roundness at the corners of his forehead combined with the widows peak make up for the relatively light colour of his hair up top. You put together his hairline and his eyes and it's the most obvious shatner you're going to get.

And because shatner is your typical 60's leading man, his face shape is simply not noteable. Nimoy has a long face and kelley has a very square/round one. Shatner's somewhere in between. He's got a nice silhouette and that's all. But there's a million actors out there with the same silhouette because it's attractive, and so if you don't get those defining features in there -- the ones that are so difficult to draw -- then he just winds up looking generic, and so your brain tells you that's Wrong.

tl;dr soft things are hard to draw, shatner is all soft angles